The sun had barely dipped behind the Bitterroots when the old neon sign flickered to life, casting shaky red light across the dusty parking lot. Rip led the way, leather jacket creaking, boots crunching on gravel, and the youngest Dutton—barely twenty, hair still sun-kissed from the fall winds—followed close behind, trying to match his easy, dangerous stride.

Behind them, Colby and Ryan bantered in low tones, the familiar rhythm of competition creeping into their steps. Walker carried his guitar case over one shoulder, already strumming a muted chord, and Teeter, wild-eyed as ever, balanced two beers in one hand and a shot glass in the other, insisting she could handle it all.

The bar smelled of stale beer, pine cleaner, and the tang of smoke that clung to every surface like a shadow. The jukebox played an old country hit, honky-tonk twanging through the air with a rhythm that made boots tap before minds could think. Rip pushed the door open and the familiar groan of hinges was swallowed by the low hum of conversation. Ranchers, locals, and a few drifters glanced up, curiosity flickering in their eyes before returning to their drinks.

“Clear a path,” Rip muttered, voice low, carrying authority that made even grown men shift. The youngest Dutton followed, feeling both thrill and trepidation. She had grown up around the ranch, but this—this was a different kind of wilderness, and Rip’s confidence was contagious.

They slid into a long booth near the back, just in time to intercept a group of rowdy cowboys heading for a poker table. Colby elbowed Ryan. “Bet you ten bucks she folds before the first hand,” he whispered.

“Not a chance,” Ryan replied, smirking.

Teeter dropped the beers onto the table with a thud, sending condensation sliding across the surface. “First round’s on me,” she announced, flashing a grin that made the youngest Dutton chuckle despite herself. Walker plopped his guitar down, letting it lean against the booth, strings still vibrating faintly from the muted strum outside.

Rip leaned back, scanning the room with a calm that drew eyes without seeking them. The youngest Dutton studied him, noting the way he commanded space without moving, the subtle curl of his lips as he caught her off guard with a sidelong glance. She felt the familiar warmth in her chest—the one that always came with Rip—but pushed it down. Not yet. Tonight was about the crew. Tonight was about laughter and whiskey and the rare freedom from the ranch.

Colby raised his glass. “To surviving another week of work without killing each other or the boss,” he toasted. The others laughed, clinking bottles with clumsy ceremony.

The jukebox switched songs, twang giving way to a slow blues that made the youngest Dutton tap her fingers against the table. Rip’s gaze fell on her, catching her movement with an almost imperceptible smile. “You picking up a tune?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough for the words to warm her ear.

“I’m… trying,” she said, heart thumping. Her cheeks colored, betraying her nerves.

“Good,” he said, voice low, certain. “Means you’re paying attention.”

Teeter snorted, downing her shot and slapping the table. “Paying attention to him or the music? That’s the real question.” She winked at the youngest Dutton, who rolled her eyes and laughed.

The night stretched on, glasses emptying and refilled, laughter weaving around them like a rope binding the crew together. Stories tumbled out—ridiculous mistakes on the range, tales of cattle gone rogue, pranks the ranch hands swore they’d never reveal to John. Rip listened more than he spoke, occasionally letting a dry comment slip, enough to draw laughter without breaking the careful tension he carried.

At some point, the youngest Dutton found herself leaning into Rip, sharing a burger between bites, the heat from the kitchen and the crowd mixing with the warmth of being near him. Colby’s laughter interrupted the moment, pointing at her plate. “You gonna eat or just stare at him all night?”