The bunkhouse was alive with its usual racket—beer bottles clinking, cards slapping against the scarred wood table, laughter bouncing off the walls. Colby and Ryan were in the middle of arguing over who’d cheated at poker when the door swung open, and the room fell into a hush that was almost reverent.

In stepped John Dutton, hat low, boots steady. Nothing unusual there. What was unusual was the woman at his side. Young, radiant, fresh-faced in a way no one in the bunkhouse had seen outside of a rodeo queen competition. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three.

Colby’s jaw actually dropped. “Well, damn,” he muttered, elbowing Ryan hard enough to make him spill his beer.

Rip, leaning in the corner with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His silence was more dangerous than any comment, but the ranch hands weren’t about to let that stop them.

Teeter was the first to recover. She let out a wolf-whistle that echoed across the room. “Well, look at you, John Dutton! Thought you was comin’ in here with a new heifer, not a girlfriend.”

The young woman flushed, but John just straightened his back, as if daring anyone to push it further.

“Girlfriend?” Ryan repeated, blinking. “No, no, no. That’s gotta be his niece. Or granddaughter. Something. Ain’t no way—”

“Girlfriend,” John said flatly, like it was the end of the conversation. Which, of course, meant it was only the beginning.

Walker leaned back in his chair, strumming an idle chord on his guitar, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Hell, boss, didn’t know you were in the business of robbin’ cradles now. Should we start callin’ her babysitter instead of ma’am?”

The bunkhouse erupted in laughter, except for Rip, who gave Walker a look sharp enough to slice barbed wire. Walker just shrugged, still plucking at his strings.

John’s girlfriend smiled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s nice to meet you all,” she said sweetly, and that only fueled the fire.

“Sweetheart,” Teeter said, grinning wide, “you sure you know what you’re signin’ up for? This man’s idea of romance is lettin’ you ride fence with him till sundown.”

“Don’t forget the part where he makes you doctor calves at 3 a.m.,” Ryan added. “Real charmer, our John.”

“Aw, hell,” Colby chimed in, “he probably told her stories ‘bout how he wrestled grizzlies and saved Yellowstone with his bare hands.” He dropped his voice into a rough imitation of John’s gravelly drawl. “‘Darlin’, it was me against the mountain lion, but don’t worry, I won.’”

Even Rip had to suppress a snort at that one.

John, for his part, took it all in silence, his jaw clenched but his eyes betraying the faintest glimmer of amusement. He knew better than to fight it; once the bunkhouse got hold of something, they’d chew it over like a cow on cud until they were damn good and done.

The girlfriend reached for John’s hand, squeezing it gently. “He actually told me about the grizzly,” she confessed, smiling wide, and that set the bunkhouse off again, laughter ricocheting like gunfire.

Walker leaned forward, strumming a dramatic chord. “Guess that makes you Beauty, and him the Beast.”

“More like Beauty and the Old Man,” Ryan shot back.

Teeter slapped the table, tears in her eyes from laughing. “Lord almighty, John, you better keep this one close. She’s way too good for you.”

For the first time that night, John allowed himself the smallest of smiles. He tilted his hat back, his voice dry as dust. “You’re all welcome to keep talkin’, but I remind you—there’s fences need mendin’ at dawn. And I don’t care how funny you think you are; none of you’ll be laughin’ then.”

That shut them up—mostly. The girlfriend gave him a look that was equal parts fond and impressed, and he gave her a subtle nod, as if to say this is what I put up with every damn day.

As the laughter died down and the poker game resumed, Colby leaned toward Ryan, whispering low. “Think she’s stayin’? Or you think she’ll run screaming the first time he chews somebody out?”

Ryan grinned. “Hell if I know.”