I sat atop my horse, feeling the familiar shift of its muscles beneath me as I surveyed the land. The cold Montana air bit at my skin, seeping into the layers of my jacket, but I didn't mind. The chill was part of the work, part of the sacrifice. It was nothing new.

The hands moved with purpose, their focus unwavering as they prepared the field for winter. There was no room for hesitation, no time to waste. The herd depended on us. Without the right preparations, the weather would claim more than we could afford.

I kept my eyes on the men below, watching their movements, the way they worked together, the way they'd been trained. There was a rhythm to it, one that came with years of hard work. Every action, every decision counted.

I shifted in the saddle, taking in the sight of the ranch, the land stretching out in every direction. This place had a way of humbling you, reminding you that it didn't care about your plans, your feelings. It was unforgiving, yet it was where we belonged. Where I belonged.

Colby shot me a smirk from across the field,. "You sure you don't wanna come down here and help us drive these fuckers in the ground?" he called out, gesturing to the posts they were setting.

I glanced down at him from my perch atop the horse, a playful smile tugging at my lips. "Don't want to risk breaking a nail," I shot back, making sure my voice carried over the wind.

Ryan let out a low chuckle, the sound a mix of amusement and admiration. "Smart move," he added, his tone teasing but warm.

Colby just rolled his eyes, clearly used to my banter. "Whatever, princess. We'll handle it up here," he called back, though I could see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Good, because this princess has more important things to do than get her hands dirty," I replied, feeling the rush of energy as I steered my horse to take a better view of the ranch below.

Kayce's gaze softened as he looked across the land, the wind catching his jacket as his horse shifted beneath him. "This used to make me sad when I was a kid," he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to linger in the air. "Preparing for winter."

I nodded, feeling the same sense of melancholy wash over me. "Sometimes," I admitted, "it still makes me sad."

Kayce looked over at our father, who was guiding his own horse a little ahead of us. "I remember you talking about what it was like taking care of this place," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Was it always like that for your dad? And his?"

Dad didn't pause as he answered, his voice steady and familiar. "And his before," he added, without missing a beat. "It's the one constant in life. You build something worth having, someone wants to take it away."

There was a heaviness in the silence that followed. We all knew what he meant. It wasn't just about the ranch, but everything we fought to hold on to. The land, the legacy, the people. It was a constant battle—one that never really ended. But it was ours to fight, and that, in itself, was something worth holding on to.

The cold Montana air bit at my face as I rode back to the ranch, the horse's steady pace giving me a moment of quiet reflection. Kayce stayed behind to help the hands, his quiet nature fitting the rhythm of ranch life, always focused on getting the job done. I just wanted to warm up a bit, my fingers stiff from the cold.

When I arrived, the sight of Tate caught my attention. He was rushing across the yard, his boots crunching against the frost as he made a beeline for the corral. Lucky was waiting for him, his tail flicking in anticipation of breakfast.

Tate was so focused on getting his horse fed before he had to leave for school, a boy in his own world, still learning the ropes of ranch life while balancing the normalcy of being a kid. It was good to see him finding his rhythm here, even as the ranch grew more demanding by the day. I couldn't help but smile as I watched him work, determination in his step. It made the hard days worth it.

I nodded at Cowboy as I led my horse into the barn, giving him a quick glance. His weathered face was framed by the haze of smoke curling from the cigar in his mouth, and his posture was as laid-back as always.

"Morning, Cowboy," I said, my voice carrying the exhaustion from a long day already. "Glad to see you're back."

He gave a lazy salute with his cigar, the corners of his lips twitching into a smirk. "You always know how to make a guy feel welcome, ma'am."

Jimmy grunted behind me as he hoisted a bail of hay from the trailer. Feed for the cattle that would have to last through the winter. Jamie stood at the end helping.

"Hey if you're not gonna help us can you at least move outta the way?" Jimmy asked Cowboy. "Explain this dayworking thing to me. Cause it seems to me like you live here now, but you only work when we move cattle. And the cattle are all shipped out. So what you get paid to just do nothing?"

"That about sums it up," Cowboy replied, his tone nonchalant.

"Hey, Jamie, tell your dad I'm a day worker now," Jimmy said, tossing another bale of hay onto the pile.

"I think Dad just forgot you're still here," Jamie shot back, a teasing grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"So, you all just gonna let him figure it out on his own?" Cowboy raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening.

"I'm not saying a word," I answered, shaking my head.

"It's not my place to tell him anything," Jamie added with a shrug.

Cowboy gave a low chuckle, stretching as he leaned against the barn door, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Y'all are starting to sound like a damn sitcom," he said, his grin wide and lazy. "Guess I'll just keep doing my job, then."

Jimmy shot him a side-eye as he set the bale down, hands on his hips. "Yeah, you do that. But it still doesn't answer why you get paid to stand around and smoke all day."

Cowboy just shrugged, unfazed. "You get paid for what you're worth, kid. I just happen to be worth a whole lot of standing around."

I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that Cowboy's easy-going nature was exactly why he could get away with it. He was reliable when it mattered, and everyone knew it. But it didn't mean I wouldn't tease him about it when I got the chance.

Jimmy grumbled as he grabbed another bale. "Well, I guess I'll just keep stacking hay, then."

Jamie watched from the corner, arms crossed. "If you're complaining, you can always switch spots with Cowboy," he teased, a hint of a grin on his face.

"Ha ha, very funny," Jimmy shot back, turning to lift another bale.

The vehicle's siren cut through the quiet as it pulled up, a Sheriff's Department car slowing to a stop.

"Jamie?" I motioned to the officer stepping out.

"Commander," Jamie nodded, acknowledging him. "He's up at the house."

The officer shook his head. "I'm not here to see John. I'm looking for Jimmy Hurdstram."

"What's he being charged with?" My brother glanced from the officer to Jimmy, confusion creasing his brow.

"He's not being charged with anything," the officer said solemnly. "I need to speak to him, though."

The two of them spoke quietly, their voices low, but Jimmy's expression twisted, his fists clenching.

"What happened?" I asked, already feeling the tension in the air.

The officer gave me a grave look before heading back to his car. Jimmy was still muttering under his breath.

"They killed him," Jimmy finally spat, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I paid, and they still killed him."

I frowned, trying to make sense of the chaos. "What?" Jamie asked, voice laced with confusion.

"I fucking paid, and they still fucking killed him!" Jimmy yelled again, then bolted off, running in the direction of the barn.

"Rip!" I shouted as I saw him riding in from the field.

He pulled his horse to a stop, brows furrowed. "What is it, Alex? Somebody hurt?"

"I don't know," I said quickly, anxiety rising. "It's Jimmy—something about his grandfather and money. He's not making sense. He's got a rifle, and I'm worried he's gonna do something stupid."

"I'll handle it," Rip said firmly, his voice steady but laced with the edge of authority.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, fear rising in my chest.

"Don't go poking your nose where it doesn't belong," he snapped back, his tone cutting through the tension. It was that familiar, branded-man thing. Rip would do this for Jimmy, no questions asked, because of the bond that came with the brand. It was unspoken loyalty, and in this world, that meant something.

Kayce and Lloyd would get involved. They always did. And I knew that meant someone was going to pay the price. Someone would die for whatever mess Jimmy had gotten himself into.

I didn't have to ask how it would end. I already knew.

—-

The weight of what was about to unfold hung heavy over the entire ranch. It wasn't just the men involved—it was the whole bunkhouse, everyone who lived and worked there, who knew the cost of loyalty, of what it meant to get your hands dirty for family.

Ryan crossed the room, determination set in his shoulders. He stopped in front of Rip. "I need a word."

Rip didn't look up. "Now's not the time."

"I want to go with you," Ryan said, his voice calm but firm.

I froze. My heart sank, a cold feeling creeping through me. It wasn't surprising, I suppose. I'd known that one day, Ryan would get pulled into the darker parts of this life. His place here was already solid. He was family. But now, he wanted more. He wanted to be part of the undercurrent of the ranch—its blood and its violence.

He wanted the brand.

Rip studied him for a long moment before answering. "No, you don't."

But Ryan wasn't backing down. He cut his eyes to me, then turned back to Rip. "I'm already in this place so deep." His voice softened. "I can't walk away."

Rip stepped forward and patted his chest with a solid thud. "If you want in... it's all the way in."

"I know," Ryan said. "I still want it."

I felt the words in my chest like a punch. My eyes searched Ryan's face, desperation clouding my voice. "Ryan?" I whispered. "You don't have to do this."

"I know, baby." He slipped his coat on, the decision already made in his eyes. "I want to."

And just like that, he was gone.

I stood in the cold, watching the truck disappear down the dirt road, my heart heavy with what had just happened. Rip, Ryan, and the others—there was no turning back now.

The sound of hooves made me turn my head, and Tate came rushing into the barn, a bundle of hay clutched in his arms.

"I gotta feed my horse," he said, already heading to the stall.

"I thought you might've forgotten," I teased him, walking over. "Need some help?"

Tate paused, then nodded, the eagerness of youth lighting up his face. We made our way to the corral together, the ground crunching beneath our boots.

He tossed the hay into the trough and I smiled as he ran his hand down his horse's nose. His eyes were wide with admiration for the animal, full of that youthful wonder.

"Be careful," I warned, knowing how easily that excitement could turn into something dangerous.

Tate didn't look up, his focus entirely on the horse, but I could see the spark of determination in his eyes. He'd take care of this ranch, just like all of us had before him. Just like I had.

The world started to blur at the edges as Tate's laughter became a distant sound, swallowed by the darkness creeping in. I hadn't noticed them approach, not until that cold voice cut through the quiet, sharp and commanding.

The gun clicked, and every muscle in my body went stiff, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't even think.

"You make a fucking sound and I will shoot him."

I could hear the chill in his voice, feel the certainty in it. He wasn't playing games.

My eyes snapped to Tate, his face frozen in confusion. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, but my voice was steady when I spoke, "What do you want?"

"What he loves the most."

My heart dropped to my stomach. This was about my father. And fucking revenge.

"Move."

The second figure's hand came down on me like a weight, the cloth pressed hard against my face. I didn't even know what was happening before the sharp, sickly sweet smell hit my senses. Chloroform. I didn't even have a chance to fight it, my body betraying me as I struggled. But the edges of my vision faded, the world slipping from my grasp like sand through my fingers.

Tate collapsed at my feet, and everything went black.

—-

I fought against the weight of unconsciousness, my head lolling to the side as I struggled to keep my grip on reality. Every blink felt heavier, every breath slower, but I refused to let go. I had to fight. If I couldn't get us out of this, I had to at least leave something behind.

With what little strength I had, I tugged my glove off and let it slip from my fingers, barely hearing the soft thud as it hit the ground. My fingers brushed against Tate's boot, and I forced my sluggish limbs to move, pulling it free and letting it drop. It wasn't much, but it was something. A trail for Kayce.

The SUV rattled over the uneven road, the air thick with the smell of sweat and cigarettes.

"You were just supposed to get the boy," a gruff voice muttered from the front seat, irritation lacing his words.

"Well, bonus—we got ourselves a rodeo queen too," the man closest to me chuckled, his voice smug.

I fought the haze clouding my mind, forcing my lips to move. "Big mistake," I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.

He just laughed. "We'll see about that."

I tightened my grip on Tate's little hand, my fingers trembling as I rested my other hand on his chest. His heartbeat was steady, strong. He was still breathing. That was all that mattered right now.

"Tate," I whispered again, my voice hoarse. No response. He was out cold.

I didn't know what these men wanted, if they planned to kill us—or worse. My mind flashed to Beth, to what they had done to her. The bruises on her face, the brokenness in her eyes. Rage burned in my chest, momentarily clearing the fog from my mind.

I couldn't let them do that to Tate. I wouldn't.

I forced my breathing to slow, my mind to sharpen. I had to think, had to find a way out of this. If I couldn't fight, I had to outsmart them. I glanced down at Tate, squeezing his hand just a little tighter.

"I've got you, buddy," I murmured, even if he couldn't hear me. "I swear it."

I felt myself pull under again.

When I woke I didn't know where I was. It was dark. I'd been stripped down to my underwear. My wrists were bound together with a zip tie.

"Tate," I murmured.

"You should be worried about yourself," the voice spat at me, "we ain't hurt the boy yet. If you be nice and do as you're told, we won't have to hurt him."

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold. My skin prickled at the vulnerability of being exposed, restrained, and at the mercy of these bastards. But fear wouldn't save Tate. Fear wouldn't get us out of this.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. Think, Alex. Don't give them what they want.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice hoarse, rough from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

The man chuckled, low and mean. "Now that's the right question."

I strained my ears, listening for any sound of Tate, for his breathing, his whimper, anything. But all I could hear was the slow, deliberate footsteps of my captor moving closer.

"You Duttons think you own everything. Think you can do whatever the hell you want. But it don't work that way. See, power shifts, and right now? It sure as hell ain't sittin' with your daddy."

He crouched beside me, the heat of his body radiating against my bare skin. I clenched my fists, the zip tie biting into my wrists. Keep him talking. Give Kayce time to find you.

"So this is about my father," I said, tilting my chin up, keeping my expression blank. "And you're using a kid to make your point?"

He grabbed my jaw, forcing my face toward his. His breath reeked of chewing tobacco and whiskey. "You don't get to talk back, little cowgirl. You get to listen. And if you're real good—real obedient—we might even let you both live."

I met his eyes, refusing to flinch. I'd been raised by John Dutton. I knew men like him. Knew that the only way to survive this was to be smarter, stronger—meaner.

I just had to bide my time.

"Do whatever you want to me and get it over with," I told him. My voice was steadier than I felt. I couldn't show them I was afraid. Men like this get off on fear. I wouldn't give it to him.

I recoiled as he ran his tongue over my face. His breath wreaked. I wanted to fight him back but if I did he'd go after Tate with worse.

"That's the plan, sweetheart," he sneered, his grip tightening on my jaw. His fingers dug into my skin, but I refused to let him see the revulsion twisting my stomach into knots.

I forced myself to go still, to think. My body screamed to fight, to claw at him, to rip his goddamn throat out—but Tate was still here. And as long as he was breathing, I had to be smart.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere behind us, heavy boots against concrete. The bastard in front of me stilled, his grip loosening just enough for me to jerk my head away.

"The boss wants a word with her," the new voice said, bored, detached—like this was just another day's work.

"Now?" My captor sounded irritated, maybe even disappointed.

"Now."

He released me with a grunt, shoving me back hard enough that my shoulder slammed into the cold floor. My bound wrists made it impossible to catch myself, and pain shot up my arm. I bit down on a gasp, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The second man hauled me up by my arm and started dragging me toward a door at the far end of the room. My heart pounded. This was the moment. Either I found a way to turn this around, or I'd never see my family again.

The boss, the man who had the guts to try and come after my father stood in front of me. A fucking fake cowboy in a suit with a bolo tie, loose around his neck. Big white wide-brimmed cowboy hat on top of his head. I could have bought three horses with the cost of his boots. This asshole was all boots, no cowboy. Not a real cowboy like my father, Kayce, Rip, or Ryan. He didn't hold a candle to any of them.

This was Malcolm Beck. The man behind everything that had happened to my family over the last few months was just a fake as fuck wanna-be cowboy.

"I'm sorry to have dragged you in the middle of this Miss Dutton," he said, "Truly. I had hoped your father would have heard the last warning we sent."

"My father is going to kill you," I told him.

"Maybe," he smirked, "but not before we destroy you."

I heard Tate scream from the other room.

"Leave him alone, you shrimp dick bastard," I shouted. Earning myself a swift kick in the back of my knee causing me to fall to the floor.

"Dutton women sure do have mouths on them," he snorted.

I hit the cold concrete hard, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Pain radiated up my leg, but it was nothing compared to the rage burning through me. I lifted my head, leveling Malcolm Beck with a glare sharp enough to cut.

"You think you're some big-shot, don't you?" I spat. "Hiding behind hired guns, snatching up kids, trying to break women because you don't have the balls to go after my father yourself?"

Malcolm chuckled, crouching down in front of me. He reached out like he was going to touch my face, but I jerked back before he could. His smirk widened.

"I don't need to go after your father," he said smoothly. "Not when I can go after the things he loves."

Another scream tore through the air. Tate's voice, high and terrified. My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat.

I lunged at him. I didn't think, didn't care about the consequences—I just moved, aiming to rip his smug fucking face apart. But the second I did, a fist slammed into my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs.

I crumpled, gasping, my vision going white with pain.

"I admire your spirit," Malcolm mused, standing again. "But spirit only gets you so far, sweetheart. You will break. Just like your sister did."

I forced myself to look up at him, to push through the pain burning my insides.

"You have no idea what the fuck you just started," I rasped.

Malcolm just smiled, adjusting his fancy hat before turning away.

I laid there, sucking in ragged breaths, knowing one thing for certain.

I wasn't going to break.

And when I got out of here—when I got Tate out of here—Malcolm Beck was going to fucking wish he had killed me.

When I came to, the room was still dark, but the voices around me were clearer. Rough laughter, the shuffle of boots against the floor. The sharp scent of whiskey mixed with sweat and something worse—something rotten.

I didn't move. Not at first. I needed a second to pull myself together, to get my bearings. My head throbbed where it had hit the concrete, a warm trickle of blood trailing down my temple. My wrists burned from the zip ties, pulled too tight.

"She ain't dead, is she?" One of the men asked.

"Nah, just got a thick skull," another answered, his voice closer. I felt the toe of a boot nudge my ribs, testing. "Wake up, cowgirl."

I stayed limp.

"Think she's playin' possum?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. Duttons don't go down easy."

The first man crouched next to me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. "That a fact, sweetheart?"

My stomach churned, rage pushing against the fear crawling up my spine. I kept my breaths slow and even, forcing my body to stay still. I needed them off guard. Needed one shot to take one of these bastards down and run.

The man's fingers curled around my chin, forcing my head to the side.

"That's alright," he murmured. "We got all night to—"

I heard cars outside, saw flashing red and blue lights bouncing in the windows. Then the heavy thud of the door downstairs being forced open.

"You assholes are fucked," I groaned.

A gunshot rang through the air.

The man next to me jerked back with a curse, and suddenly the room erupted into chaos. More gunfire. Shouts. The metallic scent of blood flooding my senses.

And then—

"Alex!"

Ryan.

I gasped, sucking in air as I forced myself upright. His voice was a lifeline, something solid to cling to in the madness. Through the haze, I saw movement, dark figures dropping one by one.

Gunshots. Boots stomping across the floor. And then, hands—familiar hands—ripping the zip tie from my wrists.

"Jesus Christ," Ryan breathed, his face swimming into view. "Can you stand?"

"Tate," I choked out, my throat raw.

I heard him scream and I felt my stomach drop.

"Kayce has him," Ryan said. "He's ok."

Relief hit me so hard I almost collapsed. Ryan's arms slid around me, the arms I'd looked to for comfort too many times, grounded me now.

"Come on, baby," he said as he lifted me into his arms, "Let's get you home."

I shielded my eyes from the sun as we walked out of the abandoned house that kept me. Kayce looked at me as he held his son in his arms.

Kayce's face was tight, his jaw clenched so hard I thought it might break. He held Tate close, the boy's face buried in his father's chest, tiny fingers curled into Kayce's coat like a lifeline.

Ryan carried me past the bodies strewn across the floor, the aftermath of my family's vengeance laid bare. The stench of gunpowder and blood clung to the air.

I pressed my face into Ryan's shoulder, breathing him in instead. Leather, sweat, the faintest trace of the cologne he always wore. Something safe. Something mine.

I lifted my head. My brother's eyes scanned me from head to toe, taking in every bruise, every scrape, the way I leaned into Ryan just to stay upright.

"I'm okay," I whispered.

He didn't believe me. Neither did I.

"Let's go home," Kayce murmured.

I clung to Ryan as he slid me into the truck. Rested my head on his shoulder as one of the officers draped a blanket around me. I'd forgotten that I was cold.

Ryan's arm curled around me, holding me close as if he could shield me from everything that had already happened. His jaw was tight, his free hand clenched into a fist on his knee. I could feel the tension radiating off him, the barely restrained fury simmering just beneath the surface.

The officer who handed me the blanket hesitated, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he gave Kayce a nod before stepping away.

Tate was in the truck ahead of us, curled up in Kayce's arms, silent but awake. My nephew—just a little boy—had been dragged into this nightmare, and no amount of whispered reassurances would erase what he'd been through.

I tightened the blanket around myself, sinking deeper into Ryan's hold.

"I got you," he murmured, his lips pressing into my hair.

I closed my eyes and let myself believe it. Even if just for a moment.