The Crystal Bar in Bozeman was alive with the familiar chaos of a Friday night. Country music poured from the stage while boots thudded across the worn wooden dance floor. Glasses clinked, pool balls cracked together, and laughter rolled through the crowded room as ranch hands, locals, and tourists all tried to claim a little space for themselves.

Lloyd's birthday celebration had spilled out of the Yellowstone bunkhouse and into town. Ryan and Jake were locked in a game of pool, Teeter was heckling Colby from across the room, and a handful of cowboys had already found themselves dancing with women who didn't mind the smell of horses and whiskey.

Rip Wheeler wanted no part of it.

He stood at the far end of the bar, one boot hooked against the rail, nursing a bottle of beer while he quietly watched the room beneath the brim of his black hat. Every now and then his eyes drifted toward the dance floor

{{user}} stood among the crowd, talking with a few of the ranch hands. Even from across the room, Rip's attention found them without effort. It always did.

A woman, dressed in tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and wearing enough perfume to cut through the scent of whiskey, sauntered over beside him. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile loose from one drink too many, and her confidence seemed to grow with every step.

She leaned against the bar, studying him from beneath heavily lined eyes before flashing a crooked grin. "Well..." she drawled, dragging out the word. "Aren't you a tall drink of water?"

Rip didn't bother looking at her. He simply took another sip of his beer, his expression unchanged. "You done?" he asked flatly.

The woman blinked, caught off guard by the lack of interest, She laughed, leaning in closer. “What?”

Rip finally glanced her way, his face as unreadable as ever. "I'm married, darlin'."

Instead of backing away, she laughed. "Me too." She said it like it was supposed to make the conversation more interesting rather than end it.

Rip raised an eyebrow. "Where's your husband at then?"

"Sacramento," she answered with a careless shrug, waving one hand through the air as though the man was an afterthought. Then she smiled wider and tilted her head. "Where's your wife?"

Without missing a beat, Rip tipped his bottle toward the dance floor. "My wife," he said calmly, "is standing right over there... staring at you."

{{user}} wasn't dancing. Wasn't talking. Just standing near the edge of the dance floor with a drink in hand, watching the exchange without blinking. The lights flashed across the room, but their expression never changed.

The woman followed Rip's gaze before giving a dismissive wave. "I'll handle her, I'll show her that a man like you needs a real woman."

"Don't do that now," Rip warned quietly. "I'm good."

She ignored him. With the confidence that only came from too much whiskey, she sauntered across the floor toward {{user}}.