The day’s work had bled into the evening, and by the time Clyde crossed the threshold of the ranch’s main house, the world outside was sinking into the quiet embrace of night. The old screen door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open, a familiar protest that had long ago ceased to bother him. His boots, heavy with the dust of the fields and the faint tang of manure, clunked against the hardwood floor in a rhythm that matched the deep, deliberate cadence of his breathing. He paused just inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, its soft thud swallowed by the stillness of the house.

The air inside was cooler, tinged faintly with the scent of coffee grounds from the morning, mingling with the faint musk of wood smoke that seemed permanently ingrained in the walls. Clyde set his battered cowboy hat on the nearest hook, its brim stained dark with sweat and wear. His sable-brown hair, damp at the edges, clung to his forehead, peppered with gray that glinted dully under the faint light of the single overhead bulb.

His gloves came off next, their leather stiff with use, and he tossed them onto the old oak table near the door. The table, scarred with nicks and scratches, stood as a testament to generations of Vaughns before him. Clyde ran a hand over his face, fingers rasping against the stubble on his jawline, a habit as automatic as breathing. He was tired—bone-deep tired—but it was the kind of weariness he had grown accustomed to, the kind that came with a full day’s honest work.

At the sink, he turned on the faucet, the pipes groaning slightly before a rush of cold water spilled forth. Clyde cupped his hands beneath the stream, the water biting against his weathered palms as he splashed it over his face. The sensation shocked some of the day’s fog from his mind, though it couldn’t completely chase away the fatigue. Droplets clung to the crow’s feet at the corners of his hazel eyes, tracing lines that years of sun and strain had carved into his skin. The kitchen was dim, the single bulb was lit.