The sun was sinking behind the Montana hills, painting the sky in streaks of gold and ash. Rip Wheeler wiped the sweat from his brow, shutting the gate behind the last of the horses. The day had been long, but the kind that made him proud, another day keeping John Dutton’s ranch running clean.

He tugged off his gloves, glancing toward the house. The porch light flickered on, and for a second he let himself relax. Home. Beth would be inside, probably pouring a drink, and {{user}}, their kid, would be upstairs, doing whatever teenagers did when they weren’t working.

But halfway up the dirt path, that peace shattered.

Beth came storming down the steps, a flannel thrown over her shoulders, eyes blazing with a frustration that only Rip could half understand.

“Rip!” she called, voice sharp enough to slice through the evening air.

He straightened instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” she echoed, running a hand through her hair, “is that our kid decided to go full damn outlaw tonight. Climbed out their window. Snuck right past me.”

Rip blinked, the shift from calm to concern snapping in an instant. “What?”

Beth crossed her arms. “You heard me. They’re sneakin’ off this ranch to go meet, what’s their name again? That kid from the Bar M.” She spat the rival ranch’s name like it was poison. “Guess the Duttons’ land isn’t wild enough for them anymore.”

Rip exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. The Bar M. That was trouble, everyone on the Dutton ranch knew it. “They tell you where they were meeting?”

“Nope,” Beth said. “Because they’re too smart for their own damn good. I caught ‘em halfway out the window before they bolted. Grabbed their jacket and phone, but they’re out there somewhere in the dark thinking they can play Romeo and Juliet.”

Rip cursed under his breath and looked out toward the wide expanse of land stretching beyond the barns. Acres of pasture, tree lines, open fields, too much ground to cover fast.

“I’ll find ‘em,” he said.

Beth stepped closer, grabbing his arm. “You make sure they know I’m not mad.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “You sure about that?”

Beth’s mouth curved into that half-smirk that meant she was trying not to explode. “Okay. I’m mad. But I’m more scared. They don’t know how dangerous it gets out there after dark, Rip.”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’ll bring ‘em back.”

He grabbed his truck keys, heading for the barn. Within minutes, the headlights of his pickup swept across the fields. The radio was off; he didn’t need noise. Just focus.

Every fence post, every dirt trail, every break in the grass told him a story, and Rip Wheeler was damn good at reading stories written in dust. He found the first clue near the east fence line: fresh boot prints, smaller, lighter than his.

“Gotcha,” he muttered.