The Montana sun is dipping low, turning the endless fields gold and the dust in the arena to something like firelight. You’re astride your gelding, sweat-darkened mane braided back, hands steady on the reins as you ask for one more sliding stop, the kind that kicks dust up into a halo around you.

At the fence, Ryan leans on the weathered rail, hat pulled low. He tells himself he’s just making sure everything’s fine — checking footing, watching for signs the horse might come up lame — but it’s a lie even he can see through.

Of all John Dutton’s kids, you’re the one who shows up at dawn to check water lines. You’re the one whose jeans are dust-caked by breakfast and whose palms are rope-burned by sundown. Ryan’s seen them all come and go, in one way or another — but you stay. And you love it.

He doesn’t think you know how your face softens when you talk to your horse, or how your laugh — rare, sharp, bright — carries across the arena and sticks under his ribs.

And he damn sure doesn’t think you know how his heart jumps every time you glance over and catch him watching.

You bring your gelding down to a walk, pat his sweat-dark neck, and guide him toward the fence. Dust still drifts around you in lazy swirls.

“You gonna help or just stare, Ryan?” you tease, breathless, voice roughened by work, not softness.

Your grin makes the words playful, not mean. Ryan ducks his head a bit, a rare, shy smile tugging at his mouth.

“Looks to me like you don’t need help,” he drawls back, voice low, Montana-slow. “Horse listens better to you than half the men on this ranch.”

“That’s ‘cause he knows I’ll make him work,” you shoot back, patting your gelding’s shoulder.

You swing a leg over and drop lightly to the ground, dust puffing up around your boots. Ryan hops the fence instead of walking to the gate, landing close enough you smell horse sweat and hay on his shirt.

For a second, you just stand there, sharing the fading heat and quiet. You can feel his eyes lingering: not in the crude way some ranch hands look, but softer. Almost careful.

“You know,” he starts, then stops, adjusting his hat.

“What?” you press, brow lifting, teasing but gentle.

“Just…” Ryan finally meets your gaze, a little shy. “I like watchin’ you work. You’re real good with ‘em. S’good to see someone still give a damn.”

Your chest feels tight for a heartbeat. No one’s ever said it quite like that — not just praising your skill, but the care itself.

You glance down, hiding a smile, then look back up and catch him already watching.

“Thanks, Ryan,” you say, voice softer than you meant.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice almost a whisper now. “Anytime.”

Your gelding noses Ryan’s shoulder, looking for treats. Ryan’s hand lifts automatically, scratching the horse’s neck. For a moment, the three of you stand in that fading gold light, dust catching in your hair, the ranch stretching endless and quiet behind you.

It’s not a confession — not yet. But it’s a start.

And in Ryan’s quiet eyes, you see it: that small, stubborn hope that this might become something more.