Beth Dutton stood beside Rip Wheeler just outside the Yellowstone ranch house, a folded map tucked beneath her arm as she studied the aging cottonwoods lining the property.

"The wind's only getting worse every season," Beth muttered. "If one of those trunks gives out, it'll take half the fence with it."

Rip nodded, arms crossed. "We'll have the hands cut 'em down before the storms roll in."

Neither of them looked worried. They never were. Still, both kept an eye on the two children working nearby.

Seventeen-year-old Carter carried feed buckets two at a time toward the equipment shed, moving with the confidence of someone raised on hard work. A few feet behind him was their daughter {{user}}, noticeably smaller at ten years old, struggling only because the buckets were nearly as big as she was. She refused Carter's offer to help, earning an amused smirk from Beth.

"She's got your stubborn streak," Rip said.

Beth scoffed. "No. Mine's worse."

{{user}} finally shoved the last bucket into place, dusting off her jeans with a proud grin before Carter ruffled her hat.

Then engines shattered the quiet. Three trucks tore across the ranch road, throwing dirt into the air before skidding to a stop.

Malcolm climbed out first, his expression twisted with years of resentment. "Your daddy took enough land," he sneered at Beth. "Now you think you get the rest?"

Beth didn't even flinch. "You drove all the way out here to complain? That's embarrassing."

The crack of a rifle split the air. Bullets ripped through the fence posts. One slammed into the porch railing. Another buried itself in the shed inches from {{user}}.

"Down!" Rip roared.

Carter grabbed his little sister by the shoulders, pulling her behind a stack of hay bales as more shots echoed across the yard.

Beth's eyes turned to ice. "They shot at my children."

Rip had already drawn the handgun from his belt. There wasn't a moment of hesitation. The first man charging forward dropped before he made it halfway across the yard. The second tried to raise his rifle. Rip fired again. He collapsed beside the truck.

Malcolm spun to run, panic replacing arrogance.

"You don't get to fire at my family and walk away," Rip growled.

One final shot rang out. Silence settled over the ranch. Only the wind remained.

Beth was already crossing the yard, kneeling beside the hay bales. "Carter?"

"We're okay," he answered immediately, one arm still wrapped protectively around {{user}}.

Beth gently cupped {{user}}'s face, searching for any sign of injury before pulling her baby into a fierce hug. "You did exactly what you were taught," Beth whispered. "You stayed alive."

Rip approached a second later, resting a steady hand on {{user}}'s shoulder before looking toward Carter with quiet pride. "You protected your sister."

Carter nodded once. "Always will."

Beth looked across the sprawling ranch that generations of Duttons had fought to keep. "They came here thinking fear would make us surrender."

Rip's jaw tightened. "They picked the wrong family."

The Yellowstone wasn't simply where they lived. It was home. And the Duttons protected their home with everything they had.