Meanwhile, in Montana
Jamie Dutton stood before the Land Development Commission in the Montana State Capitol building, looking every inch the polished attorney in his tailored suit. At thirty-six, he'd spent years perfecting this version of himself—educated, articulate, legitimate. Everything his adoptive father valued but rarely acknowledged.
"Madam Chairwoman," Jamie addressed Governor Lynelle Perry directly, his voice carrying the careful modulation of someone who'd learned to command rooms through words rather than presence. "The plaintiff's petition fundamentally misunderstands both the legal precedent and the practical reality of this case."
He gestured to the presentation materials without looking at them—he'd memorized every detail, as always. "Land preservation and property rights don't simply take precedence over public expansion. They *are* the foundation of Montana law. The Yellowstone Dutton Ranch has operated continuously for over a hundred and forty years. It represents not just private property, but a working agricultural enterprise that employs dozens of Montana families and contributes substantially to the state's economy."
Alan Keene, the plaintiff—a developer from Bozeman with ambitions larger than his understanding of local politics—shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Jamie pressed his advantage. "The petition requests thirty thousand acres for residential development. That's not preservation of existing communities. That's speculative real estate development disguised as public interest. There's a significant legal distinction."
Governor Perry leaned forward slightly, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp. She'd been Montana's governor for two terms and had dealt with the Duttons—and their lawyer son—more times than she probably cared to count.
"Mr. Keene," she said, turning to the plaintiff. "Your petition argues public need. Can you demonstrate actual need versus projected desire?"
Keene stood, smoothing his tie. "Governor Perry, commissioners, the population growth in Bozeman and surrounding areas—"
"Demonstrates desire for housing in desirable locations," Perry interrupted. "Not demonstrated need that supersedes existing property rights. Mr. Dutton is correct about the legal precedent here."
Jamie kept his expression professionally neutral, but inside he felt the familiar satisfaction of a well-argued case reaching its inevitable conclusion.
Perry looked around the commission table. "Unless any commissioner has questions that would substantially change the legal framework we're operating under?"
Silence.
"Then I'm dismissing this petition without putting it to a vote." She struck her gavel once, decisive. "The plaintiff has not demonstrated sufficient public need to justify condemnation proceedings against the Yellowstone Ranch property. This commission is adjourned."
Jamie gathered his materials with practiced efficiency, already mentally moving to his next task. He had three briefs to review tonight and a conference call about water rights in the morning.
"Mr. Dutton."
He turned to find Alan Keene approaching, and something about the man's expression made Jamie's instincts prickle. Too friendly. Too casual for someone who'd just lost.
"It's only thirty thousand acres," Keene said, spreading his hands in a reasonable gesture. "That's what, maybe five percent of your family's holdings? Less?"
"The size of the request doesn't change the legal principle," Jamie replied evenly.
"Sure, sure. Legal principle." Keene moved closer, lowering his voice like they were collaborating rather than opposing. "But between you and me? There's money in this. Real money. Your family could harvest all the timber first—we wouldn't need an environmental review if it's done before the sale. That's millions in logging rights alone, then millions more for the land."
Jamie felt his jaw tighten. "Mr. Keene, I'm going to give you some free legal advice. First, what you just suggested would constitute environmental fraud. Second, attempting to bribe an attorney during active proceedings is a remarkably stupid move. Third, you fundamentally misunderstand what the Yellowstone Ranch means to my family."
"It's just land—"
"It's *our* land." Jamie's voice went cold in a way that would have made his father proud, though John Dutton would never say so. "If Bozeman needs housing development, build up instead of out. Condos. High-density housing. Use the land you already have more efficiently instead of trying to take what isn't yours."
He turned and walked away before Keene could respond, his footsteps echoing in the marble hallway.
His phone buzzed. A text from Sheriff Haskell: *John was in an accident. He's okay. Jack's home.*
Jamie stopped walking.
Read the message again.
*Jack's home.*
His youngest brother. The one who'd left at seventeen—angry, restless, desperate to prove he was more than just another Dutton—and joined the Army Rangers. Seven years of sporadic phone calls and occasional letters. Seven years of John pretending he wasn't worried while clearly being worried.
And now he was just... home?
Jamie called Haskell immediately. "Sheriff, it's Jamie Dutton. What happened?"
"Accident on Highway 89. Big rig jackknifed, took out some other vehicles. Your dad's fine—head laceration, possible mild concussion, but he refused the hospital. Jack showed up right after it happened, apparently just riding through. Patched John up, gave a damn comprehensive witness statement. Kid's observant as hell."
"Kid?" Jamie almost laughed. "Jack's twenty-four."
"Yeah, well, he looks about thirty-five and like he could benchpress my cruiser. Army did him good. Or maybe did us good—he handled that scene like a professional."
Jamie processed this. His baby brother—the scrawny teenager who'd been all knees and elbows and defiant anger—had come home built like a tank?
"Thanks, Sheriff. I'm heading back now."
He was already walking to his car, mentally rearranging his schedule. The briefs could wait. The conference call could be rescheduled.
Jack was home.
---
Elsewhere in Montana, on a drilling site that technically wasn't supposed to have livestock anywhere near it, Kayce Dutton sat on his horse and surveyed the situation with the calm of someone who'd faced down significantly more dangerous problems than a herd of wild horses.
"You're not seriously going in there," one of the IL Energy drillers called out, incredulous. "There's like twenty horses, man. And that stallion's mean as hell."
Kayce adjusted his hat, his movements economical in the way of someone who'd spent equal time as a cowboy and a Navy SEAL. At twenty-eight, he'd done enough living for two lifetimes—ranch work, military service, a marriage his father still hadn't fully accepted, a son he'd die to protect.
"Twenty-two horses," Kayce corrected. "And he's not mean. He's protective. Difference."
"Protective of what?"
"His herd." Kayce urged his mount forward. "You drill here, you drive them off. He's trying to keep his family together. Makes sense to me."
"This is insane," another driller muttered.
"Nah," the first one said, pulling out the crumpled Yellow Pages ad they'd found. "This is the guy. 'Kayce Dutton, problem horses, no job too difficult.' We called him because nothing else worked. Let's see if he's as good as advertised."
Kayce ignored them. His focus narrowed to the stallion—a magnificent bay with a white blaze, standing between the approaching human and his mares. The horse's body language screamed challenge: ears back, head high, ready to fight.
"Easy," Kayce called out, not to the horse but to the universe in general. His voice carried across the drilling site, calm and steady. "Not here to hurt your family. Just here to move you somewhere safer."
The stallion snorted, pawing the ground.
Kayce kept approaching, slow and deliberate, reading the animal's body language like he'd learned to read enemy combatants during SEAL training. Threat assessment. Behavioral patterns. Finding the angle that worked.
"You get him out, the rest follow?" one of the drillers asked, skeptical but hopeful.
"That's the idea," Kayce confirmed. "Course, you could also just not drill here. Let them stay. This is their land too."
"Yeah, well, take that up with management."
Kayce's jaw tightened but he didn't respond. He'd learned a long time ago that some battles you couldn't win with words.
The stallion charged.
Kayce moved with the fluid precision of someone who'd trained in close-quarters combat and applied those same principles to horsemanship. He didn't meet the charge head-on or retreat—he angled his mount, redirecting the stallion's aggression, establishing that he wasn't prey but wasn't a threat either.
"Holy shit," one of the drillers whispered.
The dance continued—stallion testing, Kayce responding, the language of dominance and respect playing out without words. Finally, the stallion slowed, breathing hard, and Kayce eased his lasso into position.
One throw. Clean. Around the neck.
"And that's how you do it," Kayce said quietly, already leading the stallion toward his trailer as the rest of the herd, confused but obedient, began to follow.
---
In a gleaming conference room in Missoula, Beth Dutton sat at a table that probably cost more than most people's cars and radiated the kind of controlled violence that made grown men nervous.
At thirty-four, Beth had perfected the art of being exactly what her father needed in the business world and exactly what made everyone else uncomfortable. She was brilliant, ruthless, and had absolutely no patience for incompetence or weakness.
"You've had three hours," she said, her voice cutting through the tension in the room like a knife through butter. "Three hours of negotiation with my colleagues, who are very nice people. Patient people. I am neither of those things."
The founder of IL Energy—a man in his fifties who'd clearly come into this meeting thinking his charm and industry connections would carry the day—shifted uncomfortably. "Ms. Dutton, I think there's been a misunderstanding about our financial position—"
"There's been no misunderstanding." Beth leaned forward, and everyone in the room seemed to lean back instinctively. "Your company is leveraged to the hilt. Your expansion into Montana was financed almost entirely through my bank. You're bleeding cash, your dividend is unsustainable, and your management has made a series of spectacularly stupid decisions."
She slid a folder across the table. "Here's what's going to happen. You have two options. Option one: we force you into bankruptcy, and I promise you, I will enjoy every second of dismantling what you built. Option two: you suspend the dividend immediately, allow my bank to assume management oversight, and maybe—*maybe*—you get to keep your company."
"That's—that's not—"
"Those are your options," Beth interrupted. "And you have approximately thirty seconds to choose before I make the decision for you."
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it—text from Sheriff Haskell: *John's okay but was in an accident. Jack's home.*
Beth's expression didn't change, but something sharpened in her eyes. Her baby brother. Home.
"Twenty seconds," she said to the IL Energy founder, her attention snapping back with laser focus.
"We'll... we'll take option two."
"Smart." Beth stood, gathering her materials. "Paperwork will be ready by tomorrow morning. My assistant will send over the details. Don't make me regret giving you a choice."
She was out the door before anyone could respond, already dialing her assistant. "Clear my afternoon schedule. Family emergency."
"Is everything alright?"
"Define alright," Beth said, but she was smiling slightly. "My baby brother just came home from the Army. That's either going to be the best thing that's happened to this family in years or the most chaotic. Either way, I need to be there."
---
Back at Broken Rock Reservation, Kayce pulled his truck and trailer into his driveway, the stallion thrashing inside the trailer hard enough to make the whole rig rock.
"Easy!" he called out, though he knew the horse couldn't understand the words, only the tone. "We're here. You're okay."
Monica Dutton—Long, technically, since Kayce had taken her last name when they married on the reservation, though he still went by Dutton most places—came out of their small house with their son Tate on her hip. She was beautiful in the way that made Kayce's chest tight every time he saw her: dark hair, intelligent eyes, and a strength that had nothing to do with physical power.
"You actually caught him," she said, impressed despite herself.
"Told you I would." Kayce grinned as he backed the trailer up to their corral. "Help me get him out?"
"I'll watch." Monica stepped back with Tate. "That horse looks like he wants to kill something."
"He just wants his freedom back." Kayce opened the trailer carefully, ready to move fast. "Can't blame him for that."
The stallion exploded out of the trailer in a blur of muscle and fury, immediately putting distance between himself and the humans. He raced around the corral, testing the fence line, head high.
"He's beautiful," Monica said softly.
"Yeah." Kayce watched the animal with something like kinship. "He is."
Robert Long, Monica's brother, approached from where he'd been working on his truck. He and Kayce had a complicated relationship—respect mixed with resentment, family ties strained by cultural differences and old grudges.
"Got him out, huh?" Robert said.
"Yup."
"You free tomorrow?"
Kayce glanced at Monica, then back to Robert. "Depends. What for?"
"Tribal business. Bring a horse."
The way he said it made clear this wasn't a request, and Monica's expression suggested she wasn't happy about whatever this tribal business entailed.
"I'll let you know," Kayce said carefully.
Robert nodded and walked away, the conversation clearly over from his perspective.
"Don't go," Monica said once her brother was out of earshot.
"Mon—"
"Whatever he's planning, it's going to cause problems. You know it. I know it."
Kayce pulled her close, Tate between them. "I know. But he's family. Your family."
"You're my family," Monica countered. "You and Tate. Not whatever political point Robert's trying to make."
Before Kayce could respond, Monica's expression shifted. "Oh. Sheriff Haskell called."
Kayce went still. "What'd he want?"
"Your dad was in an accident. He's okay," she added quickly, seeing Kayce's reaction. "Head injury, not serious. But Kayce..." She paused. "Jack's home."
Kayce blinked. Processed. "Jack. My baby brother Jack?"
"Unless you have another brother I don't know about."
"Huh." Kayce turned back to look at the stallion, still racing around the corral, trying to find an escape that didn't exist. "Seven years. Didn't think he'd come back."
"Are you going to see him?"
"Eventually." Kayce's jaw tightened. "Dad and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."
"Because you married me."
"Because Dad's stubborn and can't accept that I made my own choice." Kayce kissed the top of her head. "Best choice I ever made."
Monica leaned into him, but her eyes were worried. The Dutton family dynamics were complicated on the best days, and she'd been the catalyst for at least some of that complication.
In his corral, the stallion finally stopped running, sides heaving, and turned to stare at Kayce with wild, intelligent eyes.
"I know how you feel," Kayce told the horse quietly. "Trapped between where you came from and where you are now. Trying to protect what matters."
The stallion snorted, unimpressed by the philosophy.
"Yeah," Kayce agreed. "It's bullshit. But it's what we've got."
He turned back to the house, his wife, his son—the family he'd chosen over the family he'd been born into.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, curiosity stirred. Jack was home. The little brother who'd worshipped him growing up. The kid who'd left angry and alone.
Seven years was a long time. People changed.
Kayce had changed.
Maybe Jack had too.
—
The Yellowstone Dutton Ranch appeared on the horizon like something out of a postcard—or a TV show I'd binge-watched during countless sleepless nights as Marcus Chen. Rolling pastures stretched toward mountain ranges that looked like they'd been painted onto the sky. Cattle dotted the landscape. The main lodge sat prominent and proud, backed by barns and bunkhouses that had weathered over a century of Montana seasons.
It was exactly as I remembered—both from Jack's memories and from watching *Yellowstone* on a crappy laptop screen while my broken heart struggled to keep me alive.
The knowledge overlay was disorienting. I *knew* this place from living here for sixteen years. I also knew it from watching fictional versions of the people I now called family navigate increasingly violent conflicts over land, power, and legacy.
The Fat Bob's engine rumbled between my legs as I followed John's truck down the long dirt driveway, the sound announcing our arrival like a war drum.
Workers looked up from their tasks. I recognized faces—Lloyd Pierce, weathered and reliable, currently mending a fence. Ryan, one of the younger ranch hands, hauling hay. A few others whose names existed in Jack's memories.
Lloyd straightened, squinted at the motorcycle, then did a visible double-take when he recognized the rider.
I pulled up next to John's truck at the main lodge and killed the engine. In the sudden silence, I could hear cattle lowing in the distance and the wind moving through the pines.
John climbed out of his truck slower than usual, and I noticed him wince when he turned his head. Definitely concussed. The butterfly bandages I'd applied were already showing blood seepage.
"You need stitches," I said, swinging off the bike.
"I need a drink and my own bed."
"You need stitches, then a drink, then your own bed." I pulled my medical kit from the saddlebag. "In that order. Don't make me call Beth and tell her you're being stubborn about a head injury."
John actually looked alarmed at that threat. "You wouldn't."
"I have her number." I held up my phone. "In my recent contacts. She's number two, right after you. Wanna test me?"
We had a brief staring contest—the kind fathers and sons have been having since the dawn of time. John broke first, probably because his head was pounding and he knew I was right.
"Fine," he muttered. "But you're doing it. I'm not driving to town for something you can handle."
"Fair enough." I gestured toward the house. "Inside. Good light. Proper equipment."
As we headed for the door, Lloyd called out, "That you, Jack?"
I turned, grinning. "Hey, Lloyd. Yeah, it's me."
"Holy hell, kid." Lloyd approached, his weathered face breaking into a smile that made something warm settle in my chest—Jack's memories of this man teaching him to rope, to ride, to be a cowboy, mixing with Marcus's appreciation for good people. "You grew some."
"Army fed me decent."
"Army turned you into a damn grizzly bear." Lloyd looked me up and down, shaking his head with what might have been pride. "Good to have you home, son."
"Good to be home."
The sentiment was more true than I'd expected. Marcus Chen had never really had a home—just a cramped apartment and a dying body. Jack Dutton had this: land, legacy, people who genuinely cared.
Inside the lodge, I directed John to sit at the kitchen table while I washed my hands and laid out supplies with the efficiency of someone who'd patched up wounded soldiers under fire.
"You do this a lot in the Rangers?" John asked, watching me work.
"More than I'd have liked." I examined the head wound more carefully now that we had proper light. "Seen worse, though. This'll take maybe eight stitches. You want local anesthetic or are you going to tough it out like the stubborn cowboy you are?"
"Just do it."
"Stubborn cowboy it is." I threaded the needle with practiced ease. Patrick Jane's observational skills combined with seven years of Jack's Ranger medical training made my hands steady and sure. "This is going to hurt."
"I've had worse."
"So you keep saying." I began stitching, my movements precise. John didn't flinch. "You know, most people at least wince."
"Most people aren't Montana ranchers."
"Fair point."
We fell into silence—comfortable in a way that surprised me. Marcus Chen had never known his father; the man had died when Marcus was two. Jack Dutton had this: a complicated, distant, occasionally frustrating relationship with a man who showed love through actions rather than words.
"The driver at the crash," I said quietly, focusing on the stitches. "He said to tell you it wasn't his fault. Brake failure. Said management cut maintenance budgets."
John's jaw tightened. "Paradise Valley Capital Development."
"You know them?"
"Unfortunately." He paused. "I know what you're thinking."
"What am I thinking?"
"That I should let it go. That it was an accident. That pursuing it would be vindictive."
I tied off another stitch. "Actually, I was thinking you should pursue it legally through Jamie, document everything, and make sure they're held accountable so it doesn't happen to someone else. But I'm curious what made you think I'd say to let it go."
John turned his head slightly to look at me—which I immediately corrected by gently but firmly turning it back. "Don't move. And you thought I'd be that forgiving because...?"
"Because you were always the gentle one," John said quietly. "Even when you were angry, even when you left, you were never cruel. Lee's the dutiful son. Jamie's the ambitious one. Kayce's the warrior. Beth's the weapon. But you... you were always the one who wanted to fix things, not break them."
I finished the last stitch and tied it off before responding. "Maybe I still am. But that doesn't mean letting people get away with negligence that kills. There's a difference between forgiveness and accountability."
"When did you get wise?"
"Somewhere between Syria and here." I applied butterfly bandages over the stitches and stepped back to examine my work. "That'll hold. Keep it clean and dry. If you develop severe headache, confusion, or vision problems, you're going to the hospital whether you like it or not."
"Yes, doctor."
"Close enough." I started packing up the medical supplies. "So. Should I brace myself for Beth's arrival, or does she do a slow, terrifying approach?"
John actually smiled—a real one, not his usual slight smirk. "She's been texting me every five minutes since Haskell called her. She'll be here within the hour, driving too fast and ready to either hug you or hit you."
"Both, probably."
"Probably."
The sound of vehicles approaching made us both turn toward the windows. I recognized Jamie's car—sleek, professional, exactly what an attorney would drive.
"That'll be Jamie," John said unnecessarily.
I felt Jack's memories surge—complicated feelings about his adopted brother. Jealousy that Jamie always tried so hard to earn John's approval. Resentment that Jamie sometimes acted superior. But also genuine affection for the brother who'd helped teach him to read, who'd defended him from bullies, who'd always been there even when they didn't understand each other.
The Marcus part of me also knew how Jamie's story would unfold if I didn't change things. The revelation about his parentage. The spiral. The choices that would destroy him.
*Not on my watch*, I thought.
Jamie came through the door still in his suit, lawyer-mode barely concealing his curiosity. He stopped dead when he saw me.
"Jack?"
"Hey, Jamie."
We stared at each other for a long moment. Jamie was thirty-six, polished and professional, looking every inch the successful attorney. I was twenty-four, built like a tank, and probably radiating seven years of military bearing.
"You're... bigger," Jamie said finally.
"Army fed me. People keep saying that." I grinned. "You're balder."
"I'm not—" Jamie stopped, ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, which was definitely thinning at the temples. "That's just genetics."
"Uh-huh."
John watched us with something that might have been amusement. "Jamie, stop fussing about your hair. Jack, stop antagonizing your brother."
"He started it," I said.
"I did not—" Jamie stopped, hearing how childish that sounded, and actually smiled. A real one. "It's good to see you, Jack. Really."
"You too." And I meant it.
The moment broke when another vehicle roared up the driveway—this one moving fast enough to kick up a dramatic dust cloud. A silver SUV that I recognized from Jack's memories and from the show.
"That's Beth," I said unnecessarily.
"Brace yourself," John advised.
The SUV barely stopped before the driver's door flew open and Beth Dutton emerged like a force of nature given human form.
Beth at thirty-four was exactly as I remembered from both Jack's memories and the show—blonde, beautiful, and radiating the kind of controlled chaos that made smart people nervous. She wore business clothes that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, and her eyes locked onto me with laser focus.
"Oh my God," she said, striding toward the house with purpose. "My baby brother came home built like a superhero and nobody thought to send me a picture?"
She burst through the door, and I barely had time to turn before she threw herself at me in a hug that would have knocked over a smaller man.
"Beth—" I managed, automatically steadying both of us. She was taller than I expected—or I was still adjusting to being six-five—but she still had to reach up to wrap her arms around my neck.
"Shut up," she said into my shoulder. "I'm having a moment."
I hugged her back carefully, aware of the Reacher strength I now possessed. Beth was fierce and dangerous and had been Jack's primary defender growing up. She'd scared off bullies, threatened teachers who were unfair, and made it clear that anyone who hurt her baby brother would pay dearly.
After a long moment, she pulled back to look at me properly, her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Look at you," she said, her voice rough with emotion she'd never admit to. "You left here a skinny kid, and you came back... what the hell did the Army do to you?"
"Rangers," I corrected. "They fed me, trained me, and sent me home in one piece. More or less."
Her eyes sharpened. "More or less?"
"Honorable discharge for injury," John supplied. "Shoulder wound. Healed but not at Ranger standards."
Beth's expression went dangerous. "Someone hurt you?"
"IED in Syria," I said quickly. "Not personal. Just bad luck and explosive devices."
"I'll kill whoever planted it."
"Pretty sure they're already dead," I said. "Or several countries away and not worth your time."
"Everything involving you is worth my time." She squeezed my shoulders, then seemed to actually process my size. "Jesus Christ, Jack. How much do you weigh?"
"Two-fifty, give or take."
"Of what, pure muscle?" She poked my chest experimentally. "Are you even real? Did the Army give you steroids?"
"Nope. Just really good genetics"—I gestured at John, who was six-three and built solid—"and seven years of Ranger PT."
"PT?"
"Physical training. We ran. A lot. With heavy things."
Beth finally released me and turned to examine John, her eyes immediately finding the fresh stitches. "Dad. What the hell happened?"
"Accident on Highway 89," John said. "I'm fine."
"You have stitches in your head."
"Jack did them. He's handy with a needle."
"You let Jack give you stitches instead of going to the hospital?" Beth rounded on me. "And you let him?"
"I offered the hospital," I said. "He threatened to disown me. We compromised."
"That's not a compromise!"
"He's also possibly concussed," I added helpfully. "But I've been monitoring him and he's showing no signs of serious trauma. If that changes, I'm dragging him to the ER myself."
Beth stared at me. "You're different."
"Seven years will do that."
"No, I mean..." She studied me with the intensity she probably used on boardroom opponents. "You're calmer. More settled. Like you figured something out."
I thought about Marcus Chen dying in the rain. About ROB and impossible second chances. About having the abilities of three fictional characters and the knowledge of how this world's story was supposed to unfold.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess I did."
Jamie cleared his throat. "So now that we're all home and Beth hasn't killed anyone, maybe we should talk about the elephant in the room?"
"Which elephant?" Beth asked. "There are usually several."
"Kayce," Jamie said quietly.
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
I felt Jack's memories surge—his closest brother in age, the one he'd looked up to, the one who'd left to marry Monica Long and had been estranged from John ever since.
"What about Kayce?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
"He's going to want to see you," Jamie said. "Probably. But things with Dad are..."
"Complicated," John finished, his voice hard. "He made his choice when he married that woman."
"Her name is Monica," I said quietly. "And she's his wife. The mother of his child. Your grandson."
Everyone turned to stare at me.
John's expression went dangerous. "You've been home for two hours and you're already taking sides?"
"I'm not taking sides," I met his eyes steadily. "I'm stating facts. Kayce married Monica. They have a son. That's reality, whether you accept it or not."
"He turned his back on this family—"
"He chose his own family," I interrupted. Something about having Patrick Jane's understanding of human psychology and Marcus Chen's perspective on wasted time made me less willing to let this fester. "That's not the same thing. And you know it."
The silence stretched taut.
Finally, John stood. "I'm going to check on the ranch. Beth, make sure your brother doesn't do anything stupid while he's home."
"Which brother?" Beth asked dryly.
"Take your pick." John headed for the door, stopped, turned back. "Jack. It's good to have you home. Even if you're going to be a pain in my ass about Kayce."
The door closed behind him.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"Well," Jamie said into the silence. "That went better than expected."
"Better?" I asked.
"He didn't yell," Beth supplied. "That's basically a warm welcome in Dutton family dynamics." She moved to the kitchen, opening cabinets with the familiarity of someone who'd lived here. "Someone want to tell me why my baby brother came home as the voice of reason? That was supposed to be Jamie's job."
"I resent that," Jamie said without heat.
"You resent everything." Beth found the whiskey—expensive stuff that John kept for special occasions—and poured three glasses. "But Jack's right. The Kayce situation is ridiculous. Dad's being stubborn."
"Dad's always stubborn," Jamie pointed out.
"True." She handed us both glasses. "But this is different. He's cutting off his own son over a marriage that's actually solid. Monica's good for Kayce. The kid—Tate—deserves to know his grandfather. It's stupid pride at this point."
I sipped the whiskey, feeling Jack's memories of family dinners and arguments, mixed with Marcus's knowledge of how this family drama would escalate if left unchecked. In the show, these rifts deepened. People died. Relationships shattered beyond repair.
*Not this time*, I thought. *I can change this.*
"I'm going to see Kayce tomorrow," I said. "Before I head to LA."
Both Beth and Jamie turned to stare at me.
"LA?" Beth asked.
"Yeah. I'm joining the LAPD. That was always the plan—come home for a visit, then head west and start academy training."
Beth's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, concern, resignation. "Of course you are. Because being a Dutton wasn't dangerous enough, you want to be a cop too."
"I want to help people," I said simply. "The Rangers taught me I'm good at that. LAPD needs good cops. Seemed like a natural fit."
"You're twenty-four," Jamie pointed out. "Most people starting police academy are younger."
"Most people didn't spend seven years as Army Rangers," I countered. "I've got leadership experience, tactical training, and a psychology degree from Jack's online courses during deployment. I'm exactly what they're looking for."
That was true—Jack Dutton had spent his downtime between missions taking online psychology courses, partly to understand his teammates better, partly because he found human behavior fascinating. It had given him a bachelor's degree and a lot of insight.
Combined with Patrick Jane's observational abilities, I was going to be a hell of an analyst.
Beth downed her whiskey in one swallow. "Fine. You're going to LA to be a cop. But first, you're staying here at least a week. Spending time with family. Letting me feed you proper meals. And if you even think about leaving without a proper goodbye, I will hunt you down."
"Deal."
"Good." She poured herself another drink. "Now. Tell me about the Army. And don't skip the interesting parts."
So I did. I told them about Ranger training, about deployments, about the brothers-in-arms I'd served with. I carefully edited out the parts about Marcus Chen and ROB and having the abilities of fictional characters.
Some secrets were better kept.
Outside, the sun started its descent toward the mountains, painting the ranch in gold and amber light. Through the window, I could see ranch hands finishing their work, cattle settling for the evening, the timeless rhythm of a working ranch continuing as it had for generations.
I was home.
And tomorrow, I'd start changing the story.
One conversation at a time.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!