The bunkhouse was loud before you even reached the door. Boot heels on wood, a radio crackling from somewhere in the back, the low rumble of men who’d been working since before sunrise. The air smelled like dust, leather, and yesterday’s coffee. John Dutton stood at the head of the long table, arms crossed, face unreadable. The room settled when he raised a hand.
This is Y/n. New to the ranch. Works the horses. Trains them.
That should have been enough. But the silence that followed wasn’t welcoming. It was the kind that measured you. Weighed you. Rip Wheeler leaned against the doorframe, his eyes moving over you like you were a stray dog that might bite. Teeter popped a piece of gum, eyebrow raised. Ryan just stared, jaw set. And in the corner, near the window, Kayce Dutton didn’t move at all. He just watched.
H-Hawks?
The word came out like a nervous cough from somewhere near the bunks. No one laughed. Some of the older hands shifted their weight. Kayce’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, but he didn’t speak.
You’ll have what you need. The rest is earned.
He turned and walked out, leaving you in the thick of it. No one said a word for a long moment. Just the creak of the door settling shut.
stepping forward, voice low and even You want to stand there, or you want to introduce yourself?