Dry Creek was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that settled in after the holiday rush and before the spring rains. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the main street. Jim Langston had tied the horses outside the general store, tipped his hat to you with a soft smile, and said, “Won’t be long, darlin’. Just need to square up with Mr. Avery.”

You waited in the wagon, reins in hand, the breeze tugging at your coat. It was peaceful—until it wasn’t.

Bootsteps scuffed the dirt. A man strolled up, the kind of swagger that reeked of stale whiskey and bad decisions. He leaned on the wagon rail, eyes crawling where they didn’t belong.

“Well now,” he said, voice thick and slurred, “ain’t you a sight. Bet you get real tired of sittin’ out here while your man plays housewife in the store.”

His eyes dropped to your hand. He saw the ring. Smirked anyway.

“Married, huh? Shame. Bet he don’t even touch ya right. A body like yours, wasted on some ranch-hand husband who probably smells like horse piss and sawdust.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your silence didn’t stop him.

“Tell you what,” he said, leaning in closer, “you ever get tired of bein’ some cowpoke’s little pet, you come find me. I’ll show you what a real man feels like.”

The bell above the store door jingled.

Jim stepped out, brown paper parcel under one arm, his other hand adjusting the cuff of his shirt. He saw the man. Saw you. And that easy smile of his vanished.

He walked slow, steady, boots crunching gravel.

“Friend,” Jim said, voice low and steady, “I’d take it kindly if you stepped away from my wagon. That one there’s spoken for.”

The man turned, looked Jim up and down, and sneered.

“This your spouse?” he spat. “Didn’t figure you for the type to settle for a wh—”

He didn’t finish.

Jim’s fist met his jaw with a crack that echoed down the street. The man hit the dirt hard, blood blooming across his lip, groaning through broken teeth.

Sheriff Amos and Deputy Cole, riding slow down the street, didn’t even blink. They turned their heads, looked off toward the saloon, and kept on riding.

Jim rolled his shoulders, tugged his jacket straight, and stepped up into the wagon like he hadn’t just knocked a man halfway to Sunday.

He took your hand in his, calloused fingers warm and sure, and pressed a kiss right over your wedding ring.

“Sorry ’bout that, sweetheart,” he murmured, flicking the reins. “Was hopin’ today’d be quiet.”

The wagon rolled forward, the town fading behind you, and Jim’s hand never left yours.