The bunkhouse sat about a hundred yards from the main lodge—a long, weathered building that had housed ranch hands for generations. It was functional rather than pretty: wood siding that had seen better decades, a porch that sagged slightly in the middle, windows that rattled in strong wind. But it was solid, maintained, and had a character that came from a century of cowboys passing through its doors.
I could hear voices and laughter from inside as I approached, boots crunching on gravel. The morning sun was fully up now, painting everything in that clear Montana light that made even worn buildings look noble.
I was almost to the porch when movement to my left caught my attention.
Two men emerged from around the corner—one I'd recognize anywhere, the other a stranger.
Rip Wheeler stopped dead when he saw me, his expression cycling through surprise, assessment, and something that might have been approval before settling into his usual careful neutrality.
At forty-something, Rip was the Yellowstone's foreman and the closest thing to a second father I'd ever had. He'd been on the ranch since he was a teenager—John had taken him in under circumstances Jack's memories suggested were complicated and violent. Rip had taught me to rope, to ride, to fight, and to understand the unspoken rules of loyalty that governed ranch life.
He was also completely, desperately in love with Beth, though getting either of them to admit it required crowbars and possibly explosives.
"Jack?" Rip's voice was rough, gravelly from years of cigarettes and yelling at ranch hands. "That you or did someone grow a Dutton in a lab?"
"It's me." I grinned, closing the distance. "Hey, Rip."
"Jesus Christ, kid." Rip's eyes traveled up and down, taking in my size with the assessing gaze of someone who'd spent his life evaluating livestock and men. "Army fed you steroids?"
"Just protein and punishment." I stopped in front of him, aware I now had maybe an inch of height on him and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds of muscle. That felt weird. In Jack's memories, Rip had always been the bigger, tougher one. "Rangers don't mess around with PT."
"Rangers," Rip repeated, and something like respect entered his expression. "Heard you made it into special forces. Wasn't sure if it was true or John bragging."
"It's true. Seven years. Just got discharged." I paused. "You weren't here yesterday when I rolled in."
"Yeah, I was out on business." Rip gestured to the younger man beside him, who'd been watching our interaction with wide eyes. "Bringing in fresh meat. Jack Dutton, meet Jimmy Hurdstram."
I turned my attention to Jimmy—early twenties, skinny in a way that suggested hard living rather than genetics, with the kind of nervous energy that came from being perpetually in trouble. He had a deer-in-headlights look that was trying very hard to be tough-guy confidence.
He was also, if I remembered the show correctly, about to have a very rough introduction to ranch life.
"Jimmy," I said, offering my hand. "Welcome to the Yellowstone."
Jimmy took my hand, and I felt him try to squeeze hard—that alpha male bullshit guys do when they meet. I didn't squeeze back, just held firm and steady until he realized he was gripping a hand that felt like it was made of steel cables wrapped in leather.
"Uh, thanks," Jimmy said, releasing my hand and flexing his fingers slightly. "You're, uh... you're big."
"He's a Dutton," Rip said, like that explained everything. Which, on this ranch, it probably did. "And he just spent seven years in the Rangers, so show some respect."
Something in Jimmy's expression shifted—calculation mixed with fear. Patrick Jane's observational skills showed me the tells: dilated pupils, increased swallowing, slight tremor in his hands. This kid was coming down from something. Meth, probably, given his background.
Jack's memories didn't have Jimmy's full story, but Marcus's knowledge of the show did. Jimmy had been cooking meth for dealers, owed money he couldn't pay, and his grandfather had reached out to the Duttons as a last resort. John had sent Rip to collect him.
And based on the way Jimmy kept unconsciously touching his left shoulder, he'd already received the brand.
The Yellowstone brand—a Y connected to the state of Montana's outline, burned into the flesh of ranch hands who'd proven themselves or needed to prove their loyalty. It was old-school, brutal, and binding in ways that had nothing to do with legality and everything to do with honor and consequences.
In the original timeline, Jimmy would struggle, fail, get better, fail again, and eventually become one of the most loyal hands on the ranch. But that journey would be painful for everyone involved.
*Maybe I can help smooth that path*, I thought. *Or at least prevent some of the worst parts.*
"You just get the brand?" I asked Jimmy directly, keeping my voice neutral.
Jimmy's hand went to his shoulder defensively. "Yeah. Yesterday."
"Fresh brand hurts like hell," I said, and saw surprise flicker across his face—like he'd expected judgment, not understanding. "Keep it clean. Don't let it get infected. Rip'll show you how to care for it."
"Already did," Rip said, his tone suggesting he'd had this conversation multiple times. "Now I'm making sure he understands what it means."
"What does it mean?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
Rip's expression went hard. "Means you belong to the Yellowstone now. The ranch comes first. Always. You fail the ranch, you fail all of us. And we don't forgive that."
Jimmy swallowed hard, nodding.
I studied the kid for a moment, seeing past the bravado to the fear underneath. He was in over his head, knew it, and was trying desperately to survive.
"What'd you do before?" I asked him.
"Uh..." Jimmy glanced at Rip, who nodded permission. "Worked some construction. Odd jobs. Nothing steady."
He was lying. Or at least heavily editing. But pushing it wouldn't help.
"Ranch work's different," I said. "Harder than most people think. But if you put in the work, pay attention, and don't bullshit people, you'll be fine. The guys in the bunkhouse will give you shit—that's part of it—but they'll also teach you if you're willing to learn."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Jimmy said.
"I am. I grew up here, but I still had to prove myself. Being a Dutton doesn't mean automatic respect in the bunkhouse. You earn it the same way everyone else does—by doing the work and having your brothers' backs."
Rip was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You got wise in the Army."
"I got older," I corrected. "Wisdom's debatable."
That got a slight smile from him—rare enough to be valuable. "Come on. Lloyd's inside. He'll want to see you."
The three of us headed into the bunkhouse, and I was immediately hit by the smell—leather, coffee, cigarettes, and the particular scent of men who worked hard for a living. It was familiar in a bone-deep way that made Jack's memories surge.
The main room was exactly as I remembered: bunk beds along the walls, a common area with mismatched furniture, a kitchenette that had seen better decades. A few ranch hands were scattered around—some getting ready for the day, some drinking coffee, all of them tough, weathered men who made their living on the land.
Lloyd Pierce looked up from where he was sitting at the scarred wooden table, coffee cup in hand. At sixty-something, Lloyd was the oldest hand on the ranch, weathered and wise and carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of experience.
His face broke into a genuine smile when he saw me. "Well, I'll be damned. Jack Dutton, all grown up and looking like he could wrestle a bull."
"Lloyd." I crossed the room and took his offered hand, feeling the calluses and strength that decades of ranch work built. "Good to see you."
"Good to see you too, son." Lloyd pulled me into a brief, backslapping hug—the kind men gave when they were too manly to admit they missed someone. "Seven years is too damn long."
"Agreed."
"Rangers treated you well, looks like." Lloyd stepped back to assess me properly. "Though you're giving Rip here competition for biggest bastard on the ranch."
"I'm not a bastard," I protested. "I'm well-adjusted and emotionally available."
That got laughs from around the room, and I recognized other faces. Ryan, who'd been there when I left—standing near the window, grinning. Colby Mayfield, originally from Alabama based on the accent I could hear as he bantered with someone. Jake, who'd been mid-level seniority when I was a teenager.
And Fred Morrow.
The name hit me like ice water.
Fred was a newer hire—Jack's memories barely had him—but Marcus's knowledge of the show did. Fred was the ranch hand who would bully Jimmy despite the brand. Rip would beat him for it, then fire him when Fred refused to accept punishment. Lloyd would drive him to what they called the "train station"—a remote canyon at the Wyoming border where the ranch disposed of problems that couldn't be solved legally.
Fred would die there. Shot by Lloyd and dumped in a canyon.
It was murder, pure and simple. Justified in the brutal logic of ranch justice, but murder nonetheless.
And I was looking at him right now—very much alive, mid-thirties, with a mean edge to his expression that Patrick Jane's observational skills immediately flagged as trouble.
Fred was looking at Jimmy with barely concealed contempt, his jaw tight and his posture aggressive.
*This is going to be a problem*, I thought. *Sooner rather than later.*
"Ryan!" I called out, and the younger hand turned, his grin widening.
"Jack! Holy shit, man!" Ryan crossed the room and grabbed me in a hug that was less reserved than Lloyd's. "You're fucking huge!"
"Language," Rip said mildly, though he didn't really care.
"Sorry. You're *freaking* huge." Ryan stepped back, shaking his head. "Dude, you left here looking like a strong wind would knock you over. Now you look like you could stop the wind."
"Exaggerating's still your specialty, I see."
"It's not exaggeration if it's true!" Ryan was genuinely excited—he'd been like an older brother to Jack before the Army, teaching him tricks and defending him from the harder hands. "How long you staying?"
"A month. Maybe longer."
"Seriously?" Ryan's expression lit up. "That's awesome. We can catch up properly. Go to the bar, cause some trouble—"
"Ryan," Rip interrupted. "Jack just got home. Don't corrupt him immediately."
"I've been in war zones," I pointed out. "Pretty sure I'm past corruption."
"War zones, huh?" This came from Colby, who'd wandered over with his distinctive southern drawl. "Rangers?"
"Yeah."
"Damn." Colby offered his hand. "Colby Mayfield. Don't think we met before you left—I hired on about six years ago."
"Jack Dutton." I shook his hand, noting the strength and the calluses. This was a guy who knew actual work. "Originally from Alabama?"
"Birmingham, yeah. Got family in New Mexico too. How'd you know?"
"The accent. Plus you said 'y'all' three times in that one sentence."
That got a laugh. "Guilty. Can't take the South out of the boy, I guess."
Jake wandered over next—older, quieter, but with a nod of respect. "Good to have you back, Jack."
"Good to be back."
Throughout this, I kept peripheral awareness on Fred, who was still staring at Jimmy with that contempt that would eventually boil over. Jimmy, for his part, was trying to look invisible—standing near Rip, staying quiet, clearly hoping to avoid attention.
It wasn't working.
"So," Fred said, his voice cutting through the friendly conversation like a blade. "This is the new guy? The one who needs babysitting?"
The room temperature dropped.
Rip turned slowly, his expression going flat and dangerous. "Got something to say, Fred?"
"Just wondering if we're running a ranch or a daycare." Fred's eyes were on Jimmy, and the contempt was obvious. "Kid looks like a strong wind would break him. What's he gonna do, cry at the cattle?"
Jimmy's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. Smart—he was outnumbered and outmatched in every way that mattered.
"Fred," Lloyd's voice carried warning. "That's enough."
"Is it?" Fred wasn't backing down. "Because I've been here five years, busting my ass, and now we're taking in charity cases? What's next, adopting puppies?"
"He's here because John Dutton said so," Rip said, his voice gone cold and hard. "You got a problem with John's decisions?"
Fred had enough self-preservation to hesitate at that. Going against Rip was dangerous. Going against John's direct orders was suicidal.
But his pride—and probably some underlying insecurity—wouldn't let him back down completely. "I got a problem with dead weight. That's all."
I saw how this would play out. Fred would continue escalating. Rip would eventually beat him. Fred would refuse punishment and get fired. Lloyd would take him to the canyon.
Another death. Another piece of darkness added to this ranch's history.
*Not this time*, I thought.
"Hey, Fred?" I said, my voice casual but carrying across the room.
Everyone turned to look at me.
"Yeah?" Fred's tone was aggressive—he probably thought I was going to defend Jimmy because I was a Dutton.
"Jimmy's a greenhorn," I said. "That's true. He probably doesn't know a lariat from a lasagna right now. Also true."
I saw confusion flicker across faces—where was I going with this?
"But you know what I learned in the Rangers?" I continued, moving closer to Fred with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent seven years in combat zones. "I learned that every specialist, every elite operator, every guy who could shoot a fly off a wall at five hundred yards... all of them started as greenhorns. All of them sucked at first. And all of them got better because someone took the time to teach them instead of just giving them shit."
I stopped directly in front of Fred—close enough that he had to look up slightly to meet my eyes. Patrick Jane's psychological insight showed me exactly what I was dealing with: insecurity masked as aggression, fear of being replaced, need to maintain status in the pecking order.
"So here's what's going to happen," I said, keeping my voice friendly but letting some of Jack Reacher's physical intimidation seep through. "Jimmy's going to work his ass off. You and the other experienced hands are going to teach him, because that's how ranches work—knowledge gets passed down. And if he screws up or doesn't pull his weight, then you can give him shit. But right now? He hasn't even had breakfast yet. So maybe pump the brakes on the hazing until he's at least had coffee."
Fred stared at me, clearly trying to decide if he was being challenged or given an out.
"I'm not saying go easy on him," I added. "I'm saying give him a chance to fail or succeed on his own merits before you write him off. That fair?"
It was Fred's turn to hesitate. Backing down to a Dutton—even the youngest one—wasn't really backing down. It was being smart. And I'd given him a way to save face while de-escalating.
"Fine," Fred said finally. "Kid gets a chance. But when he fucks up—"
"*If* he fucks up," I corrected.
"*If* he fucks up, I get to say I told you so."
"Deal." I offered my hand.
Fred took it, and I felt him try the alpha squeeze again. I didn't engage—just held firm and steady until he released it, probably nursing sore fingers.
The tension in the room didn't disappear, but it shifted. Became manageable.
Rip was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Lloyd looked impressed. Ryan was grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had in weeks.
"Well," Rip said finally. "Glad that's settled. Jimmy, you're with Lloyd and Ryan today. They'll teach you the basics. Try not to kill yourself or any livestock."
"Yes, sir," Jimmy said quietly, relief obvious in his voice.
"Jack," Rip continued, "you're riding out with Lee and me after breakfast. We're checking the fence line by Broken Rock. John thinks some cattle got through."
"Sounds good."
"It won't be," Rip said bluntly. "Situation with the reservation is tense. Tribal police aren't happy about our cattle on their land. It's gonna be delicate."
"I can do delicate."
Rip's eyebrow rose. "You? Delicate?"
"I've negotiated with village elders in Afghanistan who thought we were invading infidels. I think I can handle Montana tribal politics."
"We'll see." But there was approval in Rip's voice.
Lloyd stood, draining his coffee. "Alright, ladies, breakfast is in ten minutes. Anyone not at the main house gets leftovers. Jimmy, with me. I'll show you where you're bunking and get you set up."
As people started moving, preparing for the day, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Rip, looking at me with something that might have been paternal pride.
"That was well done," he said quietly. "With Fred. You defused it without making him lose face."
"Learned from the best," I said, and meant it. Rip had taught me that strength wasn't just physical—it was knowing when to use it and when to use words instead.
"Still," Rip said, his voice dropping lower. "Keep an eye on Fred. He's got a mean streak. I've been watching it. He's gonna be a problem eventually."
*I know*, I thought. *In another timeline, he's already dead for it.*
"I'll watch him," I promised.
Rip nodded, satisfied, and headed out.
I was about to follow when Ryan grabbed my arm. "Dude, that was badass. You just made Fred back down without even threatening him."
"I didn't make him back down. I gave him an exit ramp."
"Potato, potato." Ryan grinned. "Anyway, seriously, we need to catch up. I want to hear about the Rangers. And you need to hear about the insanity that's been happening here while you were gone."
"Insanity?"
"Dude, so much. Land disputes, Dan Jenkins trying to develop property, the whole Broken Rock situation getting worse, Beth becoming even more terrifying in the business world—it's been wild."
I thought about everything I knew from the show. The violence, the deaths, the escalating conflicts that would tear this family and this ranch apart.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I bet it has been."
We headed out toward the main lodge, the morning sun painting everything gold. Ranch hands were moving with purpose now—feeding animals, checking equipment, preparing for another day of hard work.
This was the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch. Beautiful, brutal, and balanced on a knife's edge between tradition and destruction.
I had knowledge of what was coming. I had the abilities to change it.
Now I just had to figure out how to prevent a war while keeping my family alive.
Starting with a fence line inspection that could end with my brother getting shot.
No pressure.
---
The main lodge's dining room was already filling up when I arrived with Ryan and the other hands. The long wooden table that could seat twenty was set with mismatched plates and cups—functional rather than fancy, because this was a working ranch where form followed function and aesthetics were for people who didn't have cattle to feed.
Gator—real name unknown, at least to Jack's memories—was already laying out food with the efficient movements of someone who'd been cooking for ranch hands for decades. He was maybe sixty, built like a fire hydrant, with a face that suggested he'd been angry since birth and saw no reason to change now.
He was also, despite his perpetual scowl, one of the best cooks in Montana.
The smell hit me as soon as I walked in: bacon, eggs, biscuits, gravy, hash browns, and coffee strong enough to strip paint. My stomach growled appreciatively—Jack Reacher's metabolism combined with seven years of Ranger PT meant I could eat an alarming amount of food and still be hungry an hour later.
"Jack Dutton," Gator said without looking up from the stove, his voice gravelly. "Heard you came home looking like you ate a small village. Hope you're still hungry, because I made enough food to feed a platoon."
"I could eat a horse," I admitted, grabbing a plate.
"Don't let Kayce hear you say that. He's got opinions about horses."
The mention of Kayce made the room shift slightly—everyone was aware of the family tension, even if nobody talked about it directly.
I loaded my plate with enough food to feed three normal people: six eggs, a pile of bacon, hash browns, four biscuits with gravy, and a side of fruit that was probably Gator's concession to nutrition. Grabbed a mug of coffee that looked thick enough to stand a spoon in.
John was already seated at the head of the table—because of course he was, patriarchs didn't miss breakfast—reading something on his phone with his reading glasses perched on his nose. The fresh stitches in his forehead looked angry in the morning light.
Lee sat to his right, already working through his own substantial breakfast. Beth had apparently gone to her office—she'd mentioned terrorizing banks and energy companies, which probably started early.
Jamie was notably absent, likely already in Helena dealing with legal matters.
I took a seat across from Lee, and John glanced up briefly, gave me a nod of acknowledgment, then went back to his phone.
Lloyd, Rip, Ryan, and several other hands filed in and took their places. The hierarchy was subtle but present—Rip sat closest to John after Lee, Lloyd next, then the rest in rough order of seniority and importance.
Fred came in last, pointedly sitting as far from where Jimmy would sit as possible. Jimmy himself entered nervously, clearly uncertain of the protocol, until Lloyd gestured him to an empty seat near Ryan.
"Eat," Gator commanded, setting down a final platter. "I didn't cook all this food for it to get cold while you jackasses make small talk."
Nobody argued with Gator. When a man controlled your food supply, he controlled your life.
For several minutes, the only sound was eating and the occasional request to pass something. Ranch breakfast wasn't a social hour—it was fuel for hard work, consumed efficiently so people could get on with their day.
But eventually, as plates emptied and coffee was refilled, conversation started.
"Jack," John said, setting down his phone. "Lee tells me you want to ride out with him today. Check the fence line by Broken Rock."
"Yes, sir. If that's alright."
"It's your ranch too," John said, which was probably the closest he'd come to saying *I'm glad you're home and want to help*. "Just don't start any trouble with the tribal police."
"I'll be a perfect diplomat," I promised.
Lee snorted into his coffee. "You were never a diplomat. You were the kid who got in a fistfight because someone kicked a dog."
"The dog didn't deserve it," I said reasonably. "And I won that fight."
"You were twelve and he was sixteen."
"Still won."
Rip made a sound that might have been amusement. "Kid had fire. Surprised you let him leave for the Army, John."
"Couldn't stop him," John said, and there was something complicated in his voice. "He was going to leave one way or another. At least the Rangers gave him structure."
It was the most John Dutton would ever say about feelings—a simple acknowledgment that he'd known Jack needed to go and had let him, even though it hurt.
"The Rangers gave me a lot of things," I said. "But they didn't give me this." I gestured at the table, the ranch, the family. "Took leaving to appreciate what I had."
John met my eyes, and something passed between us. Understanding, maybe. Respect.
"Well," Lloyd said, breaking the moment with practiced ease, "if you're riding out today, we better make sure you remember how to sit a horse. Been seven years. You might've forgotten which end bites."
"The front end," I said. "I remember that much."
"Smart ass," Lloyd muttered, but he was grinning.
Ryan leaned forward, his expression mischievous. "Hey, Jack, remember that time you tried to ride Thunder and he threw you into the water trough?"
"I was fourteen and Thunder was an asshole."
"Thunder was a perfectly good horse," John said mildly. "You just had terrible technique."
"I had great technique! He was just vindictive!"
"Horses aren't vindictive," Lee said. "They're honest. If Thunder threw you, it's because you deserved it."
The table erupted in laughter—even Fred cracked a slight smile—and I felt something warm settle in my chest. This was family. Complicated, frustrating, occasionally infuriating, but *family*. The kind that gave you shit and had your back in equal measure.
Jack's memories were full of moments like this: breakfast table conversations that were half insult, half affection, entirely genuine.
Marcus Chen had never had this. His family had been small, distant, and lost early. But Jack Dutton had this—a table full of people who cared, even when they showed it by roasting you over past embarrassments.
"Alright," Gator announced, starting to clear plates. "You all ate like locusts. Now get out of my dining room so I can clean up."
"Thanks, Gator," multiple voices chorused.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't thank me, just don't waste the food next time. I saw you, Ryan—three biscuits left on your plate."
"I was full!"
"Should've taken less, then. That's wasted flour and my time."
Ryan grabbed the biscuits and shoved one in his mouth immediately, cheeks bulging. "Happy now?"
"Moderately less angry," Gator conceded.
As everyone stood and started heading out, John caught my arm. "Jack. A word."
Lee and Rip exchanged glances but kept moving, giving us privacy.
Once the room cleared, John turned to face me fully. The patriarch of the Yellowstone, looking at his youngest son with an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral and failing.
"You meant what you said?" John asked. "About staying a month?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you're going to see Kayce."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes, sir. He's my brother. I've been gone seven years. I'm not going to waste more time pretending that rift doesn't exist."
John's jaw tightened. "That rift exists because he chose—"
"He chose his wife," I interrupted gently. "His family. That's not betrayal, Dad. That's life."
"Don't interrupt me," John said, but there wasn't much heat in it.
"Then don't say things that are wrong."
We stared at each other for a long moment. John Dutton was used to people backing down, deferring to his authority, accepting his decisions as law. But I wasn't seventeen anymore. And I'd spent seven years in an organization where you could disagree with your CO if you did it respectfully and had good reasons.
Finally, John sighed—a sound that came from somewhere deep and tired. "You really have changed."
"I grew up."
"Yeah." He studied me, and I saw the calculations happening behind his eyes. "When you see Kayce, don't... don't make promises about fixing things. Between him and me. Some things are too broken."
"Nothing's too broken if people want to fix it," I said. "But I'm not going to push. I'm just going to talk to my brother. That's all."
John nodded slowly, then did something that surprised me—he reached out and gripped my shoulder. Brief, firm, the kind of touch that meant things he'd never say out loud.
"Good to have you home, son."
Then he was gone, heading out to whatever crisis required his attention today.
I stood there for a moment, processing.
Marcus Chen's father had died when Marcus was two. Jack Dutton's father was difficult, demanding, and emotionally constipated.
But he was *here*. He was *trying*, in his limited John Dutton way.
That mattered.
---
The barn was a symphony of familiar sounds and smells: horses moving in stalls, leather creaking, hay rustling, the low conversations of ranch hands preparing for the day's work.
I found Lee already there, saddling his horse with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been doing it since he could walk.
"Ready to remember how to ride?" Lee asked without looking up.
"I never forgot how to ride."
"Seven years is a long time. Horses can tell when you're rusty."
"Good thing I'm not rusty, then."
Lee grinned. "We'll see. Lloyd picked out a horse for you. Said to tell you it's 'spirited.'"
"Lloyd's idea of spirited usually means 'will try to kill you.'"
"Probably."
I found Lloyd in one of the stalls, brushing down a horse that made me stop and stare.
The gelding was a gorgeous buckskin—golden coat with black points, standing maybe sixteen hands, with intelligent eyes and an attitude that radiated from across the barn. He was watching me with the kind of assessment that horses did, trying to figure out if I was friend, foe, or idiot.
"This is Sundance," Lloyd said, running the brush along the horse's flank. "Been here about three years. Good horse. Strong, smart, doesn't spook easy. But he's got opinions about who rides him."
"Opinions," I repeated.
"He threw the last two guys who tried. Rip's the only one who can ride him consistently." Lloyd patted the horse's neck affectionately. "Figured you could handle him, though. You always were good with difficult animals."
I approached slowly, letting Sundance see me, assess me. John Wick's tactical awareness was screaming that this was a thousand-pound animal that could kill me if it wanted to, but Jack's memories and Reacher's physicality gave me confidence.
Horses responded to confidence.
"Hey, Sundance," I said quietly, offering my hand for him to sniff. "I'm Jack. We're going to be friends, you and me. Or at least temporary business partners."
Sundance's ears flicked forward, considering. He sniffed my hand, huffed warm breath across my palm, then—to my surprise—lowered his head and leaned into me slightly.
Horse language for *I'll tolerate you*.
Lloyd made an approving sound. "Well, I'll be damned. He usually makes people work harder for it."
"I've got a way with difficult personalities," I said, stroking Sundance's neck. "Ask Beth."
I spent the next few minutes getting reacquainted with tacking up a horse—muscle memory from sixteen years of ranch life combined with Jack Reacher's physical coordination made it smooth despite the seven-year gap. Saddle blanket, saddle, cinch tight but not too tight, bridle on gently because horses had sensitive mouths.
Sundance tolerated it all with the air of someone accepting an inevitable inconvenience.
"Let's see if you remember how to mount," Lloyd said, clearly enjoying this.
I put my foot in the stirrup and swung up smoothly—maybe too smoothly, because Sundance immediately danced sideways, testing me.
I adjusted my seat, found my center of gravity, and used my legs to communicate *I know what I'm doing, settle down*.
Sundance considered rebellion, decided against it, and settled.
"Huh," Lloyd said. "Maybe you didn't forget everything."
"Told you."
Lee rode up on his horse—a solid bay mare named Dakota—and assessed my seat with a critical eye. "You look like you never left."
"Some things you don't forget."
Rip emerged from the barn on his own horse—a big sorrel gelding that matched his personality perfectly: strong, reliable, and dangerous if provoked.
"We ready?" Rip asked.
"Ready," Lee confirmed.
"Then let's ride. Those fences won't check themselves."
The three of us headed out, horses moving with the easy rhythm of animals that knew their job. The morning sun was warm, the air clear, and the mountains looked like something from a postcard.
Patrick Jane's observational skills noted everything: the way Lee sat his horse (tired, but competent), the way Rip constantly scanned the horizon (always vigilant), the way the land itself seemed to breathe with life.
This was Montana. This was the Yellowstone. This was worth protecting.
"So," Lee said as we rode toward the Broken Rock boundary. "You really think you can help with the tribal situation?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know that fighting over cattle that wandered through a fence is stupid. There has to be a better solution than escalation."
"Tell that to the tribal police," Rip said. "They're tired of our cattle on their land. Can't say I blame them."
"Then we fix the fences," I said. "Make sure the cattle can't get through."
"We've fixed the fences," Lee said, frustration in his voice. "They keep finding ways through. It's like they're deliberately trying to cause problems."
"Cattle aren't that smart," I pointed out.
"No," Rip agreed. "But people are. And there's people who'd benefit from conflict between the Duttons and Broken Rock."
Dan Jenkins. In the original timeline, he'd be one of the main antagonists, trying to develop land adjacent to the ranch. Stirring up trouble would serve his purposes.
"Then we don't give them the satisfaction," I said. "We handle this professionally, calmly, and we don't escalate."
Lee and Rip exchanged glances.
"You really did grow up," Rip said finally.
"Had to eventually."
We rode in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself just *be* in the moment. The feel of Sundance beneath me—powerful and responsive. The creak of leather. The vast Montana sky above. The knowledge that I was home, with family, doing something that mattered.
Marcus Chen had never had this. Had never felt this kind of belonging.
But Jack Dutton had it. And I was going to fight to keep it.
Even if that meant changing a timeline and preventing deaths and facing down threats that the original Jack Dutton had never seen coming.
In the distance, I could see the boundary fence approaching. And beyond it, Broken Rock Reservation land.
Where, if the timeline held, we'd encounter Robert Long and tribal police.
Where, if the timeline held, tensions would escalate.
Where, if the timeline held, my brother Lee would die in a few days.
*Not this time*, I thought fiercely. *This time, we do it different.*
Sundance felt my tension and huffed, ears flicking back in question.
"Easy," I murmured. "We've got this."
The horse settled, trusting me.
Now I just had to make sure that trust was justified.
---
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!