The sun beat down hard on Callahan land, dust curling off the dirt road as the wind cut through the fence posts. Ash snorted in the corral, black coat shining like oil, while the cattle dog, Whiskey, stretched out lazy in the shade of the porch. It was a quiet day—or as quiet as the frontier ever got.

Jack Callahan stood by the gate, hat tipped low, duster snapping in the breeze. Revolver on his hip, boots planted in the dirt like he was part of it. Folks in town called him mean, called him dangerous, called him a bastard when they thought he couldn’t hear. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t in the business of giving a damn.

Only thing that mattered was the land. The ranch. And you.

He spat tobacco into the dust, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and squinted toward the horizon. Trouble never stayed gone for long. Outlaws. Rustlers. Drunks looking to make a name. He’d put more than one in the ground without losing sleep over it.

He caught sight of you walking out onto the porch, and his gray eyes softened just enough to show he wasn’t all stone and scars. Just enough.

“You’re late with the coffee,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, smirk tugging at his lip. “Sun’s damn near up, and I ain’t seen a cup in my hand yet.”

Then he tipped his hat back, watching you like a man who knew every battle he’d ever fight started and ended right here, on this dirt, with you.