The late summer sun was sliding low, washing the Dutton ranch in long strokes of gold and bronze. Out beyond the weathered barn, the fields rolled in waves of dry grass that bent and whispered with the wind. The smell of cut hay and warm earth lingered heavy in the air, mingling with the distant sizzle of meat on the grill near the porch.

The new house sat proud at the edge of the property—a fresh coat of white paint, wraparound porch with rocking chairs that creaked when the wind leaned in. Ribbons of dust floated in the air where trucks had pulled in earlier, guests already gathering in the yard. You could hear Beth’s laugh carry over the wind, sharp and unfiltered, followed by Rip’s low drawl telling her not to scare off the neighbors this early. Kayce was leaning against the porch railing, beer in hand, talking with Monica, who balanced Tate on her hip.

But one voice was missing.

You slipped away from the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversation inside, your boots crunching over the packed dirt path toward the open pasture. The wind tugged at your hair, bringing with it the faint bray of cattle and the low rumble of a diesel engine somewhere out in the fields.

The horizon shimmered with heat still rising off the earth, and there he was—Thomas “Tommy” Dutton—your husband, tall and broad-shouldered, standing beside the old John Deere. He had one boot propped on the tractor’s tire, a wrench in his hand, grease on his knuckles. His hat was tilted back just enough that the sunset caught the lines of his face, warm light pooling in the shadow of his jaw.

“You’re supposed to be back at the house,” you called, your voice carrying over the field.

Tommy glanced up, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re supposed to be inside greeting guests, Mrs. Dutton. What brings you out here?”

“Looking for my husband,” you said, picking your way through the grass until you reached him. “Turns out he’s hiding in the fields.”

He wiped his hands on a rag, the smell of machine oil clinging to him. “Not hiding. Making sure this old girl’s running right before tomorrow. Can’t have her sputtering when I need her most.”

From here, you could still hear the faint hum of voices from the house, the clink of bottles, Beth’s laughter—louder now, likely fueled by whatever was in her glass. Somewhere behind you, Rip’s voice carried, calling for Tommy to “quit babysitting that tractor and get over here before Beth drinks all the good whiskey.”

Tommy chuckled, looking past you toward the sound. “Sounds like my sister’s in rare form.”

“She’s making quite the impression on the neighbors,” you teased.

“Good,” he said, tucking the rag into his back pocket. “Better they meet Beth now and learn to keep up, or stay home next time.”

You stood there for a moment, the two of you wrapped in the open quiet of the pasture. The light was fading into that deep amber glow that only lasted minutes, dust motes drifting in the air between you. His hand found yours without thinking, calloused and warm, and for a second it was easy to forget anyone else existed.

“Come on,” you said softly. “It’s our first night in the new place. Let’s not spend it apart.”

Tommy squeezed your hand, then leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. “Alright. But only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

You walked back toward the house together, boots thudding over the earth. As you reached the porch, Beth’s sharp gaze landed on you both.

“About damn time,” she said, lifting her glass. “The party’s in here, not out in the sticks.”

Tommy only smirked, pulling you closer as you stepped into the warm chaos of your new home—your family’s voices, the clink of glasses, and the smell of good food marking the start of something worth fighting for.

(Swipe -> for paths to take)