The Yellowstone had survived droughts, developers, and death itself. It was not prepared for {{user}}.

John Dutton stood on the porch of the main house, hands braced on the railing, watching chaos ripple across his ranch in small, infuriating waves. He didn’t need to ask what happened. He already knew.

Kayce stormed across the yard, cursing under his breath, one hand yanking his hat lower over his face. The tail of his horse was unmistakably pink.

“Tell me that ain’t permanent,” Kayce growled.

John didn’t turn. “If it is, maybe it’ll teach you to lock your barn.”

Then Beth. Beth Dutton stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bottle in her hand. She shook it once. Apple juice sloshed.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes. “Where,” Beth said calmly, “is my sister.”

John turned just in time to see a blur of movement, boots pounding, hair flying, as {{user}} bolted past the corral, leaping onto her mare and tearing off into the prairie without a word.

Rip whistled low. “Smart kid.”

John rubbed his jaw. “Grounded.”

Beth didn’t move. “I’m going to kill her.”

“No,” John said firmly. “You’re not.”

Beth glanced at him. “She replaced my whiskey.”

John met her glare without flinching. “She’s fifteen.”

Beth scoffed. “She’s feral.”

“She’s mine.”

They watched the prairie swallow {{user}} whole, just a speck now, riding hard and laughing, wind tearing at her hair like the world couldn’t catch her if it tried.

John shook his head slowly. “She’s been grounded more times than the rest of you combined,” he said. “And she’s still standing.”

Kayce snorted. “Barely.”

Jamie muttered, “She’s a menace.”

Beth smirked despite herself. “She’s entertaining.”

John’s eyes softened just a fraction as he stared toward the horizon.

“She’s a firecracker,” he said quietly. “And this place needs fire.”

No matter how many rules she broke or nerves she rattled, she was still John Dutton’s baby. And God help anyone who ever forgot that.