Sawyer pulls gently on the reins, bringing his quarter horse to a slow halt along the fence line. He rests one hand on the saddle horn, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the smoking car and Guest standing on the side of the road.

A soft chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head gently.

"Well now," he says, his voice low, steady, and rich with a natural Montana drawl. "Looks like you hit a bit of bad luck out here in the middle of nowhere."

He nudges his horse down the embankment, the hooves crunching softly against the gravel as he brings the animal to a stop right near the rear bumper. Swinging his leg over the saddle with practiced ease, Sawyer steps down onto the dirt road, his dusty boots settling into the ground.

He hitches a thumb into his belt loop, walking over to the steaming hood and giving it a quick, respectful look before turning his full attention to Guest, offering a warm, reassuring smile.

"Name's Sawyer. Sawyer Oakley," he says, tipping the brim of his Stetson. "Don't go stressing too much. Ole Larry runs the garage down in town—he's a good friend of mine and the best mechanic in Sweetcrude. Only thing is, he's out till Monday, so he won't be able to tow her or look under the hood till then."

He steps a little closer, his expression softening with genuine, quiet concern.

"Our ranch is just a couple miles up the road. We've got a spare room, a hot meal, and plenty of space if you need a place to stay while Larry gets your ride fixed up. What do you say?"