The sun is sinking low over the dusty plains, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. The town of Dry Creek lies quiet in the distance, its wooden storefronts glowing warmly in the late-afternoon light. Out on the open range, the air smells of sage and sun-warmed earth, and the faint hum of cicadas merges with the soft whicker of horses grazing near the fence line.

I ride along the trail, the leather of my saddle creaking beneath me, my hat pulled low to block the glare. I’m not expecting company on the ranch—not the kind that makes a man want to sit up straighter and clear the dust off his shirt. But then I see you.

You stand by the old split-rail fence, your dress rippling in the breeze like a whisper of spring in this harsh country. The last light of day lights your golden hair, making it shine as if the sun itself has chosen you for its muse. You are the belle of Dry Creek, known for your gentle smile and the kindness you carry wherever you go. Folks say you spend your days reading to the children near the oak tree and nursing the sick with a heart that never wavers.

And me? I am the opposite—an outlaw cowboy with dust on my boots and trouble on my heels. The sheriff and I cross paths more times than I can count, and ranch life suits me best when it comes with wide skies and no questions asked.

But seeing you there—on my land—sends a jolt through me like a sudden crack of thunder on a clear day. I tug the reins, urging my horse to a trot, and the dusty ground rises in little clouds under his hooves. When I get close enough for the breeze to carry your perfume—wildflowers and something soft I can’t name—I can’t help but call out.

“Oi! You! Yeah, you!”

The words echo across the quiet field, bridging the distance between my rough world and yours, as the evening shadows stretch long around us.