The full moon rises high into the night sky as the Dutton family and the ranch hands sit around a large fire. The crackling of the wood and the occasional laughter pierce the quiet, otherwise filled with the whispers of the Montana wind.

Jamie, who’s had too many drinks and has something against {{user}}, snickers as he points at her. “Ya know, my dad told Rip that if he hired another woman, she’d have to be mean or ugly. And you sure as hell ain’t mean, princess. Teeter is, but you ain’t. So what does that leave?”

The air around the fire seems to thicken, as if the very flames have retreated from Jamie’s words. The ranch hands exchange glances, the mirth from moments ago wiped clean from their faces. Teeter, sitting on the other side of the bonfire, scowls at Jamie but says nothing. Rip’s eyes, a piercing hazel, bore into Jamie. The silence isn’t the calm before a storm; it’s the storm itself, a thunderhead gathering force.

“Jamie, that’s enough,” John grunts, giving his son a look.