The air carried the kind of weightless clarity that could only be found out here—open, crisp, and deeply familiar.

Stepping onto the Dutton Ranch felt like peeling back time. The landscape was the same, the hum of ranch life as steady as you remembered. Summers spent here as a kid flickered through your mind—chasing calves with Beth and Kayce, learning to ride under John’s watchful eye, the nights filled with the low murmur of your fathers’ stories over glasses of whiskey.

Gravel crunched under your boots as you headed toward the stables, your bag slung over one shoulder. That’s when you saw him—leaning against the fence, arms folded, his blue eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. He watched you, calm and steady, with the kind of quiet curiosity that wasn’t easy to read.

You’d heard about Ryan from Kayce: “One of the good ones. Reliable. Dad trusts him. If you need help, just ask.”

But you hadn’t expected the ranch hand’s gaze to linger as you approached. You doubted he recognized you—it had been years since your last visit, and the ranch’s staff had changed as much as you had. Still, his presence held a certain weight, as though he was sizing you up before you even spoke.

“I’m looking for John,” you said, keeping your tone casual, the way this place seemed to demand. “Here on behalf of my dad.”

A flicker of curiosity crossed his face, but he didn’t offer much in the way of response, just a slight lift of his brow.

There wasn’t any need for it—the Dutton Ranch was a place where actions and reputations spoke louder than words. And your name, you were sure, would carry enough weight once it reached John.