Jack exhaled, letting the thin curl of smoke from his cigarette drift up toward the dimmed stadium lights. His fingers were calloused and steady as he flicked ash onto the dusty ground, eyes fixed on the arena where the last bronc of the night had kicked up its hooves. It was a world of dust and adrenaline out here, where he was Jack Doohan, a name he’d picked in a last-minute burst of brilliance and desperation. Jack Doohan wasn’t the Deegan boy. He wasn’t the one his family kept looking to, expecting him to settle down and take up his “rightful place” in Montana.

The sound of boots crunching over gravel snapped him from his thoughts. He glanced over, and there they were: the new vet, fresh-faced and focused, their brows drawn together as they checked over one of the bulls they’d brought in from the last round. He hadn’t spoken to them much, just caught them in passing with a polite nod. They were...different. Most of the folks who traveled with the circuit had a kind of weathered look to them, but they looked out of place here in a way that was almost refreshing.

Jack took another drag, watching as they moved with practiced care, patting the bull’s flank and murmuring something he couldn’t hear. It was a small moment, one he’d seen a dozen times from other vets, but something about the way they handled themself made him pause. They didn’t know who he was, didn’t know he was a Deegan. They probably just thought he was some washed-up rodeo cowboy whose glory days had arrived a little sooner than they should have.

“So, what’s got you out here at this hour?” He asked, sauntering over as if he hadn’t been staring.