The Fat Bob's rumble announced my arrival long before I pulled into the ranch driveway. The sun was dropping toward the mountains, painting everything in that particular golden light that only existed in Montana—the kind photographers spent fortunes trying to capture and always fell short.
I was still replaying the kiss—*kisses*, plural—when I spotted two figures on the main lodge's front porch.
Jamie stood near the railing, briefcase in hand, clearly just arriving from Helena. He wore his lawyer uniform: expensive suit, polished shoes, the careful grooming of someone who'd spent years crafting an image of respectability.
And Beth sat on the porch swing, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching him with an expression that made my tactical awareness scream warnings.
I killed the engine and dismounted, immediately cataloging the body language with Patrick Jane's observational skills:
Jamie: shoulders tight, defensive posture, avoiding eye contact with Beth.
Beth: relaxed externally, but her grip on the whiskey glass was white-knuckled, and her smile was the one she used right before destroying someone in a boardroom.
This was bad.
"Jack!" Jamie called out, clearly grateful for the interruption. "How was your day?"
"Good. Went riding." I climbed the porch steps, very aware I was walking into something. "Everything okay here?"
"Fine," Beth said, her voice carrying a false sweetness that made my skin crawl. "Jamie and I were just catching up. Weren't we, Jamie?"
"Yes. Catching up." Jamie's jaw tightened. "Beth was telling me about the IL Energy situation."
"Oh, I did more than tell him." Beth took a slow sip of whiskey, her eyes never leaving Jamie's face. "I explained—in detail—how I fixed something he couldn't. How I saved the ranch from legal complications that his careful, by-the-book approach would have missed entirely."
The emphasis on *fixed something he couldn't* landed like a physical blow.
Jamie's expression flickered—hurt, anger, resignation all cycling through in the space of a heartbeat. "Beth, I was handling it—"
"You were *failing* at it," Beth interrupted, standing now, moving with predatory grace toward him. "You were going to let them bleed us dry with fees and complications and legal maneuvering. I walked in, identified the weakness, and crushed them. That's the difference between us, Jamie. I get results. You get participation trophies."
"Beth—" I started, using my command voice.
She turned that dangerous smile on me. "Don't, baby brother. This doesn't concern you."
"It does if you're about to eviscerate our brother on the front porch where the entire ranch can hear it."
"Then maybe Jamie should develop thicker skin." Beth drained her whiskey and set the glass down with deliberate care. "Or maybe he should admit he's not cut out for the big leagues and stick to filing paperwork."
Jamie's hands clenched around his briefcase handle. "I'm going inside."
"Good idea," Beth said. "Run away. It's what you do best."
Jamie flinched—actually flinched—and something about the pain in his expression triggered memories. Not Jack's memories. The show's memories. Marcus's knowledge of what had happened between these two.
The abortion. The sterilization. The betrayal that Beth would never, ever forgive.
Jamie had taken seventeen-year-old Beth to a reservation clinic when she'd gotten pregnant—terrified of John's reaction, desperate to fix it before their father found out. He'd been twenty-four, trying to protect his baby sister, making what he thought was the responsible choice.
Except he'd taken her to a clinic that had a policy—an illegal, horrific policy that would eventually lead to lawsuits and criminal charges—of sterilizing Native American and poor women during abortion procedures. Mandatory sterilization, buried in consent forms that patients didn't fully understand or weren't given time to read.
Jamie had failed to mention this to Beth. Whether he'd known and didn't care, or hadn't known and didn't check, the result was the same: Beth Dutton, at seventeen, had been permanently sterilized without informed consent.
She'd learned about it later—years later—when she'd tried to have children and discovered she couldn't. That the abortion she'd agreed to had come with a price she'd never consented to pay.
And the baby she'd lost? It had been Rip's.
Rip, who she loved and terrorized in equal measure. Rip, who didn't know she'd been pregnant with his child. Rip, who kept trying to build something real with her while she pushed him away with cruelty and violence and everything she could weaponize.
Because if she let him close, she'd have to tell him. Tell him about the baby. About the sterilization. About how Jamie's choice had stolen her chance at motherhood.
And Beth Dutton would rather burn the world down than be that vulnerable.
All of this flickered through my mind in the space of Jamie's flinch.
"Jamie," I said quietly, before he could retreat. "Give us a minute?"
He looked at me, clearly torn between escaping and staying for whatever intervention I was planning.
"Please," I added.
Jamie nodded once and disappeared inside, leaving me alone with Beth and her barely contained fury.
"Don't," Beth said immediately, her voice dropping the false sweetness and going flat, dangerous. "Don't try to fix this, Jack. You just got home. You don't know what you're dealing with."
"I know enough." I moved to lean against the porch railing, close but not crowding. "I know you hate him. Have hated him for years. And I know there's a reason for it that goes beyond sibling rivalry or professional jealousy."
Beth's eyes narrowed. "What did he tell you?"
"Nothing. Jamie hasn't told me anything." That was true. "But I'm not blind, Beth. And I'm not stupid. The way you look at him, the way you talk to him—that's not just garden-variety mean. That's personal. That's *hurt*."
"I'm not hurt," Beth said, but her voice cracked slightly on the last word. "I'm angry. There's a difference."
"Anger is just hurt that's grown teeth." I paused, choosing my next words carefully. Patrick Jane's understanding of human psychology told me I was walking a knife's edge here. Push too hard and she'd shut down completely. Don't push enough and she'd dismiss me. "Whatever Jamie did, it destroyed something in you. And you've been making him pay for it ever since. But Beth... making him pay isn't going to fix what's broken."
"You think I don't know that?" She laughed, bitter and sharp. "You think I wake up every day and *choose* to be this angry? That I *like* being the monster everyone's afraid of?"
"You're not a monster."
"I'm absolutely a monster." Beth moved to pour herself another whiskey from the bottle she'd apparently brought outside. "I'm the thing that goes bump in the night. The corporate predator. The Dutton weapon. That's what Dad made me, and that's what I am."
"That's what you *do*," I corrected. "Not what you *are*. There's a difference."
She drank, staring out at the ranch as the sun continued its descent. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more vulnerable than I'd heard it since coming home.
"He took something from me, Jack. Something I can never get back. And every time I look at him, all I see is what I've lost."
"I know," I said gently, even though I wasn't supposed to know. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever happened, and I'm sorry you're carrying it alone."
Beth turned to look at me, and for just a moment, the armor cracked. I saw the hurt, the grief, the rage that had been festering for years.
"I can't tell him," she said. "I can't tell anyone. Because if I do, if I say it out loud, then it's real. Then I have to deal with it. And I don't know how to deal with it, Jack. I only know how to be angry."
"Then be angry," I said. "But maybe find a way to be angry that doesn't destroy you in the process. Because this—tearing Jamie apart every chance you get—it's not hurting him as much as it's hurting you."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. I spent seven years watching brothers destroy each other over pride and grudges and things that didn't matter in the end. And you know what I learned? That anger is exhausting. And eventually, you have to decide if the person you're punishing is worth the energy it takes to keep punishing them."
Beth was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: "When did you get so wise?"
"When I died for ninety seconds and realized life's too short to waste on hate." I moved closer, put my hand on her shoulder. "I'm not asking you to forgive Jamie. I'm not even asking you to tell me what happened. I'm just asking you to consider that maybe—*maybe*—there's a way forward that doesn't require you to be angry every day for the rest of your life."
She studied my face, and I could see her weighing my words against years of hurt.
Finally, she nodded. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I'm asking."
Beth drained her whiskey and stood. "I need to go back inside. Finish the IL Energy paperwork before Dad finds more ways to complicate things."
"Okay."
She started toward the door, then paused. "Jack? About Sydney."
My stomach dropped. "What about her?"
"I'm glad you went to see her. And I'm glad it went well—don't bother denying it, I can see it on your face." Beth smiled slightly, and it was genuine. "She's good for you. Always has been. Don't fuck it up this time."
"Working on it."
"Good." She pulled open the door, then stopped again. "And Jack? Thank you. For trying to help. Even though you shouldn't have to."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the lodge.
I stood there on the porch, watching the sunset and processing what had just happened.
Beth's anger at Jamie was justified—if my knowledge of the show was accurate, Jamie had facilitated something unforgivable, even if he hadn't fully understood the consequences at the time.
But anger, justified or not, was still poison if you held onto it too long.
*One crisis at a time*, I reminded myself. *Can't fix everything in one day.*
I was about to head inside when raised voices caught my attention—coming from the barn.
Beth's voice, sharp and cutting.
And Rip's, lower but strained.
*Oh no.*
I moved quickly but quietly toward the barn, John Wick's tactical awareness making my footsteps silent despite my size.
"—not asking for much," Rip was saying, frustration evident in his voice. "Just one night. One normal night where we act like people instead of whatever this is."
"Whatever *this* is?" Beth's laugh was cruel. "This is nothing, Rip. This is physical. Convenience. Don't pretend it's more than that."
"I'm not pretending anything." Rip's voice went hard. "But you are. You're pretending you don't feel anything, pretending you don't care, pretending that what we have doesn't matter."
I reached the barn entrance and carefully peered inside.
Beth and Rip stood in the main aisle, the low light from the setting sun streaming through gaps in the wood, painting everything in amber and shadow.
Rip looked... tired. Not physically tired—he was always in perfect shape—but emotionally exhausted in a way that suggested this was a conversation they'd had variations of many times before.
Beth looked defensive, armor fully in place, prepared to destroy anything that got too close.
"There's a music festival next weekend," Rip said, clearly trying one more time. "In Billings. Good bands, good food, normal date stuff. Come with me."
"A music festival." Beth's voice dripped with disdain. "You want to take me to some field full of drunk idiots listening to mediocre country music?"
"I want to take you somewhere. Anywhere. Where we can just *be* together without all this—" he gestured vaguely at the space between them "—without all the walls and the fighting and the pretending."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"You're pretending *everything*," Rip said, and his voice broke slightly. "You pretend you don't love me. You pretend what we have doesn't matter. You pretend you're fine being alone. But Beth, I *know* you. I've known you since you were a kid. And I know you're lying."
Beth went very still. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell the truth? Don't care about you? Don't try to build something real?" Rip moved closer, and I saw Beth tense, ready to bolt or attack. "I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm not asking for promises or commitments. I'm asking for one night. One normal night where maybe we can figure out if this—whatever this is—is worth fighting for."
"It's not," Beth said flatly. "We're not worth fighting for. I'm not worth fighting for."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
"It's the truth!" Beth's voice rose, cracking with emotion she'd been holding back. "You want to know why I won't go to your stupid music festival? Why I won't play house and pretend we're a normal couple? Because we're *not* normal, Rip. *I'm* not normal. I'm broken. Damaged. And eventually, you'll figure that out and leave, and I'm not going to sit here and wait for it to happen."
"Beth—"
"No." She stepped back, putting distance between them. "You want to know what we are? We're convenience. We're physical. When I need you, you're there. When you need me, I'm there. That's it. That's all this is. And if that's not enough for you, then maybe we should stop."
Rip stared at her, and I saw the exact moment something broke in his expression. "Fine. You want to pretend that's all this is? Fine. But don't come to me when you're lonely. Don't show up at my door when you need someone. You want to be alone, Beth? Be alone."
He turned and walked toward the barn entrance—toward where I was hiding.
*Shit.*
I stepped back quickly, trying to give them privacy while also not looking like I'd been eavesdropping. Rip emerged from the barn, saw me, and stopped.
"How much did you hear?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Enough to know you offered her something good and she threw it back in your face," I said honestly. "I'm sorry, Rip."
He nodded once, jaw tight with emotion he'd never express. "She's—she's impossible."
"Yeah."
"But I love her anyway. How fucked up is that?"
"Not fucked up," I said. "Human. Love doesn't turn off just because someone's difficult."
Rip looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him reassessing the youngest Dutton who'd come home built like a tank and apparently full of wisdom.
"Rangers change you?" he asked.
"Life changes you. Rangers just accelerated the process."
He nodded again, then walked away toward the bunkhouse, shoulders tight with held-back pain.
I stood there, torn between going into the barn to talk to Beth or giving her space.
The decision was made for me when Beth emerged, saw me, and stopped.
"How much did you hear?" she asked, echoing Rip's question.
"All of it," I admitted. "The walls are thin and you weren't exactly quiet."
"Great." She moved past me, heading toward where her SUV was parked. "Add that to the list of ways I'm a disaster today."
"Beth, wait—"
"Don't." She turned back, and her eyes were red but tearless. "Don't try to fix this too, Jack. Rip and I—we're complicated. And it's better if we just stay... whatever we are. Anything more would be a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because I'll hurt him!" The words burst out of her, raw and desperate. "Eventually, I'll do something or say something or he'll figure out what's wrong with me, and I'll hurt him worse than if we just kept things simple. So it's better this way. Better for him."
"What about better for you?"
"I stopped mattering a long time ago." She climbed into her SUV, started the engine. "Go inside, Jack. Have dinner with Dad and Jamie. Pretend we're a normal family. I'll be back later when I can handle being around people."
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere. Anywhere. Does it matter?" She put the SUV in gear. "Tell Dad I'm working late on the IL Energy deal if he asks."
Then she was gone, tearing out of the driveway fast enough to kick up gravel and dust.
I stood there in the dying light, feeling the weight of all the broken pieces I'd just witnessed.
Beth, destroying herself trying to punish Jamie for something that had stolen her future.
Rip, trying desperately to build something real with a woman who was too damaged to believe she deserved it.
Jamie, carrying guilt for something he maybe hadn't fully understood the consequences of.
And all of it festering, poisoning, destroying them from the inside out.
*This family*, I thought. *This goddamn family.*
In the show, these wounds never healed. Beth and Jamie's relationship stayed toxic. Beth and Rip's relationship stayed complicated and painful. The cycle of hurt continued until it destroyed everything.
But I was here now. With knowledge of what could happen, what *would* happen if I didn't change it.
The question was: could I fix this? Should I even try?
Or were some wounds too deep to heal, even with the best intentions and all the time in the world?
I headed inside, my mind already working through possibilities.
*One crisis at a time*, I repeated to myself. *First, keep Lee alive. Then reconcile with Kayce. Then maybe—maybe—help my siblings stop destroying each other.*
No pressure.
Just the weight of an entire family's future resting on the shoulders of a guy who'd died once already and been given an impossible second chance.
*Thanks for the challenge, ROB*, I thought. *Real appreciate it.*
Somewhere in the cosmic nothing-space, I imagined ROB laughing his omnipotent ass off.
—
I woke to my phone buzzing at 0600—a text from Kayce: *Bringing Tate to the ranch today. Monica's okay with it. Don't make me regret this.*
I stared at the message for a long moment, processing the implications.
Kayce was bringing his son to meet the family. Voluntarily. Less than forty-eight hours after our awkward conversation on the reservation.
This was progress. Fragile, tentative progress, but progress nonetheless.
I texted back: *We'll be on our best behavior. Promise.*
His response came immediately: *YOU might be. Not sure about the others.*
Fair point.
I rolled out of bed, dressed in work clothes—jeans, boots, a flannel shirt that had seen better days—and headed downstairs to find the kitchen already occupied.
John sat at the table with his coffee and phone, the stitches in his forehead looking better but still angry. Lee was making breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast—with the efficiency of someone who'd been doing it since he was tall enough to reach the stove. And Jamie stood by the coffee pot, still in pajamas, looking like he hadn't slept well.
"Morning," I said, grabbing a mug.
"Morning," Lee replied without turning from the stove. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough. You?"
"Like a rock. Being home does that."
John looked up from his phone. "Kayce called. He's bringing Tate over this morning."
The kitchen went still.
Jamie's hand froze mid-pour. Lee turned from the stove, surprise evident on his face.
"He's bringing Tate?" Lee repeated. "Here? Voluntarily?"
"That's what he said." John's voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened around his coffee mug. "Said he'd be here around ten. Wanted to spend the day. Maybe ride out with us."
"That's..." Jamie seemed to struggle for words. "That's good. Right? That's progress?"
"It's something," John said noncommittally.
I poured my coffee, very aware that I was the catalyst for this. My conversation with Kayce, the tentative bridge we'd started building—this was the result.
No pressure.
"So," I said, keeping my tone light. "We should probably not make this weird."
All three of them turned to look at me.
"Define weird," Lee said.
"Define *not* weird," Jamie added.
"Fair point." I took a drink of coffee. "Okay, new plan: we act normal. Whatever that means for this family."
"We don't do normal," John said flatly.
"Then we fake it. For one day. For Tate." I looked at each of them in turn. "Kayce is taking a huge risk bringing his son here. The last thing he needs is us making it awkward or tense or turning it into family drama. So whatever issues we have—with each other, with Kayce, with Monica—we table them. Deal?"
Lee and Jamie exchanged glances.
John studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Deal. For Tate."
"For Tate," Lee and Jamie echoed.
---
Beth arrived at 0930, driving too fast and looking like she'd spent the night working—which, knowing Beth, she probably had. She came into the kitchen carrying her laptop bag and radiating the particular tension of someone who'd avoided sleep through sheer force of will and spite.
"Coffee," she demanded, not bothering with greetings.
I poured her a mug—black, three sugars, the way she'd taken it since she was sixteen—and handed it over.
She drank half of it in one go, then finally looked around the kitchen at the four Dutton men all staring at her.
"What?" she asked.
"Kayce is bringing Tate over this morning," John said.
Beth went very still. "He's what?"
"Bringing Tate. To spend the day. Maybe ride out with us."
"Huh." Beth processed this, her expression cycling through surprise, caution, and something that might have been hope. "Monica's okay with it?"
"Apparently."
"And you're all going to behave like civilized human beings instead of testosterone-fueled idiots?"
"That's the plan," I said.
"Then I better finish this coffee and prepare for disaster." But Beth was almost smiling—genuine, not the dangerous one. "What time?"
"Ten."
She glanced at the kitchen clock. "Gives me thirty minutes to shower and look presentable for my nephew." She paused, the word clearly feeling strange in her mouth. "My nephew. Jesus. I'm an aunt and I've never even met him."
"You'll meet him today," I said gently. "Fresh start for everyone."
Beth studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "You did this. Talked to Kayce, convinced him to come here."
"I talked to him. But he made the choice himself."
"Still." She drained her coffee and set the mug down. "Thank you, baby brother. For trying to fix what the rest of us broke."
Then she was gone, heading upstairs to shower and transform from late-night corporate warrior into something approximating a welcoming aunt.
"She's in a good mood," Jamie observed carefully.
"She's terrified," I corrected. "But trying not to show it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've spent seven years learning to read people. And Beth's tells are subtle but there." I gestured vaguely. "The way she held the coffee mug—too tight. The way she kept glancing at Dad—checking his reaction. The way she left the room fast—before she could show too much emotion."
Lee whistled low. "Rangers really did teach you weird stuff."
"Useful stuff," I corrected.
John stood, draining his own coffee. "I'm going to make sure the horses are ready. Lee, Jack—you come with me. Jamie, stay here and make sure the lodge looks... presentable."
"I'm not a decorator—"
"Then improvise." John was already heading for the door. "And when Beth comes down, make sure she eats something. She gets mean when she's hungry."
"She's always mean," Jamie muttered, but he was already moving to the pantry.
Lee and I followed John outside into the clear Montana morning. The ranch was coming alive—hands working, cattle lowing in the distance, the eternal rhythm of land that demanded constant attention.
"You think this will work?" Lee asked as we walked toward the barn. "Kayce bringing Tate here?"
"I think it's a start," I said. "Whether it works long-term depends on us not screwing it up."
"No pressure."
"Welcome to being a Dutton," John said dryly. "Everything's pressure and nothing's simple."
We reached the barn to find Rip already there, checking tack and equipment with the focused intensity of someone deliberately not thinking about something else.
Beth. He was deliberately not thinking about Beth.
"Rip," John said. "Kayce is bringing his son by this morning. We're going to ride out, maybe check the buffalo herd. You coming?"
Rip looked up, surprise flickering across his weathered face. "Kayce is coming here?"
"Jack worked some magic," Lee supplied. "Convinced him to give the family another shot."
"Not magic," I protested. "Just conversation."
"Same thing, apparently." Rip nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'll ride with you. Be good to see Kayce again. It's been too long."
We spent the next twenty minutes preparing horses—five of them, plus a gentle mare that would be appropriate for a three-year-old if Tate wanted to ride. I worked alongside Lee and Rip, the familiar motions of checking saddles and bridles bringing back years of muscle memory.
John worked quietly, but I could see the tension in him. The hope mixed with fear that this reconciliation would somehow fall apart.
At 0958, the sound of a truck pulling into the driveway made us all stop.
"Show time," Lee muttered.
We walked out to meet them—trying to look casual, probably failing spectacularly.
Kayce's truck came to a stop near the main lodge, and my brother climbed out looking cautious but determined. He wore jeans, boots, and a faded Navy SEAL t-shirt that had seen better days.
Then the passenger door opened, and a small figure scrambled down with the fearless confidence of a three-year-old who didn't understand danger yet.
Tate Long—technically Tate Dutton, though whether John would acknowledge that remained to be seen—had dark hair like his mother, but his eyes were pure Dutton: sharp, intelligent, taking in everything with curiosity rather than fear.
He spotted John first—the tallest, most imposing figure—and stopped, clearly assessing.
"That's Grandpa," Kayce said quietly, crouching down to his son's level. "Remember I told you about him?"
"He's big," Tate observed.
"Yeah, he is." Kayce stood, his hand on Tate's shoulder. "Dad, this is Tate. Tate, this is your grandpa John."
John took a step forward, and I saw him struggling—wanting to move quickly, to scoop up his grandson, but also aware that sudden movements scared small children.
"Hello, Tate," John said, and his voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it. "It's good to meet you."
"Hi," Tate said, then his attention shifted to me. His eyes went wide. "You're really big!"
"I get that a lot," I said, grinning as I crouched down to be less imposing. "I'm your uncle Jack. I just got home from the Army."
"The Army has soldiers," Tate said with the confidence of a three-year-old who'd learned a fact and was determined to share it.
"They do. I was one. Your dad was a soldier too—Navy."
"Navy has boats!"
"Boats and SEALs," Kayce said, ruffling his son's hair with obvious affection. "Come on, there's more people to meet."
Beth emerged from the lodge at that exact moment, and I saw her freeze when she spotted Tate. Her expression cycled through so many emotions I couldn't track them all—longing, pain, fierce protectiveness, and something like grief.
*The baby she lost*, I thought. *Rip's baby. The child she'll never have.*
But Beth was nothing if not controlled when she needed to be. She walked over with measured steps, her smile carefully neutral.
"You must be Tate," she said, crouching down like I had. "I'm your aunt Beth. I've heard a lot about you."
"You're pretty," Tate announced with the brutal honesty of toddlers.
Beth's smile became genuine. "Thank you. You're pretty handsome yourself."
"Mom says I look like Dad."
"You do. But you've got your mom's eyes." Beth glanced up at Kayce, and something passed between them—acknowledgment, maybe, or truce. "It's good to see you, Kayce."
"You too, Beth." Kayce's voice was rough with emotion. "Been too long."
"Yeah, it has."
Jamie appeared in the doorway, and I saw Kayce's expression tighten slightly. The relationship between them had always been complicated—Jamie the adopted son trying too hard, Kayce the biological son who'd left.
"Jamie," Kayce said, nodding.
"Kayce." Jamie came down the steps, stopping a respectful distance away. "Good to see you. And this must be Tate."
"This is my son," Kayce said, and the emphasis on *my* was clear. *My son. My family. Mine to protect.*
"He's beautiful," Jamie said, and he meant it. "You should be proud."
Some of the tension bled out of Kayce's shoulders. "I am."
Tate, bored with the adult conversation, had spotted the horses visible through the barn door. "Horses!"
"Yeah," Kayce said, smiling. "Lots of horses. Want to go see them?"
"Yes!"
"We were planning to ride out," John said carefully. "Check the buffalo herd. If you want to come. Both of you."
Kayce studied his father for a long moment, clearly weighing options and looking for traps.
"Tate can ride with me," John added. "If that's alright. Got a gentle mare that won't spook."
"I don't know if—"
"Please?" Tate looked up at his father with those devastating puppy-dog eyes that children wielded like weapons. "I want to ride the horse!"
Kayce looked torn, then finally nodded. "Okay. But we take it slow, and if Tate gets scared or tired, we come back immediately."
"Deal," John said.
---
Twenty minutes later, we were mounted and heading out—John, Lee, Kayce, Jamie, Rip, and me. Tate sat in front of John on the gentle mare, small and fearless, his hands gripping the saddle horn with intense concentration.
Beth had stayed at the lodge, claiming she had work to do. But I'd seen the real reason in her eyes when she'd looked at the horses.
*I won't get near the horses.*
Because horses reminded her of their mother. Evelyn Dutton, who'd died in a riding accident when Jack was one year old. Beth had been eleven, old enough to remember, old enough to be traumatized, old enough to develop a phobia she'd never admit to having.
So she'd stayed behind, watching from the porch as we rode out, her expression unreadable.
The ride was peaceful in a way I hadn't expected. Tate chattered constantly, asking questions about everything—why the sky was blue, why cattle were black and white, why his grandpa's horse was bigger than the others.
John answered every question with patience I'd rarely seen from him, his voice gentle, his attention completely focused on his grandson.
Lee rode beside me, and I saw him smiling—genuine, unguarded happiness at seeing the family together like this.
"This is good," he said quietly. "This is what we should be. Not fighting over land or cattle or old grudges. Just... family."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It is."
Jamie rode slightly apart from the group, his attention on the landscape rather than the people. He was a competent rider—all Duttons learned young—but he'd never loved it the way Lee did, never felt at home in the saddle the way Kayce and I did.
Kayce rode near John and Tate, close enough to intervene if necessary but giving his father space to bond with his grandson. I could see the tension in him—wanting this to work, terrified it wouldn't, ready to grab Tate and run at the first sign of trouble.
Rip brought up the rear, quiet and watchful as always. His eyes kept drifting to the lodge behind us, visible in the distance, where Beth was probably pretending to work while actually watching us through the windows.
*Complicated*, I thought. *Everything about this family is complicated.*
We reached the buffalo pasture an hour later—a vast expanse of grassland where the Yellowstone's small herd grazed peacefully. Maybe thirty animals, massive and prehistoric-looking, like remnants of an older America.
"Whoa," Tate breathed, his eyes huge. "They're so big!"
"They are," John said. "Buffalo are the largest land animals in North America. They can weigh up to two thousand pounds."
"That's a lot!"
"It is. Your dad and your uncles have been around these buffalo their whole lives. They're part of the ranch, part of what we protect."
Tate processed this with the seriousness of a three-year-old learning important information. "We protect them?"
"We do. Because they matter. Because they're part of our family too, in a way."
I caught Kayce's expression—surprise, then something like gratitude. John was teaching Tate about the ranch, about legacy, about responsibility. About being a Dutton.
About being *family*.
We watched the buffalo for a while, answering Tate's endless questions, then John suggested we ride down to the creek for fishing.
"Fishing?" Tate's eyes lit up. "I like fishing! Mom takes me fishing!"
"Then you're going to love this creek," Lee said. "Best trout fishing in Montana."
We made our way to the creek that ran through the eastern section of the property—clear water running over smooth stones, cottonwoods providing shade, the kind of idyllic scene that belonged in paintings or memories.
John dismounted carefully with Tate, and Rip produced fishing poles from his saddle bag—he'd apparently planned for this.
"Come on," Lee said to Tate, crouching down. "I'll show you how to cast."
For the next hour, we fished. Or rather, Lee and Kayce taught Tate to fish while the rest of us pretended to fish and mostly just watched.
Tate caught a small trout—more luck than skill—and the joy on his face was pure and unfiltered. Kayce helped him reel it in, grinning with pride, and John took a photo with his phone that I suspected would become his most treasured possession.
Jamie sat slightly apart on a fallen log, watching the scene with complicated emotions playing across his face. He'd never been the outdoor type—preferred law libraries to pastures, courtrooms to cattle—but seeing his brothers together, seeing John interact with Tate, something in him softened.
"This is what we should have been," he said quietly when I sat down next to him. "All of us together. No fighting, no competition, just... brothers."
"We can be that," I said. "Starting now. It's not too late."
"Isn't it?" Jamie gestured at the group. "Look at us, Jack. Lee's the dutiful son who never left. Kayce's the warrior who came back. You're the hero home from war. And I'm..." He paused, struggling. "I'm the adopted one. The one who doesn't quite fit. Who's never quite enough."
"That's bullshit," I said flatly. "You're as much a Dutton as any of us. Blood doesn't make family—choice does. And Dad chose you. That matters."
"Does it? Because sometimes it feels like he chose me as a placeholder. Someone to handle legal matters while his real sons did the important work."
I turned to look at him directly, using Patrick Jane's observational skills to read beneath the surface. Jamie was hurting—had been hurting for years—feeling like he needed to constantly prove his worth, constantly justify his place in a family that had never explicitly said he belonged.
"Jamie," I said quietly. "You saved the ranch yesterday. Beth said you were failing, but I read the legal briefs. You built an airtight case against Paradise Valley Development. The only reason Beth stepped in was because she's impatient and likes feeling powerful. But your work was solid. Dad knows that. We all know that."
"Beth doesn't think so."
"Beth has her own issues that have nothing to do with your competence." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "She's angry at you for something that happened years ago. And until she deals with it, she's going to keep tearing you down. But that's her problem, not yours. You're a damn good lawyer, Jamie. Own it."
He looked at me, surprise evident in his expression. "You really believe that?"
"I really believe that. The family wouldn't survive without you handling the legal side. We'd be buried in lawsuits and regulations and bureaucratic nightmares. You protect the ranch just as much as Lee does with cattle or Kayce does with livestock management. Just in a different way."
"I..." Jamie seemed to struggle with emotion. "Thanks, Jack. I needed to hear that."
"Anytime."
A splash drew our attention back to the creek, where Tate had apparently decided wading was more fun than fishing. Kayce stood at the water's edge, watching his son with the intense focus of a parent who's calculating safety versus fun.
"He's good with him," Jamie observed. "Kayce. He's a good father."
"Yeah, he is." I paused. "Better than he thinks. He's terrified of screwing up, of Tate getting hurt, of not being enough. But that fear makes him careful, attentive. Makes him present in a way Dad never was with us."
"Dad tried," Jamie said, defending our father automatically.
"Dad worked," I corrected gently. "Running this ranch, protecting this legacy—that consumed him. Still does. We got the scraps of his attention when he had time. But Kayce is making Tate the priority, not the afterthought. That's different."
Jamie was quiet for a moment, processing. "Is that why you left? Because you felt like an afterthought?"
"I left because I felt broken," I said honestly. "Weak. Not enough. But yeah, part of it was feeling like I'd never measure up to what Dad needed. Like the ranch would always be more important than I was."
"And now?"
"Now I know that was my insecurity talking, not reality. Dad loves us—loves all of us—he's just terrible at showing it. And the ranch being important doesn't mean we're not. They're not mutually exclusive." I smiled slightly. "Took dying and seven years of war to figure that out, but better late than never."
"You really died?" Jamie asked. "For ninety seconds?"
"Yeah. IED in Syria. Heart stopped. Medic brought me back."
"Jesus, Jack."
"Yeah. It was a thing." I watched Kayce help Tate back onto the creek bank, both of them laughing and soaking wet. "But it taught me something important: life's too short to waste on grudges and insecurity and feeling like you're not enough. You're enough, Jamie. You've always been enough. The only person who doesn't believe that is you."
Jamie studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "When did you become the wise one?"
"When someone gave me a second chance and I decided not to waste it."
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