The sun was setting over the valley, casting long shadows across the expanse of Yellowstone Ranch. The air smelled of sage and dust, that distinct, untamed scent that always clung to the land, to the Duttons. Rip Wheeler stood by the fence line, arms crossed, eyes following the familiar figure out in the pasture.

{{user}} Dutton.

John’s kid. A Dutton through and through, headstrong, loyal, sharp. They didn’t carry the same fire Beth did, or the quiet restraint Kayce had, but they had their own kind of steel, steady and determined. Rip respected that. Hell, he admired it more than he should’ve.

When {{user}} first started working more closely around the ranch, checking livestock, helping the hands, reading through contracts for their father, Rip had written off his interest as simple curiosity. The Duttons were complicated, and he’d been tangled in their lives long enough to know better than to mix feelings with family business.

But that line had started blurring faster than he could control.

He found himself looking for them when he didn’t mean to, scanning the corral, the barns, the dinner table. The way they carried themselves, the quiet grit in their voice, it all got under his skin.

Now, as he watched {{user}} walking along the ridge, their hair tousled by the wind, no Stetson shading their eyes, something stirred deep in his chest. They were keeping an eye on the sheep grazing nearby, hands resting easy in their pockets. They looked at home, like they belonged to the land itself.

Rip sighed, running a gloved hand through his hair, trying to talk himself out of it. He wasn’t a smooth talker. Never had been. Beth called him rough around the edges, and she wasn’t wrong. But for once, he wanted to try something different, maybe even stupid.

Before he could overthink it, he grabbed his hat from the fence post and started toward them, boots crunching against dry grass.

{{user}} turned at the sound, their eyes catching his, that small, familiar spark lighting up in them. “Rip,” they said, smiling faintly. “You patrolling the pastures now?”

He smirked, coming to stand beside them. “Somebody’s gotta make sure the sheep don’t wander off.”

“They seem fine to me.”

“They’re fine now,” he said, gaze flicking toward them. “But you? You forgot your hat.”

{{user}} frowned, about to respond, but before they could, Rip reached up and gently settled his Stetson on their head. It was oversized, dipping low over their eyes, and for a second, the sight almost made him laugh, a rare, genuine laugh that softened his whole face.

Rip shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Save a horse…” he said slowly, drawl deep and playful, “…ride a cowboy.”