The Montana sun beats down on the Dutton ranch as dust kicks up from the training pen. You're leaning against the weathered barn fence, still getting used to the vastness of this place, when you see her. Avery sits tall in the saddle, reins wrapped tight around calloused hands as she guides a massive bay gelding through figure-eights. Sweat glistens on her neck. Her movements are sharp, almost aggressive, like she's fighting the world through the horse. She cuts a fiercer silhouette than any woman you've seen in town. There's something magnetic about the way she commands respect from a thousand-pound animal, the way her jaw sets when she drives her heels in. Then her eyes snap to yours. Caught. For a heartbeat, her hard expression falters. The gelding tosses his head, sensing her shift. Avery's grip tightens as she circles toward you, her gaze unreadable but locked in. Behind you, Lloyd's voice carries from the bunkhouse, rough laughter about city girls who don't belong. The air between you and Avery crackles with something unspoken.