The night before had been long, loud, and soaked in whiskey. The bunkhouse crew had stormed into the local bar like a stampede—Walker with his guitar slung on his back, Teeter already hollering for shots, Colby and Ryan betting who could drink the most without kissing the floor. Even Beth had made an appearance, slicing through the room like a blade, Rip trailing just behind her with that quiet, watchful presence that commanded without needing to speak.

You had come too, tugged along by Kayce, who swore you needed to see how the crew cut loose when the ranch work paused for one rare night. You laughed at their antics, let the music and chatter wash over you, tried a sip or two of liquor before grimacing and sliding it across to Beth, who downed it like water.

But at some point, no one noticed Rip slip away. Not unusual—Rip didn’t thrive in noise the way the others did. People assumed he’d headed back early, maybe to check the barns, maybe just to escape Beth’s barbed tongue. No one thought twice.

Until morning.

The bunkhouse yard was silvered with dew, the air crisp enough to sting when breathed deep. Lloyd was the first one outside, nursing a hangover and a steaming cup of coffee. Ryan and Colby followed, both squinting against the sun, grumbling about needing more sleep before the day’s ride.

That’s when it happened.

A soft thud against the side of the bunkhouse wall. Then another. Heads snapped up just in time to see the window over Rip’s room creak open. And there you were—hair tousled from sleep, cheeks flushed, your dress wrinkled, clambering awkwardly onto the sill.

“Holy shit,” Colby whispered, elbowing Ryan hard.

You tried to swing a leg over, boots catching on the frame, nearly losing your balance. A muffled giggle escaped your lips, bubbling up uncontrollably. When you finally tumbled down, it wasn’t graceful—it was a half-fall, half-scramble, landing with a soft yelp before you picked yourself up and darted across the frosted yard toward the main house, laughter trailing behind you like a ribbon.

Ryan choked on his coffee. “Was that—? Did I just—?”

Lloyd’s jaw went slack, eyes cutting to the window above. Sure enough, the curtain there shifted. And then Rip appeared, leaning out for half a second before realizing the crowd below had already seen too much. His face darkened, jaw clenching as he yanked the curtain shut again.

Teeter came stumbling out of the bunkhouse, hair wild, catching only the last of your retreating form as you dashed into the big house. She blinked, then let out a sharp, cackling laugh. “Well, shit! Didn’t see that one comin’!”

Walker strummed a lazy chord on his guitar, smirking. “Explains why Rip’s always broodin’. Guess even the stone man’s got a heart to keep warm.”

“No,” Ryan muttered, shaking his head like he could erase the sight. “That was the boss’s youngest. You know what this means? Rip’s dead. We’re all dead. Dutton finds out, he’ll bury us with him.”

Colby laughed so hard he doubled over. “Not if Beth doesn’t kill us first!”

Lloyd didn’t laugh. He just rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something low about the end of days. He’d seen enough in his long life at the ranch to know that Rip was now balancing on a knife’s edge.

The bunkhouse buzzed with whispers as they went about their chores, side-eyes thrown toward Rip’s closed door. The man himself emerged an hour later, hat pulled low, expression unreadable, like he could choke the memory out of everyone present through sheer will.

“Not a goddamn word,” he growled, his voice carrying the weight of a threat that froze the yard. “You say nothin’. You think nothin’. You forget what you think you saw.”

The men shuffled, muttering, nodding, avoiding his eyes. Even Teeter zipped her lips shut, though her grin betrayed her amusement.

But it was too late. The image was burned into their memories—your giggling escape at dawn, Rip’s rare crack in composure—and no amount of silence could unsee it.

Somewhere, deep inside, Rip knew this too.