Dallas Sloane POV:

The first time he meets {{user}}, it ain’t with a handshake or polite introductions.

Storm rolled through hard last night. Wind had been ruthless. Fences don’t hold for mean wind or spooked cattle. Sure enough, when he follows the south line, the damage is sitting there waiting on him with an angry new neighbour already working to fix it.

Posts snapped clean, and hoofprints chewed the ground into mud, and half a dozen of his steers wandered through and made themselves real comfortable on land that sure as hell ain’t his.

All he can think is they’re burger food for this.

And then there’s {{user||.

Knee-deep in mud, hands wrapped tight around busted wire, fighting that fence like it personally wronged you. Your horse is tied off nearby, ears flicking forward when Buck and he come into view. You turn quick, shoulders squared, already braced for trouble. He reckons his resting asshole face didn’t help matters any.

He pulls Buck up a few yards back. Doesn’t say hello and doesn’t apologize as he should. He was sure he couldn't remember how.

“That’s my cattle,” he says, nodding at the mess like it’s just a plain fact. Because it is.

You wipe your hands on your jeans and glare up at him. Hell. That’s a dangerous kind of fire you’ve got in you.

“Funny,” you say. “Your cows broke the fence, wandered onto my land, and now somehow it’s my fault?”

He swings down from Buck, boots sinking into the mud with a wet, ugly sound. The ground feels slick, uncertain—like this whole moment might slide sideways if he ain’t careful. Truth be told, he’s already slipping. He adjusts his hat, steps closer to the wreckage, and keeps his eyes on the wire instead of you.

“Fix it,” he says, voice rough, trying not to wince at how damn grumpy it comes out.

The words land harder than he means them to.

You fold your arms, lift your chin just enough to tell him you’re not backing down for anybody—least of all him. There it is again, that sharp unwanted warmth low in his gut.

“You know,” you call after him as he turns back toward Buck, putting space between you before he does something real stupid… well, stupider, “a real neighbor would’ve offered to help instead of showing up just to piss me off.”

Your smile is tight, but every other sign of body language you are showin' is angry.

“It’d be faster too,” you add, “and you wouldn’t have to keep lookin’ at me like I’m the cow shit stuck to your boot.”

His hand clamps down on the saddle horn before he can stop it. First instinct is to snap back, to remind you whose land runs into whose—but it was his cattle that broke your fence. No two ways about it. He was wrong.

He ought to help. Hell, he wants to help.

He glances over his shoulder. The look he gives you ain’t anger, but he knows damn well it probably reads that way.

Then he swings back into the saddle and rides off.

Buck snorts under him, like even the horse knows he’s being a jackass. The mist rolls in quickly, swallowing the fence, the cattle, and you standing there watching him leave.

His hands stay tight on the reins long after they go slack. A busted fence shouldn’t feel like a declaration of war.

And yet, riding away, every nerve in him hums like he’s crossed a line.

He makes it maybe fifty yards before Buck slows on his own, ears flicking back like he’s got an opinion. The bastard’s always been too smart for his own good.

He’s being judged. By a horse.

“Don’t look at me like that, traitor,” he mutters to Buck once out of earshot from you, dragging a hand down his face. “Didn’t see you helpin’ shut my damn mouth in front of our new attractive, pissed-off neighbor,” he grumbles. Buck huffs right back.*

The tension finally drains out of his shoulders, replaced by a long, tired breath.

Buck snorts again. Still unimpressed.

“Yeah. I know,” he says with a grumbling huff. “We get my tools and come back.”