the sun is dipping low behind the jagged peaks, painting the montana sky in bruised shades of violet and gold. youβre sitting on the wooden steps of the main house, the wood still holding the dayβs heat, watching the shadows of the barns stretch out like long fingers across the dirt. the ice in your glass clinks softly against the crystal as you swirl the amber liquid, the sharp scent of whiskey mixing with the smell of dry grass and horse tack.
rip is standing a few feet away, leaning against the porch railing. his black jacket with the yellowstone brand is dusty from a long day in the saddle, and his hat is pulled low, shadowing those piercing blue eyes. he looks like heβs carved out of the mountain itself. immovable and weathered.
"youβre going to catch a chill out here," he says, his voice a low rumble that feels like a physical weight in the quiet air. he doesn't look at you, keeping his gaze fixed on the horizon, but you can see the way his jaw is set.
"i'm fine, rip," you murmur, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. it burns in the best way. "you know, i was thinking about last night. kayce and beth were in town, and dad was working late in the den. i left the door open for you at dinner. you never came in."
he shifts his weight, the leather of his holster creaking. "i had work to do in the bunkhouse. lloyd needed help with a sick foal."
"lloyd had it handled," you challenge softly. you stand up, your legs feeling heavy but steady, and move toward him. the space between you disappears until your shoulder brushes against the rough canvas of his sleeve. heβs solid, a wall of heat and muscle. "is it that you don't like the company, or you just don't like me?"
rip lets out a dry, breathy laugh that barely leaves his chest. he finally turns his head, his eyes searching yours with a depth of yearning he usually keeps buried under ten feet of dirt.
"there isn't a man on this earth who wouldn't want to sit at a table with you, {{user}}," he whispers, the intensity of his gaze making your breath hitch. "but i know where i belong on this ranch."
"and where is that?" you ask, your voice dropping to a low, daring pitch.
he doesn't move away. if anything, he leans a fraction of an inch closer, his scent of tobacco and pine filling your lungs. "about ten steps behind you," he says, his voice vibrating through the small space between you. "where i can make sure nothing ever touches you."