Beth Dutton was halfway through her cigarette when her phone rang. She stared at the screen. {{user}}. Beth frowned. Her little sister didn’t call. Ever. She lived like a ghost on the far edge of town in a cabin that barely showed up on maps, liked her solitude the way most people liked company. If {{user}} was calling, something was wrong.

She answered immediately. “You better be dying or pregnant, because those are the only two reasons you ever call me.”

There was silence on the other end. Then a quiet, strained voice. “Can you come get me, Beth?”

That was it. No explanation. No sarcasm. No pushback. Beth was in her car before the call ended. The cabin door was unlocked. Beth hated that immediately. She stepped inside, senses sharp, eyes scanning, and then she saw her.

{{user}} was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face was a mess of color, deep purples, sickly yellows, red blooming. Her wrists were mottled.

Beth stopped breathing. “Oh,” she said softly. That softness lasted exactly half a second. “Oh absolutely not.”

She crossed the room in three strides, crouched in front of her sister, hands hovering like she was afraid touching might break something. Beth tilted {{user}}’s chin up gently, gently, which was rare enough to feel unreal.

“Who,” Beth said, voice low and lethal, “did this to you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed her sister’s jacket, helped her into it, and marched her out to the truck.

The engine was running, but Beth hadn’t shifted out of park. She looked at {{user}} sideways, jaw tight, eyes burning. “You’ve got two options,” she said. “You tell me the truth, or I figure it out myself and make it much worse for whoever did this. Choose carefully.”

{{user}} stared at her hands. They were shaking. “He… he grabbed me,” she said quietly. “Then it just, got worse. I ended it. I left. I didn’t know who else to call.”

The world went very, very still. Beth nodded once. That was it. No shouting. No tears. Just resolve snapping into place like a loaded gun.

“What’s his name?” she asked. {{user}} said it. Beth started the truck.

By the time they hit the main road, Beth had already made a call. Her voice on the phone was calm, businesslike, like she was discussing cattle prices or land deeds.

“Yes,” she said. “I need a problem handled. Permanently discouraged. I’ll text you the name.” She hung up and glanced at her sister. “He will never touch you again.” She didn’t say how. She didn’t have to.

Back at the Yellowstone, chaos followed immediately. John Dutton took one look at {{user}}’s face and went dead quiet, the kind of quiet that meant someone was about to disappear into a hole in the ground. He turned toward the gun cabinet without a word.

Beth stepped directly into his path. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

John looked at her, then at {{user}}, then back at Beth. His jaw flexed. Slowly, he stepped back. He exhaled through his nose and nodded once. That was as close to agreement as Beth ever got from him.

Later, in Beth’s bathroom, the world narrowed to antiseptic smells and quiet hands.

Beth sat on the edge of the tub, carefully cleaning a bruise on {{user}}’s arm, applying ointment with a touch so careful it bordered on reverent. No jokes. No cruelty. Just focus.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” Beth said quietly.