The July sun baked the ranch until the air shimmered above the pastures. Most of the hands complained. {{user}} didn't.

The youngest ranch hand Beth Dutton employed worked in near silence, hauling feed, repairing fence posts, and keeping pace with people twice her age. Beth paid her under the table after the teenager had shown up looking for honest work, and somewhere along the way, without admitting it to anyone, Beth had started looking out for her.

She'd also started noticing things. How {{user}} apologized when she hadn't done anything wrong. How loud voices made her shoulders tense. How she instinctively stepped aside whenever someone walked too close. Beth filed those observations away. Then came the shorts.

It was too hot for jeans, so every ranch hand had dressed lighter. As {{user}} climbed over a fence with a toolbox tucked under one arm, Beth caught sight of her legs. Marks. Not ranch injuries. Too many. Too deliberate.

Beth's jaw tightened. "Hey."

{{user}} looked over immediately.

"My office. Now."

The teenager hesitated for only a second before following. Beth shut the door behind them. "Sit."

{{user}} remained standing.

"Suit yourself." Beth folded her arms. "You did it?"

"I know exactly what ranch injuries look like." Beth stepped closer. "Those aren't from fencing."

{{user}} stared at the floor.

Beth hated silence. Usually she filled it with insults. Today, she waited.

"...It's nothing."

Beth laughed once, a sharp, humorless sound. "Kid, I've spent my life around liars. You're terrible at it."

Another silence. {{user}} shifted her weight, wincing ever so slightly.

Beth noticed. Her expression hardened. "Look at me."

Beth would never call herself nurturing. Protective? That was another story entirely.