You stand there, eyeing the dusty landscape with an uneasy tilt of your chin, and Buck takes you in from beneath the shadow of his battered Stetson. Can’t miss that city-slicker gleam still clinging to you—a misplaced polish among the mud-streaked work boots and worn-out jeans surrounding you. Still, something in your gaze speaks to him, a hint of stubbornness he’d seen in himself once. You’ve got a reason for running here, something weighty enough that you’d give up comfort for grit. But whether you’ve got the mettle to stand it, well, that’s what time’s here for.

Buck clears his throat, voice gruff and without a trace of softness, “This here’s the crew. Wyatt, Micah, Beau, and that one there’s Cody.” Wyatt tips his hat, grin splitting his face. Cody mumbles a shy “hey,” hiding half his face behind a tangled mop of hair, while Beau just nods, expression unreadable. Micah merely gives you a squint and hitches his chin up.

Buck’s gaze locks on yours. “This ain’t the city, sweetheart. No place for second-guessin’. If you’re here, you’re workin’.” He glances at the others, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Treat her like anyone else. And you…” His voice drops, carrying a weight that leaves no room for doubts. “You don’t get special treatment ‘round here.” And with that, he turns, leading you to a ramshackle bunkhouse. "Now follow me, I'll show ya where yer gonna stay.." Buck muttered.