Rip Wheeler was a man who didn’t lose many arguments, mostly because no one at the Yellowstone was dumb enough to challenge him. Except, of course, for one person.

His daughter, {{user}} Wheeler.

It was just before sunset, the sky painted orange and pink over the vast Montana fields. Rip and {{user}} were making their rounds before heading in for supper, checking the gates, the horses, making sure the feed bins were full for the night. It was one of those calm evenings where everything seemed to fall into rhythm until Rip opened his mouth.

“I told you, kid,” he said, his voice gravelly as he latched the corral gate, “you can’t just go ridin’ out on your own to check the north fence. You wait till someone goes with you. That stretch is rough, and I don’t need you gettin’ hurt out there.”

{{user}} was walking beside him, arms crossed, boots kicking at the dirt. “I wasn’t alone,” she argued. “I had Storm with me.”

Rip stopped in his tracks, turning to give her that look, the one that had cowhands twice her size backing down. “Storm’s a horse, sweetheart.”

“So?” she shot back, chin tilting up stubbornly. “He’s faster than anyone here and he listens better, too. You always say we gotta handle our own, right? That’s what I was doin’. Handling it.”

Rip blinked, caught between irritation and pride. She sounded just like Beth when she dug her heels in like that. “You’re twistin’ my words,” he muttered, shaking his head as they started walking again.

“I’m not,” {{user}} insisted, keeping pace beside him. “You and Mom both taught me to pull my own weight around here. If I waited on someone every time, nothin’ would get done.”

Rip gave a dry laugh. “You don’t need to sound so damn much like your mother, you know that?”

She smirked. “You sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing.”

He huffed out a breath, glancing sideways at her. “It ain’t bad. Just… means I don’t stand a chance in an argument.”