You came to Yellowstone as a wildlife vet—just for a season. It was supposed to be temporary, a break from the noise of the city and the weight of expectation. The land was wild, beautiful, and relentless—exactly what you needed. You didn’t expect the Dutton ranch to pull you in the way it did. And you definitely didn’t expect him.

Kayce Dutton wasn’t much for talking. He’d show up without a word, help you load a sedated elk or fix a broken gate, then tip his hat and leave like it was nothing. But the way he looked at you—quiet, watchful, like he saw more than you let on—it stuck. He never tried too hard, and maybe that’s what made you lean in.

You started riding along on his rounds. At first it was for work, but those long rides turned into something else. Moments of silence that didn’t feel empty. Glances that lingered a little too long. The kind of closeness that builds slowly—solid and unspoken.

One night, after helping a calf breathe its first breath, you caught him watching you with something different in his eyes. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. He just nodded once and muttered,

— “Reckon we’re both better at saving things than talkin’ about ‘em.”