You were sitting on the porch of an old frontier ranch house, out where the land stretched quiet and wide. The storm had passed, but the night air still smelled like thunder and dust. Price leaned against the porch rail, one leg propped up, rolling a cigar between his fingers—not lit. Just something for his hands to do while he watched you out of the corner of his eye.

His hat was in his other hand.

The one he never took off unless it was for a fight... or for bed.

You looked at him when you noticed. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer, boots slow on the wood, eyes heavy on yours.

Then, with no warning, he placed the hat on your head.

It settled there with quiet finality.

Your breath caught.

You knew the rule. Everyone did.

Price didn’t do anything without reason. That hat was a brand, a mark of intent. And he knew exactly what he was doing.