The letter arrived with the scent of old paper and familiar handwriting. Your grandfather needed help on the farm.

It had been years since you last saw O’ville. Since you were small enough to sit a horse without fear, small enough to believe the world stayed the same if you looked away long enough. You packed without hesitation.

The moment you arrived, the Wild West wrapped itself around you like a memory you never truly lost. Dust rolled beneath hooves. The sun burned low and honest. Somewhere nearby, laughter mixed with the sound of a distant rodeo bell. It felt right. Like you had come home.

You followed the familiar path toward your grandfather’s farm, boots crunching against gravel, heart lighter with every step. That’s when you saw him.

A man stood by the fence line, sleeves rolled up, shirt open at the collar, muscles moving with practiced ease as he lifted heavy wooden planks. Sweat traced slow lines down his arms. A cowboy’s hat shaded sharp hazel eyes that flicked up the moment you stopped walking.

Your grandfather was talking, laughing, clearly comfortable around him.

The man wiped his hands on his jeans and turned fully toward you. His gaze lingered for a second longer than polite, unreadable, assessing. Not rude. Just… aware.

“Didn’t know the farm was expecting company,” he drawled, voice low, calm, carrying the confidence of someone who belonged to this land.

Your grandfather smiled, pride unmistakable.

“Ah. You must be the one I was told about.”

The cowboy tipped his hat slightly, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Mitchell Connor,” he said. “And you just made this place a whole lot more interesting.”