They said he didn’t smile. Said he barely spoke, either. But if a wheel broke, if a fence split, if your child was sick or your livestock got loose or you needed someone to ride after a man who'd done wrong—he was the one you called.

Everyone just called him Clay.

He wasn't a sheriff. Never wore a badge. But the law trusted him more than some of their own, and no criminal ever outran his horse for long. He was a farm boy at heart, that was plain enough—broad-shouldered from hauling hay since childhood, hands like cured leather, tan lines where his gloves ended and sun began. Lived quiet. Built his own barn. Fixed his own roof. Buried his own kin, long ago.

He didn’t take apprentices, didn’t employ anyone. Never had. But something about you must’ve stirred something in him, because he didn’t say no when you showed up. Just looked at you once, real slow, then turned and walked toward the stables like you'd already agreed.

The horses were already saddled. His, a grey mustang named Prima. Yours, a bay with patient eyes, like she already forgave you for not knowing a damn thing yet. Clay didn’t give instructions like most men. He didn’t shout or correct or ask questions. He just rode out toward the hills and expected you to come with him.

And you did.

He showed you how to sit straight without saying “sit straight.” He showed you how to hold the reins by letting you hold them wrong until your horse wouldn’t move, and then without a word, he guided your hand with his own—warm, rough, sure. The lesson burned deeper than any schooling, and when you weren’t on a horse, you were working in his domain.

By evening, when the sun poured gold across the canyon and your thighs ached from muscles you didn’t know you had, Clay finally spoke again.

He was leaning against a fence post, arms crossed, watching the bay nuzzle at the water trough. His voice came low and slow, like he was still deciding if it was worth saying at all.

“You didn’t fall off today,” he said. “That’s something.”

He walked past you, his hand lingering on your skin, calm as ever, but you caught the faintest trace of a grin at the corner of his mouth. It was gone by the time he reached his mustang.

“Come on,” he said, mounting in one fluid motion. “Day ain’t done.”

You followed him into the hills, and he didn’t look back.

You rode together until the sun dipped low, setting the horizon on fire. Until the wind turned cool and the sky bled purple and deepened into black. Until stars blinked into place one by one, like old eyes opening in the dark. He was silent, but his thoughts ran wild.

He worked hard, for his cattle, he was a lonely and hard man. And yet he couldn’t run from the truth, from you. You were too sweet for him, no matter his feelings, no matter how he felt his heart skipping a beat when you laughed. When you reached the ridge, he reined in and looked up at the night sky.

Then, almost to himself, he said, “I guess you can run off now that you got what you wanted. But if you still need the job, I can pay you until you find something better, the ranch is yours.”