The sun was already burning high in the Montana sky by the time your horse crested the ridge. The land below stretched wide and wild — golden fields swaying in the breeze, fence lines disappearing into the horizon, and cattle scattered like dark shapes across the hills. Dust clung to your boots, the scent of leather, sweat, and prairie grass lingering in the air.

It was your third week working on a neighboring ranch, just a few miles off Dutton land. Most days you kept to your own range, moving cattle, checking lines, doing your work without much thought to who else roamed the same open country.

But today felt different.

You spotted him before he noticed you — a lone rider a few hundred yards out, working a stubborn steer back into the herd. His horse moved with easy power beneath him, and even at a distance, you could tell he was someone who knew what he was doing — not just riding, but commanding the land beneath him like it answered to him.

As you rode closer, the silhouette came into focus.

Black hat. Dark jacket. Broad shoulders in the saddle, steady and deliberate. He moved with the kind of weight that didn’t come from age — it came from experience. From being carved by weather, work, and fire.

Rip Wheeler.

You’d heard the name — whispered in saloons, tossed around in the bunkhouse, spoken with a mix of respect and warning. Foreman of the Yellowstone. John Dutton’s right hand. The man people didn’t cross unless they had a death wish.

And now he was right in front of you.

He looked up as you approached, reins in one hand, the other resting loose against his leg. His eyes met yours — steady, unreadable, like he was already measuring your presence before you’d even spoken a word.

You slowed your horse to a halt a few feet away, dust swirling between you.

For a long second, there was only the sound of the wind and the cattle lowing in the background.

Rip gave a small nod — not unfriendly, not warm either. Just… neutral. Watchful.