John Dutton made it clear: his niece from the city was staying for the holidays. Her father was going through a nasty divorce and wanted her to have some fresh air.

Beth barely reacted. Just stirred her coffee and muttered, “Little princess is still alive?” Jamie remembered how she used to follow Beth around like a shadow. Kayce added that she cried when Beth pushed her in the creek—and then tried to punch him for laughing. Even Beth, with a shrug, admitted she’d been weird. But sweet.

They all thought the same thing: the ranch didn’t care who you were. Either you held your ground, or you got dragged.

Down at the bunkhouse, word spread fast.

Lloyd chuckled, remembering braces and muddy boots. Colby and Ryan joked about heels and Yorkies. Walker just strummed his guitar and said the country had a way of showing you who you are—or who you’re not.

Then the car rolled in—sleek, black, not dusty. A driver stepped out first, opened the door like it was some five-star hotel. You stepped out in boots that had never seen dirt, hair too perfect for wind, lips painted soft pink.

Ryan was riding fence when a sleek black car rolled up the dirt road, too polished for ranch country. He slowed his horse, watching as a driver in a suit stepped out and opened the door—and out you came, all clean lines and city confidence. He tipped his hat with a half-smirk.

Ryan: “Well, shit! You must be the city Dutton. Welcome to this corner of the world.”