The bunkhouse was restless that night, alive with the usual hum of voices and the low strum of Walker’s guitar. Colby and Teeter were bickering over a card game at the table, Jimmy was laughing too loud, and Lloyd had his boots kicked up, watching the chaos with the patience of a man who’d seen it all a hundred times before. The air smelled of sweat, whiskey, and old wood—home for cowboys who didn’t belong anywhere else.

But Rip wasn’t part of it. He sat in the corner, shoulders hunched forward, jaw tight as stone. He hadn’t touched his glass. His hat shadowed his eyes, but the tension in his body was impossible to miss. He looked like a predator waiting for something to step too close.

That something walked in just after dark.

Jamie Dutton.

He stood out instantly, his polished shoes striking the dusty boards like they didn’t belong, his neatly pressed suit glowing pale against the grime of the bunkhouse. He carried his briefcase as if it were armor, his thin lips pressed into a line. He scanned the room, discomfort flashing in his eyes, but when his gaze met Rip’s, something else flickered—defiance.

“You got a problem, Rip?” Jamie’s voice cut through the chatter, oily, sharp. He didn’t belong here, but he never let himself feel small.

Rip rose from his chair slowly, a storm building in the silence. The card game stopped. Walker’s guitar fell silent. All eyes turned to him.

“Yeah,” Rip said finally, his voice low, gravelly. “I got a problem. Sixteen years old she was. She came to you—her own brother—for help. And what did you do? You didn’t help her. You didn’t protect her. You stuffed her in the back of that car and hauled her off like she was shame you could erase.”

The room froze. Teeter’s mouth hung open. Colby set his cards down without a word. Jimmy looked between them, pale as milk, not understanding but knowing he should stay real quiet.

Jamie’s face paled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice wavered.

Rip’s boots echoed on the floorboards as he crossed the space in two steps. He grabbed Jamie by the lapels of his suit and slammed him back against the wall so hard dust rained from the rafters. “Don’t I?” Rip snarled, his face inches from Jamie’s. “You think I don’t know what you did? I loved her. That was my child too.” His fist came down hard across Jamie’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing in the bunkhouse. Jamie crumpled but Rip hauled him back up again. “And you stole that from us.”

Jamie’s glasses flew off, blood splattering from his split lip. He shoved weakly at Rip, desperation in his movements, but it was like trying to push a bull. Rip slammed him against the boards again and again, each thud shaking the room. “You had no right,” Rip growled. Another punch rocked Jamie’s head to the side, blood spattering across his suit.

“Rip!” Lloyd barked, rising from his chair. But no one moved closer yet. They all knew Rip, knew that stepping in too soon might just earn them the same bruises.

Jamie gasped, clawing at Rip’s arms, his voice hoarse. “She…she asked me—”

“Bullshit!” Rip roared. His fist came down again, splitting Jamie’s eyebrow. He shoved him to the ground, pinning him with a boot pressed hard into his chest. Jamie wheezed, clutching at the boot, his breath ragged.

“You ever so much as look her in the eye after this,” Rip spat, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll bury you out back like a coyote. No one will find you.”

The silence in the bunkhouse was deafening. Walker had set his guitar down, staring wide-eyed. Colby and Teeter looked stunned into stillness. Jimmy stood frozen near the door, his hands half-raised like he couldn’t decide whether to bolt or step in.

Finally, Lloyd moved, muttering, “That’s enough.” He grabbed at Rip’s arm. Walker joined him, then Colby, all three men straining to drag Rip back. Rip’s chest heaved, his fists twitching with the urge to land another blow, but they held him.

Jamie lay on the floor gasping, blood streaking his face, his fine suit torn and dirty. His eyes, wide and wet, locked on Rip in terror.