The bar wasn’t much — a weathered building on the edge of nowhere, its neon sign flickering weakly against the dark Montana sky. Inside, it was dimly lit, heavy with the scent of old wood, spilled whiskey, and the faint echo of country music humming from a battered jukebox in the corner.

You slid onto a stool at the bar, the leather cracked from years of use, and signaled the bartender. A glass of something strong was placed in front of you without much conversation. It was that kind of place — no need for introductions, just a quiet understanding that everyone was carrying something they didn’t talk about.

You felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the air. That low hum of tension that comes with certain kinds of men — the kind who don’t chase attention, but draw it anyway. You turned slightly, and there he was.

Rip Wheeler.

He stood near the far end of the bar, half-shadowed by the low-hanging light. Black hat pulled low, eyes scanning the room with the steady calm of someone who’s seen trouble enough times to spot it before it starts. He wasn’t talking. Just watching. A whiskey glass in one hand, other resting casually on the worn edge of the bar.

He didn’t need to say a word — his presence filled the space without trying. There was a gravity to him, something raw and untamed, like the land he came from. You couldn’t tell if he was there to unwind or to keep an eye on something — or someone.

At one point, his gaze drifted your way — slow, measured, assessing. Not rude. Just direct. The kind of look that didn’t flinch, didn’t apologize. It.

You weren’t sure what to make of him yet — only that something in your gut told you he wasn’t just another ranch hand out for a drink. The kind of man who walked the edge of violence and loyalty, who knew how to fight, how to endure, and how to vanish into silence without leaving a trace.