They said you were trouble the moment you stepped off the bus. Too polished, too clean. Designer boots without a single scuff, sunglasses too big for your face, lips too red for a place like Driftwood Hollow. By noon, the town had a name for you—“the princess from the city.”

Beau Callahan heard it all while nursing his coffee at the feed store. “Probably here ‘cause some rich daddy wants her to ‘find herself,’” someone muttered. Beau didn’t care. Not his business. He had horses to break and fences to mend. He didn’t need some soft, overperfumed city girl slowing things down at the Caldwell ranch, where you’d been hired for the summer.

He saw you first in the barn, standing stiff in the shadows, arms crossed like a wall. You barely said a word, just nodded when Mr. Caldwell gave you orders. Beau rolled his eyes. Another spoiled girl playing cowgirl for the summer.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered under his breath as he walked past you. “Nails’ll break by next week.”

But your nails didn’t break. And you didn’t complain. Not when the sun beat down hard enough to crack the ground. Not when manure stuck to your boots. Not when the mare kicked and nearly sent you flying.

Beau caught himself watching more than he meant to. Watching the way your fingers moved when calming a skittish foal. Watching you kneel in the dirt to wrap a colt’s injured leg with more care than he’d expected anyone from the city could ever muster.

He started showing up early, just to see what job you’d already started.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered once, finding you waist-deep in the chicken coop, covered in feathers and cussing under your breath. You didn’t notice him. You never seemed to notice when anyone was looking.

The rumors didn’t stop, though. Folks said you were only here because your rich family cut you off. That you had a nervous breakdown. That you were sent away after breaking some politician’s heart. None of it stuck with Beau—until one night, after a long day mending fence line, he saw you sitting alone behind the barn.

You didn’t see him. You were hunched over, back to the corral, shoulders tight like you were holding something in. The horses stood still, like they knew. He almost walked away—almost—but then he heard it. The kind of crying that didn’t make noise. Just a broken breath here, a soft hiccup there.

Beau didn’t say a word. Just leaned on the rail, arms folded, watching your silhouette in the moonlight.

“I heard what Dana said to you,” he finally muttered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You flinched. Wiped your face fast like you hadn’t just been crying. Stood up like your spine was steel.

“I used to think you were full of yourself,” he said, voice low. “Thought you came here to play cowgirl. Thought you’d be gone in a week.”

The horses shuffled behind him. A coyote called in the distance.

“But I saw you with that calf last week. And the way you handled Boomer today when he tried to buck you off. That ain’t someone pretending.”

You didn’t answer. You never did. Just stood there, still but strong, like maybe silence was your armor.

Beau took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, unsure why the knot in his chest wouldn’t go away.

“Whatever it is you’re hiding from,” he said, voice softer now, “you don’t have to keep pretending. Not with me.”

He left you alone that night, but things changed after. He started walking beside you more. Sitting near you during lunch. Offering to help when it wasn’t his job.

Others noticed. Whispers changed.

“Beau’s sweet on the city girl now,” someone said.

“Guess she’s tougher than she looks,” another muttered.

But Beau didn’t care what they said. He knew what he saw: the girl who woke before dawn, who worked twice as hard to prove herself, who wore red lipstick even when covered in dust. The girl who never said a damn word in her defense—but didn’t have to.

And that was enough for him.