the fence line was a jagged stitch against the montana horizon, the wood weathered gray and biting cold under the palms of her hands. it had been ten years since sheβd felt this air, a decade since sheβd walked away from the smell of pine and diesel to find a version of herself that didn't taste like dirt and loyalty. now, standing there as a woman who carried the weight of her fatherβs loss and the soft curves of a life lived elsewhere, the vastness of the yellowstone felt less like home and more like an accusation.
rip didn't move when she approached. he was a mountain in a black jacket, the yellowstone brand on his chest catching the dying light. he looked exactly as she remembered. the dark beard, the heavy shoulders, the quiet threat of the gun at his hip but the silence around him had grown thicker, harder to break.
"i expected you to hate me, rip," she said, her voice small against the wind. "or at least have forgotten the color of my eyes."
he didn't turn. his gaze remained fixed on the blue-black shadows creeping over the ridges, his profile stern and unmoving. for a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of the grass and the distant lowing of cattle.
"i don't have the luxury of forgetting things," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. "this ranch remembers everything. every fence post i fixed, i remembered why i was working so hard to get somewhere. and then you weren't there when i got there."
the honesty of it hurt more than anger would have. she looked at him, taking in the rugged line of his jaw and the way his massive frame seemed to anchor the entire valley. she wasn't the restless girl who had run away; she was a woman now, her body fuller, her heart heavier, but the pull toward him was a physical ache she hadn't managed to outrun.
"iβm here now," she whispered, stepping closer until she could smell the whiskey and leather clinging to him.
rip finally turned his head. those piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, searching her face with a raw intensity that made her breath hitch. the stoic mask didn't break, but his voice dropped an octave, rough with a decade of unspoken yearning.
"then stay," he commanded, the word heavy with a hidden plea. "because i only have one 'welcome back' in me, and iβm using it tonight."