The day began the way most spring mornings did on the Yellowstone—sun just spilling over the ridges, mist rising from the creek beds, the smell of horses and dew mixing with dust and old leather. The bunkhouse had emptied with the clang of boots and spurs, a low rumble of men’s voices, laughter, and Rip’s barked orders keeping them sharp.

Jimmy swung himself into his saddle, jaw tight. Today was different. Today, she was riding with them—the Native cowgirl John had hired a few months back. She’d grown up with horses in her blood, hands calloused from reins and ropes long before Jimmy had even figured out how to sit a saddle properly. She wasn’t just good. She was effortless. And Jimmy, God help him, wanted her to notice him.

They were driving a group of restless steers across the lower pasture, the kind that tested patience and pushed even the most seasoned hand. Rip had paired them off: Walker with Lloyd, Colby with Ryan, and Jimmy—by some cruel twist of fate—riding alongside her.

“Keep your eyes up, Jimmy,” Rip called. “Cows can smell fear.”

The others laughed. Jimmy flushed, pulling his hat lower. He tried to focus, but every time she leaned forward in her saddle, guiding her horse with just a subtle shift of weight, Jimmy found himself staring.

“You’re holding the reins too tight,” she said finally, her voice even, almost kind. “He’s fighting you because you’re fighting him.”

Jimmy blinked. “What—oh. Right.” He loosened his grip, and the gelding under him eased, snorting as though in relief.

She gave him the barest hint of a smile. “Better.”

Jimmy straightened in his saddle, pride swelling. Maybe this was his chance. He spotted a steer breaking off from the herd, bolting toward the fence line. Before Rip could even shout, Jimmy kicked his horse hard and tore after it, dust flying up in a storm.

He leaned low, hat nearly flying off, rope swinging as he tried to loop it. For a moment, he felt incredible—wind in his face, adrenaline surging, the kind of scene you saw in old westerns.

Then the steer juked left. Jimmy’s rope missed clean, and his horse stumbled as he pulled up too sharp. The next thing he knew, he was half out of the saddle, clutching the horn like his life depended on it.

The herd bawled, the other ranch hands hollering with laughter.

“Nice try, rodeo!” Colby called.

Jimmy’s cheeks burned. He expected her to laugh too—but instead, she was already ahead of him, guiding her mare with a fluid grace. She cut the steer off, spun her horse quick and tight, and with one flick of her wrist, her rope looped the animal’s horns. Dust churned golden around her as she pulled the steer back to the herd, calm and precise.

By the time Jimmy caught his breath, she was riding back toward him, the rope coiled neatly at her side.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said softly, low enough that the others couldn’t hear. “Not to me.”

Jimmy swallowed, his throat dry. “I just—I wanted you to see I can do it. That I belong here.”

She studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes unreadable. Then she leaned forward, resting her wrist against the saddle horn. “You already belong here. You’re just too busy tripping over yourself to notice.”

It wasn’t teasing, exactly. More like truth. It hit him harder than any punch.

The rest of the day wore on under the Montana sun. They moved the herd to higher ground, mended a section of broken fence, and cooled their horses by the creek. The men’s banter never stopped, but Jimmy felt different. Every time he started to clench up, to grip too tight, he remembered her words. You don’t have to prove anything.

That evening, when the cattle were settled and the bunkhouse lights began to glow against the twilight, Jimmy lingered near the corral. She was there too, brushing down her mare, the fading sun catching in her hair. He thought of all the ways he could mess this up—how words always tangled in his throat.