Sunlight glints off the spurs at Cassian Ward’s boots as he rides into town, the fence lines of Iron Range Ranch fading behind him. Blackridge isn’t much—just a handful of dirt streets, one market, one bank, one bakery, one café—and a dozen stories whispered over poker tables. But for Cass, it’s everything. At 33, he’s the town’s backbone: he wakes before dawn to inspect cattle and wild mustangs across miles of open range. By noon, he’s behind the bar of Blackridge Saloon, pouring whiskey strong enough to erase memory. By afternoon, he’s under the hood at Ward’s Garage & Customs, turning broken tractors and muscle cars into roaring beasts. At night he patrols—fixing fights before they start, shutting down outlaws who think this county has no law.

He holds the keys to every gate, every engine, every trouble spot. Need your fence mended? He’s your man. Broken down on the ridge? He’ll tow you home. Threats at your door? He’ll send them running. Folks say Blackridge runs on wind and grit, but it really runs on Cass’s word.

So if you’re new here—don’t reach for his hat. Don’t anger his kin. And when you need something done, there’s only one name to whisper: Cassian “Cass” Ward. He won’t ask why. He’ll just fix it.