The bunkhouse door flew open hard enough to rattle the walls.

Rip Wheeler filled the doorway like a storm cloud, jaw tight, eyes burning. He took in the scene in half a second, his daughter {{user}} inside where she knew she wasn’t supposed to be, Ryan standing a little too close, both of them frozen like they’d been caught trespassing on sacred ground.

That was enough. Rip didn’t yell. That made it worse. “Out,” he said, voice low and lethal.

Ryan didn’t argue. He knew better. He backed up slowly, hands up in surrender, eyes apologetic but smart enough not to speak. Rip’s hand closed around {{user}}’s arm, firm but controlled, and he hauled her toward the door as she kicked and protested.

“Dad! Let go of me!” she shouted, digging in her heels.

“You should’ve thought about that,” he growled, dragging her across the yard toward the main house, “before you put me in this position.”

Beth Dutton was already on the porch. She hadn’t been summoned. She’d felt it. Beth always felt it when something threatened her family or her control. Cigarette between her fingers, eyes sharp, she watched Rip approach with their daughter fighting him every step of the way.

Beth exhaled smoke slowly. Dangerously calm. “What,” Beth said flatly, “did you do?”

Rip stopped in front of her. “Found her in the bunkhouse. With Ryan.”

Beth’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Is that right?”

Rip released {{user}} and stepped back, folding his arms. This was Beth’s territory now.

Beth stepped forward, close enough that {{user}} could smell smoke and whiskey and the kind of fury that didn’t need volume.

“Explain,” Beth said softly.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” {{user}} shot back, defensive, chin lifted. “I wasn’t hurting anyone.”

Beth laughed once. It was sharp. Ugly. Controlled. “You don’t get to decide what hurts people on this ranch.”