The car rolled to a stop on the gravel road, dust lifting slightly when he stepped out. When his polished boot pressed into the damp path, he looked down, mud clung to the leather.

He frowned, dragging the sole against the gravel with clear irritation before straightening. The air smelled like the kind of heavy rural scent that stuck to everything. His eyes moved over with open disapproval, uneven dirt paths.

People really chose to live like this.

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, already wanting to be done with the place.

Then he saw you.

You were in the stable, it looks like you've just finished brushing one of the horses. And when you noticed him, the look you gave him was unimpressed at best. Then came the eye roll.

Something faintly irritated appeared in his eyes. Most people reacted differently when they realized who he was standing in front of them. He walked, careful where he stepped now, clearly annoyed each time the ground shifted under his shoes. When he was close enough, he finally spoke

“Nate Prescott,” he said, like that should already explain why he was there. “I sent word. Three times.”

He glanced down again, all the filth under his feet and yours. “Most people would’ve responded by now,” he added calmly, placing just enough weight on most to make the meaning clear. “Especially when it’s a Prescott making the offer.”

His tone stayed even, but there was a clear hint of arrogance behind it.

“And I can promise you something,” he continued, meeting your gaze directly. “If someone else comes asking for this land, they won’t be nearly as patient as I’ve been.”