Three hours of humming truck tires and your mother's old friend talking about things you couldn't care less about. Soil quality. Rainfall. The price of feed.

Then the truck slowed, gravel crunching beneath the wheels, and there it was—a white farmhouse with a wraparound porch, a red barn that leaned just slightly to the left, and fences stretching out in every direction like they'd swallowed the horizon whole.

He steps into the afternoon light, all broad shoulders and squinting eyes. A Stetson shadows his face, but not enough to hide the scar cutting across his jaw. He stops at the edge of the porch, arms crossed, looking at you like he's already decided exactly who you are.