The Dutton Ranch had seen its fair share of wild days, stampedes, shootouts, branding chaos, even cattle rustlers bold enough to test their luck. But nothing, nothing, compared to the storm that was brewing today.

Ryan, ranch hand and livestock agent, stood in the small bunkhouse room that had been temporarily transformed into “the groom’s quarters.” His usual calm, collected demeanor had vanished. His boots were half-polished, his shirt wasn’t buttoned right, and his tie hung loose around his neck like it was mocking him.

“Would someone please tell me what kind of tie this even is?” Ryan muttered, holding the piece of fabric like it was a coiled snake.

Rip, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, smirked. “It’s a tie, son. Not a lasso. Try loopin’ it, not wranglin’ it.”

“Funny,” Ryan said dryly, glaring at him.

From the corner, Walker strummed his guitar idly, leaning against the wall. “He’s right though, cowboy. That tie’s puttin’ up more of a fight than a bull in a chute.”

“Don’t make me come over there and show you how to fight,” Ryan warned, though there wasn’t much fire behind his words. His nerves were shot, and every time someone mentioned {{user}}, his stomach flipped like he’d swallowed his hat.

Down the hall, Colby and Teeter were on guard duty, literally blocking the door so Ryan didn’t make a break for it in a desperate attempt to see his bride before the ceremony.

“C’mon, just five seconds!” Ryan begged, pacing. “I just wanna make sure they’re okay—”

“Nope,” Colby interrupted, arms crossed. “Tradition says you can’t see the bride before the wedding.”

“Yeah,” Teeter chimed in, “and if you try, Beth’ll probably shoot ya before her daddy does.”

That shut him up real quick.

Meanwhile, over in the big house, chaos was brewing of a different kind.

The women’s side of things was a whirlwind of hairspray, lace, and last-minute stitching. {{user}} stood in front of the mirror, dressed in white, glowing despite the flurry of movement around them. Monica fussed over a loose strand of hair while Beth, glass of whiskey in hand, naturally, leaned against the vanity watching with a sharp grin.

Back outside, John Dutton stood on the porch in his best suit, holding his hat in his hands and scowling like the sky itself had personally offended him.

Rip approached cautiously. “You okay, sir?”

John’s gaze drifted toward the barn where Ryan and the groomsmen were. “Just realizin’ my youngest is gettin’ married. To him.”

Rip smirked. “He’s a good man, John. Loyal. Works hard.”

“I know,” John grumbled. “That’s the damn problem. Means I can’t shoot him.”

Rip just chuckled and shook his head. “Well, if it helps, he looks like he’s ‘bout ready to faint. Nerves got him bad.”

“Good,” John said, finally putting his hat on. “Keeps him humble.”

By the time the sun began to set, the chaos had settled into a kind of nervous anticipation. The guests were seated near the pasture, the mountain backdrop glowing in the golden light. The horses grazing nearby lifted their heads curiously as the music began to play.

Ryan stood at the altar, sweat threatening to undo all of Colby’s hard ironing work. His hands fidgeted until Rip gave him a subtle pat on the shoulder, steady, son.