#john dutton fluff

Getting out of the airport car with my suitcase I paid the driver and thanked him for the ride before I made my way towards the front entrance of the bar hoping to get a drink and some directions as to where the nearest place to stay is. Anyone could see that I wasn’t from around here, not by my clothes but by the way I kept looking around because I was unsure of where things were or worked.

Heading up to the bar I dragged my suitcase up beside an empty barstool before laying my arms on the bar top getting the bartenders attention. “Excuse me, could you give me directions to the nearest hotel. I just came from the airport and so I’m not sure where to go.”

“Well unfortunately for you there’s not many hotels out here. The hotels and such are directly by the airport not out here.” The bartender explained to me and I covered my face in my hands embarrassed that I didn’t think of that.

“Oh crap. What am I going to do now?”

Footsteps approached the bar from behind where I heard an older man’s voice. “Rough day, miss?”

“You could say that.” Reaching for the handle of my suitcase I started to move backwards so he could make his way up to the bar and order a drink.

Yet that isn't what happens next. He gestures his arm forward to the empty barstool I was previously sitting on. “Ladies first, ma'am.” The man looked to be in his 60s and was wearing a tan cowboy hat that went with his black vest that had “Yellowstone Dutton Ranch” written off to the side of it on the front of his chest.

“Oh, no. I'm not ordering anything, sir. I was just looking for directions to the nearest hotel but apparently my chances of finding somewhere to stay out here are zero.”

The older man stepped up closer to me, waving at the bartender over ordering a drink for himself. “Can I get a bourbon and whatever the lady is having-“

“Uh - I’ll take a Whisky.” Nodding my head in the direction of the cowboy I smiled as the bartender walked away to get our drinks. “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”

“No apology necessary. I’m John, John Dutton.”

Shaking his hand that he held out to me. “Y/n L/n. It’s nice to meet you, John.”

“I haven’t seen you around here before. Where are you from if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m from Georgia. I work as a nurse downtown but took some time off and this seemed like a good place to relax for a few weeks. What’s your story, cowboy?” The bartender came back over, giving us our drinks. I raised my glass up to my lips taking a long sip.

John was taking a long sip of his own drink. “Born and raised here. My family and I own a seven generation cattle ranch called the Yellowstone.”

“That’s interesting. It must be pretty special if it’s been in your family for that long.” Taking another drink from my glass I focused my gaze back to him. I wasn’t sure what it was about him but I found him interesting despite our age difference. This man was in his 60s and I was in my 30s.

I loved my job as a nurse don’t get me wrong. But there are some days where I see some horrible events more than good ones like a new baby being born. I just needed to take some time away from it all to figure out if I wanted to still work downtown or move to work in a smaller town environment. This trip was meant to be a quiet reset, a chance to breathe. Now, it was turning into an unexpected adventure.

“Special enough to fight for,” John murmured, his eyes holding a depth that suggested stories I couldn’t even begin to imagine. He took another slow swig of his bourbon. “So, no hotel, huh? You’re a long way from Georgia, Y/n, to be stranded out here.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “I guess I figured any town would have a motel. Clearly, I didn’t do my research properly. Now I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” I gestured vaguely at my suitcase, feeling the weight of it, both literally and metaphorically.

John leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive tone that sent a shiver down my spine. “Well, I might have a solution for you. We’ve got plenty of guest rooms at the ranch. You’d be welcome to stay there tonight, or for as long as you need. No charge, of course. Consider it Montana hospitality.”

My jaw nearly dropped. Stay at his ranch? The legendary Yellowstone? A complete stranger, offering me a place to stay. It was either incredibly chivalrous or incredibly reckless. My nurse training screamed ‘danger, stranger!’ but something else – a thrill, an instinct, perhaps a touch of whiskey confidence – whispered ‘adventure, Y/n. This is what you came for.’

“Are you serious?” I asked, my voice a little too high.

He merely offered a small, knowing smile.

“I don’t make offers I don’t mean, Y/n.”

I weighed my options. A questionable night in a rental car, or a potential murder situation at a ranch with a man whose eyes held more secrets than the Montana mountains. Given his age and the way he carried himself, there was an unspoken authority that made me feel… safe, oddly enough. Or perhaps, simply intrigued. The risk was there, but so was the lure of the unknown.

“I… I don’t know what to say. That’s incredibly generous, John. Are you sure?”

“Positive. Now, finish your drink. It’s a bit of a drive.” He pushed himself from the barstool, a man accustomed to leading.

Before I knew it, I was following John out of the dimly lit bar, my suitcase dragging behind me. The cool night air hit me, a refreshing slap to my decision-making. He led me to a formidable-looking black pickup truck, polished even in the low light. My suitcase was tossed into the bed with surprising ease, and I climbed into the passenger seat, the leather worn smooth but still smelling faintly of horses and dust.

The drive was long, silent for the most part, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional click of John’s turn signal. The landscape blurred into dark shapes, interrupted by the occasional glow of a distant farmhouse or the piercing eyes of an animal caught in the headlights. I snuck glances at John. His profile was chiseled, a roadmap of a life lived hard and purposefully. He held the steering wheel with a relaxed grip, utterly at ease in his domain.

“So, a nurse, huh?” he finally broke the silence, his voice low. “Dealing with folks at their worst, often enough.”

“Yes,” I sighed, looking out at the vast, star-peppered sky. “It can be draining. You see a lot of pain, a lot of suffering. Sometimes the good days make it worth it, but the bad ones… they stick with you.”

“I understand that,” he said, his voice laced with an unexpected empathy. “Running a ranch this size, you see plenty of pain too. Animal and man. But you learn to live with it, or you don’t last.”

We pulled up to a grand, imposing log mansion, lights glowing softly from its many windows. It was even more magnificent than I’d imagined, a symbol of old money and enduring power. This wasn’t just a ranch house; it was a fortress. “Welcome to the Yellowstone,” John said, cutting the engine.

Inside, the house was both rustic and luxurious, filled with taxidermy, dark wood, and a sense of history. He showed me to a spacious guest room, complete with an antique four-poster bed and a private bathroom. “Make yourself at home, Y/n. Breakfast is usually around six. Or whenever you roll out of bed.”

“Thank you, John. Really. This is… more than I could have hoped for.” He gave me a direct, unreadable look. “Plenty of room. Get some rest.”

The next few days were a blur of new experiences. I met a few of the ranch hands, mostly stoic, weathered men who eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Beth, John’s sharp-tongued daughter, was a force of nature, initially sizing me up with a predatory gaze, but eventually seeming to accept my presence, perhaps even finding a strange amusement in it. Kayce, his son, was quieter, watchful. And Rip, his foreman, was a man of few words but intense presence, a shadow to John’s sun.

I spent my days exploring, sometimes on foot, sometimes with John driving me around in his truck, explaining the lay of the land, the challenges of ranching, the ongoing wars with developers and the Reservation. He spoke with passion about his land, his legacy, his burdens. I, in turn, found myself opening up about my life in Georgia, the suffocating routine, the quiet longing for something more.

Our evenings were spent together, primarily, after the other Duttons had retired or gone their own ways. We’d sit in his study, a glass of whiskey for him, occasionally one for me, and talk. Or sometimes, we wouldn’t talk much at all, just sitting in comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound. I watched him, captivated by the way the firelight danced in his steel-blue eyes, the way his strong hands gripped his glass, the way his mind seemed to churn with thoughts beyond my comprehension. He was a force of nature, a mountain of a man, and I, a soft, city-dwelling nurse, found myself inexplicably drawn to his raw, untamed power.

He was different with me than he was with anyone else. With his family, he was demanding, often harsh, his love a tough, unyielding thing. With his ranch hands, he was the unquestioned authority, their loyalty earned through years of shared hardship. But with me, there was a gentleness, a subtle attentiveness that surprised me. He’d ask about my day, listen intently, offer quiet advice. He seemed to see me, truly see me, in a way no one had in a long time.

One evening, after a particularly long day where he’d taken me out to watch the wranglers work, we were back in his study. The fire was dying down, casting long shadows across the room. I felt a pleasant weariness, a deep contentment I hadn’t known in years. I watched him, mesmerized, as he stood by the window, looking out into the vast darkness.

“It’s beautiful out here, John,” I said softly, breaking the silence. “So different from anything I’ve ever known.”

He turned, the faint light catching the lines etched around his eyes. “It’s unforgiving, too. Takes a certain kind of person to make a life here.”

“And you’re that kind of person,” I mused, taking a sip of my cooling whiskey. “Strong, resilient… untouchable.”

He walked towards me, his boots making soft thuds on the oriental rug. He stopped just a few feet away, his gaze falling to my lips, then back to my eyes. The air in the room crackled, thick with unspoken longing. “No one’s truly untouchable, Y/n,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. “Everyone has their weaknesses. Their needs.”

My breath hitched. My heart began to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I felt a heat spread through my body, a yearning I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge. I knew what he was implying, what I was feeling. It was reckless, foolish even, given the circumstances, the age difference, the sheer magnitude of who he was. But I couldn’t deny the pull. He reached out, his large hand gently cupping my jaw. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, sending a jolt of electricity through me. His eyes, in the dim light, were darker, more intense than I’d ever seen them.

“You came here looking for something, didn’t you, nurse?” he murmured, his voice laced with a possessiveness that simultaneously thrilled and slightly intimidated me. “A break. A different life. Maybe… something else entirely.”

I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Maybe,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His lips met mine in a slow, deliberate press. There was no rush, no hesitation, just a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of bourbon and something ancient. His hand moved from my face to the back of my neck, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. My hands, almost instinctively, found purchase on his strong, broad shoulders, gripping the rough fabric of his shirt.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue a warm, demanding presence, and I responded without thought, my own tongue meeting his, exploring, urging him on. He shifted, stepping between my legs, pressing my hips against his, and I felt the hard evidence of his desire. A soft gasp escaped my lips as his hand slid down my back, settling at the curve of my ass, pulling me even tighter against him.

“Y/n,” he whispered against my lips, a rough growl that sent shivers down my spine. He broke the kiss, just enough to look at me, his eyes burning with an unspoken question, a challenge. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, John,” I breathed, my voice thick with wanting. “More than sure.”

His lips found mine again, harder this time, more urgent. We made our way from the study and into his bedroom once he pushed open the door to his own bedroom, a vast space dominated by a massive, intricately carved bed. He set me down gently, but his eyes never left mine, raw desire burning in their depths. His hands went to the buttons of my shirt, slowly, deliberately, undoing each one, his gaze never wavering from my face. I watched him, mesmerized, my own fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

The clothes fell away, piece by piece, until we stood bare before each other in the soft light of the moon filtering through the window. He was a powerfully built man, his body still lean and strong despite his age, a testament to a life of hard labor and unwavering will. His scars told stories only he knew, and I found myself tracing the faint lines on his chest with my fingertips, a silent question.

He pulled me against him, skin to skin, and the shock of his warmth, his rough masculinity against my softer form, was intoxicating. His lips found my neck, tracing a path down to my collarbone, eliciting soft moans from my throat. His hands roamed over my curves, exploring every inch, making me arch into his touch until we reached our end.

We lay there for a long time, the only sounds our ragged breaths and the distant hoot of an owl. His weight on me was comforting, grounding. He lifted his head, propping himself on an elbow, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. There was a vulnerability there, a softness I hadn’t seen before, quickly replaced by his usual stoicism.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. He rolled off me, pulling the covers over us.

Parking my truck next to this barn, I sighed, closing my notebook and putting it in my bag, heading towards the building. Peaking my head inside the door, I think I got the right address my friend Monica sent me since I told her I needed a place to stay for a few weeks to get inspiration for the book I'm working on. There's a horse saddled in the barn so I slowly walked up climbing on which causes the horse to suddenly bolt out of the barn and towards the field. Gripping the reins I screamed struggling to stay on as he races finally throwing me off his back. Rolling on the ground I groaned holding my ankle of my right leg. "Well that couldn't have gone any better." I mumbled to myself before someone raced past me riding their horse a lot easier than I did moments ago.

The rider chased after the horse, throwing their rope over its neck, allowing them to gently grab the reins and lead the other horse back in my direction. Tucking hair behind my ear, I blushed, seeing it was an older looking cowboy than I expected. But he was still attractive. He dismounted his horse, tipping his black hat down at me. "Never in my life did I think someone would just saddle my horse and think they can ride him like I can. Care to explain why you did that, darling?" Running my fingers through my hair, I sighed heavily, feeling really embarrassed now. "Sir, I'm sorry. Look, I thought that my friend Monica saddled him for me. Since she knew I was coming here for a few weeks to hopefully get ideas for my next book. But again, I'm so sorry, Mr Um.."

"John Dutton, ma'am. Let's get you back to the house. It was a simple mistake so I ain't mad at you." He extended his right hand to me, so I put my hand in his, but when he tugs me to stand my right ankle gives out and I stumbled into his chest. He wrapped his arms around my waist, helping me to stand, noticing my ankle was injured. "Woah, I've got you. Looks like you twisted an ankle when you fell. Come on, ride on my horse with me." He helped me back onto the horse he was riding, and we made it back to the house where he put the horses up in the barn. John came back handing me an ice pack that I put on my ankle moving over so he could sit on the swing beside me. "I'm Y/n, by the way... thanks for the save...this place is beautiful. It's almost like the scenery I am writing in my book."

John removed his hat, sitting it on his lap, staring at me where I turned my head, looking into his eyes softly. My heart skipped a beat feeling comfortable around him even though we hadn't even known each other for a day. "Forgive me for being sudden Y/n, but would you like to get a drink with me tonight?" He asked nervously, playing with his hat in his lap. I smiled, leaning forward and kissing his cheek, causing him to blush red. "Uh...what is your book about if you don't mind asking?" Gripping the ice pack, I felt a little shy since what happened today might have just given me the inspiration I needed. "Well, John, I wasn't really sure until now. Would you be open to me writing it about you and your ranch?" John placed his hand on mine softly, placing his cowboy hat on my head smiling. "As long as you write the truth and consider letting me take you on a date. I'll be happy." Monica was right that coming here was a good idea.

The Yellowstone ranch has always been more than just a job for me; it’s been a sanctuary, a purpose, a relentless grind that roots you to the earth and demands everything you have. For the past two years, it’s also been the stage for the most confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying relationship of my life. With John Dutton.

I remember my first day, a scrawny kid from out of state, desperate for work and drawn by the sheer scale of the place. John Dutton had looked me up and down, a hard glint in his eyes, and simply said, "Can you work?" I said yes, and I hadn't stopped since. I started in the stables, then moved to general ranch hand duties, proving I could ride as hard and work as long as any man on the place. I earned my keep, and more importantly, I earned a modicum of respect from the most intimidating man I’d ever met.

Our 'arrangement,' as I’d carefully labeled it in my head, started subtly. A shared late-night coffee in the kitchen after a long day rounding up strays. A quiet dinner when everyone else had gone to the bunkhouse or scattered. His hand lingering a little too long on my arm when he was giving instructions. It progressed from there, slow and steady like the Yellowstone River in winter, until one night, after a particularly grueling branding day, he simply looked at me, weary but with an unfamiliar softness, and said, "Stay." I stayed.

It was never spoken of, not between us, not to anyone else. It was an unspoken understanding, a quiet comfort shared between two people who lived lives of relentless public scrutiny and private solitude. I told myself it was casual. It had to be. John Dutton was the patriarch of the Dutton empire, a man who carried the weight of generations on his shoulders, a man whose life was dictated by land and legacy. What could I, Y/N L/N, a ranch hand, possibly mean to him beyond a temporary distraction, a warm body in the vast, empty Dutton house?

I’d rationalized it a thousand times over: He’s lonely. He needs companionship. He trusts me. He sees me as competent, dependable. All plausible reasons that conveniently sidestepped the inconvenient truth that had been gnawing at my insides for months: I was irrevocably, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with him.

It was a dangerous kind of love, the kind that took root in the harsh Yellowstone soil and blossomed despite the thorns. I loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he genuinely smiled, a rare and precious sight. I loved the calloused strength of his hands, the way they felt around mine. I loved his quiet determination, his fierce loyalty to this land and his family, even his stubborn, old-school ways. I loved how he’d sometimes watch me from across a corral, a strange, unreadable expression on his face, making my stomach flip.

But I never let on. I was careful. Too careful. I kept my distance, maintained my professionalism during the day, and in the quiet hours after the sun dipped below the mountains, I let myself revel in the solace of his presence, the warmth of his bed, the rare, almost imperceptible tenderness he afforded me. I meticulously built a wall around my heart, brick by brick, labeled “casual” in bold letters, convinced that if I ever let the truth of my feelings show, the entire fragile structure would collapse, and I’d lose even the sliver of him I had.

He’d never said anything to suggest he felt more. No grand declarations, no whispered sweet nothings. He wasn't that kind of man. His affections were shown in actions: a shared cup of coffee in the dawn light, a firm hand on my shoulder after a hard fall, a silent nod of approval that meant more than any praise. I clung to these small gestures, interpreting them as validation of our "arrangement," never daring to hope they meant love.

The day it all shattered was like any other day on the ranch. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and horse manure. We’d been moving cattle since before sunrise, and the dust hung heavy in the air. I was tired, grimy, and ready for a hot shower and a cold beer. As I walked back towards the main house from the tack room, pulling off my work gloves, I heard voices from the porch. John and Rip.

Their conversations were usually terse, punctuated by long silences and unspoken understandings. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but their voices carried, and as I approached the steps, a particular phrase snagged my attention, making me freeze in my tracks.

“She’s good for you, John,” Rip said, his voice lower than usual, almost gentle. “I ain’t seen you like this in… well, a long time.”

My heart hitched. She? Were they talking about me? No, probably some new mare, or a deal. My mind scrambled for an alternative explanation.

“She is good,” John rumbled, his voice gravelly. “Damn good.” There was a pause, then a sigh that sounded weary but also… contented. “She’s the only damn thing that makes sense anymore, Rip.”

My breath caught in my throat. I pressed myself against the side of the house, hidden by a large juniper bush, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew they weren’t talking about a horse now.

“You gonna tell her that?” Rip asked, a hint of something like exasperation in his tone.

Another long silence. The distant lowing of cattle, the rustle of leaves in the wind. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed.

Then, John’s voice, lower now, almost a whisper, laced with a vulnerability I’d never heard from him before. “What’s there to tell? She knows what this is.”

Rip scoffed. “She thinks it’s casual, John. She’s too damn proud and too damn scared to think otherwise. She thinks you’re just… enjoying the scenery.”

My blood ran cold. He knows. Rip knows. And he thinks I think it’s casual. Oh God.

“She’s a smart woman, Rip,” John retorted, a hint of his usual gruffness returning, but it lacked its usual conviction. “She knows I ain’t one for… for poetry.”

“It ain’t poetry you need, John. It’s honesty,” Rip pushed, clearly unafraid to challenge his boss in private moments. “You gonna let her keep thinking you don’t feel for her? You gonna let her walk away when she finally gets tired of waiting for somethin’ you’re too damn stubborn to give her?”

The tension in the air was palpable. I could almost feel John’s internal struggle, the fight between his ingrained stoicism and whatever Rip was trying to extract from him.

Then, a frustrated grunt, followed by words that hit me like a physical blow, stripping away every single one of my carefully constructed defenses.

“Damn it, Rip,” John practically growled, but there was an unmistakable raw edge to it. “What do you want me to say? That I love her? That I’m terrified to lose her? That she’s the best damn thing that’s happened to me since… since my wife died?”

The world tilted on its axis. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. My knees felt weak. He said it. He said it. He loves me.

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the frantic drumming of my own heart. Rip didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. John had said it. The most guarded man I knew, the man who showed emotion through actions rather than words, had just laid bare his deepest fear and his most profound feeling, to Rip. And I, against all odds, had heard it.

I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t face them. Not now. Not when every fiber of my being was screaming, reeling from the revelation. I backed away slowly, carefully, not wanting to make a sound. I ducked into the shadows, took a circuitous route back to my cabin, my mind a storm of disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

Once inside, I leaned against the door, trembling. He loves me. All this time, I’d been so sure I was the only one. So convinced that I was clinging to a casual fling, bracing myself for the inevitable end. And he… he loved me. He was terrified to lose me.

Every shared meal, every quiet touch, every lingering glance suddenly rewound in my mind, replaying with new meaning. The way he’d hold my hand under the table, fleetingly, as if it was a secret only ours. The way he’d look at me across the vastness of the dining room, a warmth in his eyes I’d dismissed as a trick of the light. The mornings he’d wake before me, just to sit and watch me sleep, or brew coffee and bring it to my bedside. I’d seen these as signs of comfort, of companionship. Not love. Not love.

I sank onto my cot, burying my face in my hands. The tears came, hot and fast, a mix of profound relief, overwhelming joy, and a ridiculous amount of self-reproach. How could I have been so blind? So determined to protect myself that I’d entirely misread the man I loved? He wasn’t cold; he was private. He wasn’t uncaring; he was cautious. And I, with my own fears, had perfectly mirrored his.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I avoided the main house, claiming exhaustion. I ate a cold sandwich in my cabin, my mind racing. What now? Do I confront him? Do I pretend I didn’t hear? How do I look him in the eye and pretend nothing has changed, when everything has?

The next morning, I woke before dawn, the silence of the ranch pressing in on me. I had to face him. I had to know. My stomach churned with a potent mixture of dread and anticipation.

I found him in the barn, already saddling his horse, the scent of leather and hay hanging heavy in the air. Rip was there too, tightening a cinch on his own mount, casting a quick, knowing glance my way as I entered. My cheeks heated. He knows I know. Or he suspects.

John turned, his eyes, dark and impenetrable as ever, met mine. “Morning, Y/N. Got a long day. Cattle need moving up to the north pasture.” His voice was his usual gruff, authoritative tone, no hint of the vulnerability I’d overheard.

Taking a deep breath, I walked towards him, my heart hammering. "John," I started, my voice lower than I intended.

He paused, stilling his movements. Rip, sensing the shift, quietly led his horse out of the barn, leaving us alone.

"What is it, Y/N?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "I… I heard you yesterday, John."

His expression didn't change immediately, then a subtle flicker passed over his face – surprise, quickly masked by a familiar guardedness. His jaw tensed. "Heard what?" he asked, his voice flat.

"You and Rip," I clarified, my voice barely a whisper. "On the porch."

He sighed, a deep, weary sound. He ran a hand over his face, then looked at me, his gaze searching. "Damn it, Y/N." Not anger, not even resignation. Just… fatigue.

"You said… you said you were afraid to lose me," I continued, pushing past my fear. "You said… you love me." The words felt foreign on my tongue, powerful and fragile all at once.

He didn't deny it. He just looked away, then back at me, his eyes holding a depth of emotion I’d never dared to hope for. "Wasn't supposed to be for your ears," he finally said, his voice rough.

"Why not?" I asked, a tremor in my voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the barn floor. He reached out, his calloused hand gently cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed my skin, sending shivers down my spine. "Because I'm not good at it, Y/N. Not good at... this. And because I didn't want to scare you away." His eyes, normally so unyielding, held a vulnerability that mirrored my own. "I thought... I thought you knew. I thought you felt it too. I thought you understood that this wasn't casual for me."

My eyes welled up. "I thought it was," I confessed, the 'casual' label finally crumbling to dust. "I thought… you were John Dutton. And I was just… me. A ranch hand. I was so scared to feel more, to want more, because I thought you didn’t. I thought I’d lose the little bit of you I had."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, softening the hard lines around his mouth. "You're not 'just' anything, Y/N," he murmured, his thumb still tracing patterns on my cheek. "You're more than enough. You always have been." His gaze intensified. "And I don't want to lose you either. Not to your fears, and not to mine."

He pulled me gently against him, his arms wrapping around my waist, his strong scent of leather, horse, and that indefinable John Dutton smell enveloping me. I buried my face in his chest, clutching his shirt, the warmth of his body a profound comfort.

"So," I whispered, my voice muffled against his shirt. "What is this, then?"

He held me tighter. "This, Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble against my ear, "is everything. It's home. It's family. It's… a future." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes, his grip firm. "It's love. And it's real. No more pretending, you hear me?"

A joyful, tearful laugh escaped me. "I hear you, John."

He leaned down, and his lips met mine, a kiss that was both gentle and fierce, a silent promise of everything we’d both been too afraid to acknowledge. It wasn’t a casual kiss. It was a kiss that sealed a bond, a love forged in the rough, beautiful landscape of Yellowstone, a love that had bloomed in the quiet corners of a ranch house, finally brought into the light. And for the first time, not just at the ranch, but in my life, I felt truly, irrevocably at home.

Tags [ @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @pear-1206 @child-of-of-the-sunshine

The Yellowstone. It was in my blood as much as it was in the Duttons'. My family had worked the land alongside them for generations, though our name wasn't etched on the deed. My cousin, Jake, was one of the wranglers, a good man with a strong back and an even stronger loyalty to John Dutton. That connection, however tenuous, was enough to pull me into the orbit of the Yellowstone, a place of breathtaking beauty and simmering danger.

I knew John Dutton. Everyone around here did. He was a force of nature, a man carved from the very mountains that surrounded us. He was intimidating, gruff, and carried a weight of responsibility that seemed to age him beyond his years. But I also saw the glimmers of something else, a deep-seated love for his land and a fierce protectiveness over his family.

My proximity to the ranch, and therefore to John, had always been a careful dance. I respected his space, his power. But I also found myself drawn to him, to the quiet strength that radiated from him, the unspoken sadness that seemed to cling to him like the Montana dust.

I often helped Jake with odd jobs around the ranch. Mending fences, tending to the horses, anything to keep the Yellowstone running. It was honest work, and it kept me close to the land I loved.

One crisp autumn afternoon, I was helping Jake sort cattle near the river. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The Yellowstone River, swollen from recent rains, roared past, its icy currents a constant reminder of the wildness that defined this place.

Suddenly, I saw John and Tate, his grandson, riding along the riverbank. Tate, a small boy with bright eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair, was perched in front of John on his saddle. They were laughing, the sound echoing across the water. It was a rare moment of lightness, a glimpse of the man beneath the hardened exterior.

Then, it happened. In a heartbeat, laughter turned to chaos.

Tate, reaching for something – a leaf, a bird, I couldn’t tell – lost his balance and tumbled headfirst into the raging river. The world seemed to slow down. I saw John’s face, a mask of horror, his hands instinctively reaching out, but it was too late. Tate was gone, swallowed by the churning water.

My mind went blank. I didn't think, I just reacted. I saw John’s hesitation, the split-second of shock that held him frozen. He was an older man, and the river was a beast.

Without a second thought, I kicked off my boots, ripped off my heavy jacket, and plunged into the icy water. The shock was immediate, stealing my breath and numbing my limbs. The current grabbed me, pulling me under. I fought my way back to the surface, gasping for air, the roar of the river deafening.

I spotted Tate. He was flailing, his small body being tossed around like a rag doll. He was going under. Adrenaline surged through me. I pushed against the current, fighting with every ounce of strength I had. The water was relentless, trying to drag me down, but I kept going, driven by a primal instinct to save that little boy.

Finally, I reached him. I grabbed him by his jacket, pulling him towards me. He was coughing, sputtering, his eyes wide with terror. "I got you, Tate," I yelled, my voice barely audible above the roar of the river. "Hold on tight!"

I struggled to keep his head above water, using all my energy to stay afloat and fight the current. We were being swept downstream, closer and closer to the treacherous rapids.

I glanced towards the bank. John was there, running along the edge of the river, his face a mixture of fear and desperation. He was shouting, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

I knew we couldn't last much longer. The cold was seeping into my bones, and my muscles were screaming in protest. Tate was growing heavier, his small body trembling uncontrollably.

Just when I thought we were going to be pulled under, I saw it – a low-hanging branch from a willow tree, reaching out over the water. It was our only chance. I kicked with all my might, pulling Tate with me, towards the branch. My fingers brushed against it, then grasped it, clinging on with a desperate strength.

"Hold on, Tate!" I gasped, pulling him closer. "Grab the branch!"

He reached out, his small hands fumbling for purchase. After what felt like an eternity, he managed to grab hold. Together, we clung to the branch, the icy water swirling around us. Gradually, painstakingly, we pulled ourselves towards the bank.

John was there, waiting for us, his face etched with relief. He reached down and pulled Tate out of the water, then helped me scramble onto the muddy bank. We collapsed onto the ground, shivering and exhausted, gasping for breath. Tate was crying, clinging to John, who held him tight.

After a moment, John turned to me. His eyes, usually cold and distant, were filled with a warmth I had never seen before.

"You saved his life," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved my grandson."

I just nodded, unable to speak. I was still shaking, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, leaving me weak and vulnerable. John knelt down beside me, his gaze intense. "What's your name?"

"Y/N," I managed to whisper.

He took my hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Y/N," he repeated, as if testing the sound of it. "Thank you."

He didn't say anything else, but his eyes spoke volumes. I saw gratitude, respect, and something else, something I couldn't quite decipher.

He helped me to my feet, and we walked back to the ranch house in silence. Jake met us there, his face pale with worry. He enveloped me in a hug, relief flooding his features.

That night, I sat by the fire in my small cabin, trying to warm myself from the inside out. The events of the day replayed in my mind, over and over again. I kept seeing Tate's terrified face, the swirling water, John's look of despair.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that the events of that day had irrevocably altered the dynamic between me and John Dutton.

The next morning, Jake told me that John wanted to see me. My heart pounded in my chest as I walked towards the main house. What did he want? Was he going to offer me a reward? A job? Or was he simply going to thank me again and send me on my way?

I found him in his study, standing by the window, looking out over the vast expanse of the Yellowstone. He turned as I entered, his expression unreadable.

"Y/N," he said, his voice formal. "Thank you again for what you did yesterday. You showed extraordinary courage."

"Anyone would have done the same," I replied, feeling awkward under his intense gaze.

“Not everyone, Y/N. Not everyone." He paused, then continued, "I owe you a debt, Y/N. A debt I can never repay."

"You don't owe me anything," I said quickly. "I did what I had to do."

"Nevertheless," he persisted, "I want to offer you something. A job. Here, on the ranch."

My heart skipped a beat. "A job?"

"Yes," he said. "I need someone I can trust. Someone who is loyal, and brave. Someone who cares about this land as much as I do."

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. "I know you're related to Jake, but you've proven yourself. More than proven yourself."

"What kind of job?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Whatever you want it to be," he said. "Wrangler, ranch hand, foreman... whatever you're capable of."

I stared at him, stunned. This was more than I could have ever imagined."I... I don't know what to say," I stammered.

"Say yes," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I accept."

Nobody plans to break up someone else’s marriage.

People just fall out of love with each other, that’s all - or at least that’s what I started telling myself when I ran into my best friend John Dutton from high school one day when the sheriff and I got a call from him saying that his daughter Beth had gotten drunk at a bar and she’s only sixteen.

The drive to the Bozeman bar was quiet between me and sheriff Haskell. I had just started working alongside him as his deputy after working as his receptionist for a few years before he finally gave me my current job. That night when I stepped out of the police car the wind blew some of my hair in front of my eyes making me distracted as his gruff voice met my ears. “Y/n, well I’ll be. The badge looks good on you.”

“It’s been a while hasn’t it, Commissioner Dutton.” Tying my loose hair up into a messy ponytail I nervously smiled up at him.

John strides up to me in his signature light brown jacket with white fur on the shoulders and around his neck. A thick black vest underneath that jacket and some dirty blue jeans and muddy brown boots. Completed with his familiar dark brown cowboy hat planted on his head - a true cowboy always stood in front of me every time I interacted with him.

And I have to admit that I always have a thing for cowboys - especially him.

I know what you’re thinking Y/n. You live in Montana and are surrounded by cowboys and ranchers your whole life. How could you not want one for yourself? But in my case that’s only half of the massive crush I have had on my best friend for years.

John simply has a seemingly intense and intriguing personality about him that draws me in. He has always been extremely loyal to keeping his family’s ranch alive and his family name intact in Montana. He yearns to develop a deep family connection with his wife Evelyn and their children Lee, Jaime, Beth and Kayce. And truthfully be told I wished it was me the one calling him husband the day he married Evelyn.

Sheriff Haskell shut his car door walking past me and his friend, focusing his attention on the sixteen year old girl who was puking in the parking lot of the bar. “We’ll take her to the station and get her some water and a change of clothes. And don’t worry about charges, I’ll let this one slide.” He went over to young Bethany helping her up from the ground and getting her into the backseat of the police car, leaving me and John alone for a brief moment.

John simply nodded his head in understanding, keeping his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. His intense gaze shifted back on me. “I meant what I said earlier. I always knew you’d look good wearing a badge.”

“That’s high praise coming from you, Commissioner."

He sent me a genuine smile the next time he spoke to me. “You don’t have to call me Commissioner, Y/n. You know me as well as my wife, hell maybe even better than she does.”

“Oh I don’t know about that-“ Kicking some gravel with one of my boots.

John focused his gaze on mine and forced me to look into his eyes once he raised a hand and tilted my chin up so I’d look him in the eye. “I am. You are one of the few who gets to call me John.”

“J-John.” I breathed out feeling my cheeks heating up by how physically close we were. I wanted to say more than that but I knew I shouldn’t - correction couldn’t. I couldn’t break up his marriage with Evelyn and possibly ruin my lifelong friendship with him. So I’d just bite my lip and keep quiet.

God, how wrong I was about that.

Not two months later I was sitting on his front porch at 1am cuddling up with him on the swing underneath a blanket while Evelyn and his kids were sleeping right inside the main house. I wasn’t supposed to be at his ranch this late. But the night we brought Beth back he asked me to stay for a few hours and I couldn't say no to him. We both knew if Evelyn caught us she'd lose it and likely cause so much shit around Montana.

Playing with the blanket I muttered out into the air, not daring to look him in the eye as I spoke. “John, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

I paused, taking in a long breath searching for the right next words to voice. Starting from seventh grade in middle school I started having a massive crush on the rancher sitting beside me and he still doesn’t know that I love him after all these years. Shifting my body so I was facing him more directly with us both sitting side by side on the swing I uttered the words for the first time. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too, Y/n.” He responded but I knew by his tone that he meant it as my best friend and not the other way around.

“I mean more than a best friend, John.” I stutter out finally focusing my attention up to meet his intense gaze. “I have for a long time actually - I have since our sophomore year of high school but was too afraid you’d reject me after you started spending so much time with Evelyn. And I know now isn’t a good time to be telling you this after you’ve married and have four beautiful children- it’s just - I can’t keep this secret anymore.”

John blankly stared at me for so long creating the most uncomfortable tension I have felt and I almost got shot at my job on my very first day. His eyes focused on me but he didn’t say anything which made me begin to get sick over how uncomfortable and awkward I had just made our relationship. And the next words that flew from my mouth cut through the nerve wracking silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. “John, please say something cause I can’t have you lookin’ at me like I just spit in your coffee.”

“I don’t - I don’t know what you really want me to say here, Y/n.” He shrugged his shoulders in response.

Feeling tears beginning to well up in the corners of my eyes I struggle to keep my voice from cracking up in the process. “Just say how you feel.”

“I - I’m - I’m sorry Y/n. I - I don’t feel the same way.”

“Why the hell not!” Clasping my hands over my mouth I gasped in horror when I realized what I just said. Jumping up from the swing I began backing away from him seeing how my emotions were getting the better of me.

John began explaining softly. “I’m married to Evelyn. We have been together for years and have children together.”

“Then what the hell has been going on between us for years, John!” Throwing my hands up in the air I raised my tone at the cowboy. “What were all the late night phone calls after Bea Norris broke your heart in fifth grade, or all the times you would get jealous when another guy would try to talk to me, or how about when we accidentally shared our first kiss with each other after falling down from the haystacks in the barn loft. Did none of that mean anything to you?”

My voice cracked on the last word, and I felt the first hot tear escape, trailing down my cheek. The air between us was suddenly heavy with unshed words, unspoken feelings, and a decade of shared history that he seemed to brush off like dust from his hat. I watched him, searching his eyes for even a flicker of the confusion or longing that was tearing me apart, but all I saw was a deep, unreadable sadness.

“Y/n…” he started, his voice a low rumble, but he trailed off, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He looked away, out towards the sprawling, silent ranch, as if the darkness held the answers he couldn’t give me. “It meant, it meant a lot. You know that. You’re my best friend. Always have been.”

“And that’s enough for you?” My voice was barely a whisper now, hollowed out by the pain. “Just ‘best friend’?”

He turned back to me, his gaze finally meeting mine, and I saw a flicker of something, perhaps regret, perhaps a terrible weariness. “It has to be, Y/n. I made a promise. I have a family.” His eyes drifted towards the house, where four sleeping children, his children, lay oblivious to the quiet devastation unfolding on their porch. “My life is here. With them.”

The words were a hammer blow. My throat tightened, and I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, a slow, jerky motion, trying to hold myself together. My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way to disappear from this moment, this ranch, this whole damn county. How could I have been so foolish? So utterly blind to the reality of his life, to the solidity of his choices?

“I-I should go,” I managed, backing away further, my foot finding the edge of the porch.

“Y/n, wait.” He reached out, but I flinched, pulling back as if burned. The raw hurt must have shown clearly on my face because his hand dropped, his expression twisting in genuine pain. “Please, don’t… don’t let this ruin things between us. You’re too important.”

“Important?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips, devoid of humor. “You just broke my heart, John, and you want me to pretend like it didn’t happen? Like we can just go back to sharing secrets on the porch?” The idea was unbearable. My best friend, the man I loved, had just told me unequivocally that he didn’t love me back, not in the way I needed, not in the way I’d dreamed. How could I ever look at him, at his family, the same way again?

Without another word, I turned and stumbled off the porch, feeling the cold night air sting my face. I didn’t look back, didn’t respond to his soft “Y/n, please.” I just walked, faster and faster, until I was practically running to my patrol car parked discreetly down the lane. The engine roared to life, a discordant symphony to my shattered emotions, and I sped away, leaving the Yellowstone behind, leaving him, and leaving a piece of myself on that damn porch swing.

The next few months were a blur of work and deliberate avoidance. Sheriff Haskell noticed my quietness, the new intensity in my movements, but he was wise enough not to pry. I buried myself in my duties, chasing down petty thieves, mediating neighborly disputes, and filling out endless paperwork. It was a good distraction, a shield against the aching void in my chest. I saw John, of course. Montana wasn’t that big. Our paths crossed at the county office, at livestock auctions, even sometimes on the road as I patrolled and he drove his truck, a blur of familiar dark blue against the golden fields. Each sighting was a fresh stab, a reminder of what I had confessed and what I had lost. He’d try to meet my eyes, sometimes offer a small, hesitant nod, but I’d turn away, focusing on a report, on the horizon, on anything but him. I couldn’t be his ‘best friend’ if it meant watching him live the life I craved, with the woman he’d chosen.

Word trickled through the grapevine about the Duttons. Evelyn, ever the stoic, was even more withdrawn than usual. The ranch hands whispered about late-night arguments, about John spending more time in the fields, working himself to exhaustion. I saw it too. His face, already etched with the responsibility of the ranch, seemed even heavier, shadowed by a burden I couldn't name. He looked tired, perpetually so, and sometimes, just sometimes, I’d catch him looking at me across a crowded room, a raw, searching look that made my breath hitch.

I fought it. I told myself it was guilt, regret, nothing more. He made his choice. I had to make mine – to move on. I even went on a few dates, awkward dinners with men who were perfectly nice but couldn't hold a candle to the ghost of a cowboy in my heart. They’d talk about small-town gossip, about their cattle, about the weather, and all I could hear was the echo of John’s voice, the memory of his hand lifting my chin. It was hopeless.

One blustery afternoon, a call came over the radio: a small plane went down deep in the backcountry, near the Dutton border. Search and Rescue was mobilizing, and Haskell wanted me on the ground. When I arrived at the staging area, John was already there, his face grim, coordinating with the SAR team. It was his land, his responsibility. Our eyes met across the chaotic scene, and this time, I didn't look away. There was no awkwardness, no pretense. Just the shared urgency of the moment. He walked over, his usual cowboy stride purposeful.

“Deputy L/n,” he acknowledged, his voice deeper than I remembered, or perhaps it was just the intensity of the situation. “Glad you’re here. Terrain’s rough. Got a feeling this is gonna be a long one.”

“Commissioner,” I replied, the title feeling too formal but a necessary barrier. “I’m ready. What’s the latest?”

We worked for hours, pushing through dense brush and rocky inclines, the biting wind whipping around us. John was tireless, his knowledge of the land invaluable. He scouted ahead, helped clear paths, his leadership quiet but absolute. At one point, we were separated from the main group, climbing a steep, treacherous ridge. A loose rock shifted beneath my boot, and I cried out, losing my footing. Before I could fall, John was there, his strong arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me hard against him, steadying me. My face was pressed against his chest, the familiar scent of leather, pine, and honest sweat flooding my senses. My heart hammered against my ribs, not just from the near-fall, but from the sudden, undeniable proximity.

“Careful, Y/n,” he murmured, his voice rough against my ear. He held me for a beat longer than necessary, his grip firm, protective. I could feel the warmth of him through my uniform, the solid strength of his body. When he finally loosened his hold, he didn’t let go completely, his hand resting on my arm, his thumb gently stroking my sleeve. Our eyes locked, and the world outside of us faded. All the pain, all the distance, all the unspoken words were suddenly laid bare.

His eyes, those intense, ocean-blue eyes that had haunted my dreams for years, held a depth of emotion I hadn’t seen before. Regret, yes, but something else too. A desperate yearning that mirrored my own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so low I almost missed it. “For everything. For how I hurt you.”

My breath hitched. “John…”

He squeezed my arm, then let go, stepping back, but his gaze never left mine. “No. Let me speak, Y/n. I was a fool. A damn fool. I heard everything you said that night. Every single word. And I pushed it away because… because I was scared.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his hat for a moment before settling it back. “Scared of what it meant. Scared of what I felt. Scared of tearing my life apart. Evelyn… She's a good woman. And she’s given me a family. But… but it hasn’t been enough, Y/n. Not like this. Not with you.”

My vision blurred with tears, but this time, they weren’t tears of fresh heartbreak, but of agonizing, dizzying hope. “What are you saying, John?”

He took a step closer, his voice raw with emotion. “I’m saying I spent weeks trying to convince myself what we had was just friendship. What I felt was just habit. But it’s not. It’s never been. I watch you, Y/n. I see the woman you’ve become, the deputy, the one who carries herself with such strength and grace, and all I can think about is how I let you walk away.” He reached out, his hand hovering near my face, then gently cupped my cheek. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, sending shivers through me. “That kiss in the hayloft wasn’t an accident for me, Y/n. Not really. It was just… the wrong time.”

“And now?” I choked out, my voice trembling.

His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Now, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I know I can’t keep living a lie, not to myself, not to you. And I can’t live without you, Y/n. Not like this.”

It was agonizing. It was everything I had ever wanted to hear, delivered in the cruelest, most complicated way. He was still married. He had children. But he was admitting it, admitting his feelings. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis.

“John,” I whispered, tears finally falling freely. “What about Evelyn?”

His eyes closed for a moment, a deep sigh escaping him. “That’s… that’s a conversation I have to have. And it won’t be easy. She’s not going to take this well. You know that.” He opened his eyes, and the pain there was stark. “But I can’t stay in a marriage that’s… that’s just a shell. Not when I know what real connection feels like. What we feel.”

The search and rescue team called out to us, reminding us of our duty, of the world outside our emotional storm. We spent another six hours combing the terrain, finding the wreckage and, heartbreakingly, the pilot. The shared trauma, the bone-deep weariness, only intensified the unspoken understanding between us. We spoke little, worked in sync, and every time our eyes met, the promise, the agonizing possibility, hung heavy in the air.

Days turned into a week. The tension in Bozeman was palpable. Rumors flew, whispers about John and Evelyn, about the cracks finally showing in the Dutton family facade. I kept my head down, doing my job, but my heart was a frantic bird in my chest. Then, one evening, a call came to my small apartment. It was John.

“Can I come over?” he asked, his voice tired, yet resolute. “I need to talk.”

I knew. I let him in without a word. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There was a faint bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip. My breath hitched.

“Evelyn?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, running a hand over his face. “She knows. She’s… she’s furious. Said things. Broke things. It was… hell, Y/n. It was hell.” He looked up at me, his eyes pleading. “But it’s done. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. That I needed to be honest, with her, with myself.”

My eyes welled up again. “And the kids?”

“That’s the hardest part,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “They don’t understand. Beth’s angry, Jamie’s retreating, Lee’s just confused. Kayce’s too young… This isn’t going to be easy, Y/n. It’s going to be a long, brutal fight.” He stepped closer, reaching out, his hands finding my shoulders. “But if I’m going to fight, I need to know… I need to know you’re in this with me. That what I feel is real, for both of us.”

I didn’t hesitate. I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. “Oh, John,” I sobbed, the dam finally breaking. “Always. Always.”

He held me tight, his arms crushing me against him, and I felt the tremor in his body, the release of tension that had been building for years. We stood there for a long time, just holding each other, letting the tears fall, letting the weight of the moment settle.

It wasn't a fairytale ending. The fallout was immense. Evelyn Dutton, as expected, was a force of nature, her anger a storm that raged across the valley. There were whispers, judgment, and the painful reality of a family split apart. I was suddenly branded the 'other woman,' the one who broke up the Dutton marriage, despite the quiet, private truth of a love that had festered beneath the surface for decades. John himself navigated a minefield of guilt and the fierce protectiveness of his children, who were, for a long time, confused and hurt.

But through it all, there was us. John and I.

Months later, we sat on my small porch, not the grand Yellowstone one, but a modest one with a view of the distant mountains. He had his arm around me, my head resting on his shoulder, just like that night two months ago, and so many nights before. Except this time, there was no secret, no fear, no painful unrequited love.

“It’s quiet here,” I murmured, listening to the crickets.

“Yeah,” he rumbled, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Good quiet.”

I looked up at him, studying the lines around his eyes, the slight silvering at his temples. He was still the cowboy I’d loved since I was a girl, but now, he was mine. Hard-won, complicated, but wholly mine.

“You still think the badge looks good on me?” I teased lightly.

He chuckled, pulling me closer. “Looks even better now, Deputy L/n. Everything looks better now.” His eyes, no longer shadowed by conflict, held a deep, profound peace. “Turns out, I didn’t just want to be good, Y/n. I just wanted to be honest. And with you… with you, I finally am.”

Driving underneath the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch sign I parked the truck outside the front porch steps. Pushing opened the driver door I hopped out of the vehicle shutting the door and walking up the stairs feeling so drained from work today.

Walking through the front door I hung my coat up searching for my husband. “John, John! I’m home. John!” Calling through the main house I knew the kids were out messing around in the barn with their horses, meaning we had the house to ourselves.

Halting in my tracks I finally found my husband laying in our bed reading a book until I knocked on the door gaining his attention. “Hey darling, did you just get home?” He closed his book, placing it on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“Yeah and I’m completely exhausted from work today.” Entering the bedroom I sat down on the foot of the bed beginning to remove my work boots. Slipping one after the other off I dropped them down onto the floor, walking across the floor barefoot to the closet.

My husband shifted to his side in the bed asking me sweetly. “Why? What happened this time?”

“The sheriff stormed into the Livestock room and announced to a room full of already pissed off ranches that “We do not have a single confirmed livestock death because of the new released wolves”.

John groaned, shaking his head in annoyance. “I told the sheriff that he better not break his promise after-“

“After he promised he would protect our ranches and only got his job cause he was elected by every rancher in this state!” John and I declared together in unison while I spun back around to look inside the closet for one of my sleep shirts.

Sliding my blue jeans down my legs I kicked them off into the corner, switching to some shorts instead. “I mean like does he think we're all stupid enough to believe that they haven’t found anything. I can note there’s been five cattle deaths on our ranch alone.” Grabbing a loose light green tea shirt I shrugged my tan dress shirt over my head and into the dirty clothes basket. Tugging the clean shirt over my head I turned my head back around to my husband.

“What can I do to help you, honey?” John asked, sitting upright in the bed. He was wearing a gray tea shirt and blue boxers to bed.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed for a second time I slumped my shoulders heavily. “I don't know - oh - ohhh John.” I accidentally moaned, feeling the tension in my shoulders beginning to loosen when he moved his hands over my shoulder blades.

John made a noise scooting closer to my back feeling me lay against his embrace. “I'm really sorry you had a bad day. I should have come with you to that Livestock meeting.” He had another commitment that had come up so he couldn't come to the meeting with his Livestock agent wife.

“John, don't apologize. You - you had to handle the boys getting into a fight.” I closed my eyes knowing he felt guilty for not being with me. He dug his fingers deeper into my shoulders releasing the built up tension in them. We were usually both stressed out yet this was the first time he had ever given me a massage.

He may be the Livestock Commissioner of the State of Montana but he was and always would be a rancher first and foremost. I was known by many people as the deputy to the sheriff, but overall everyone knew me as the wife of JD. Yet in these moments I was simply Y/n to him.

John kissed the side of my head, still moving his hands over the tense areas of my shoulders. “I think I should make it up to you, darling. Hmm, would you like me to do that?”

“Make it up to me how, cowboy?” Slightly turning my head I nudged my nose with his, a soft smirk playing on my lips.

He whispered in a husky voice in my ear. “This is how.” He lowered his right hand underneath my shirt, tugging it up and over my head, tossing my hair slightly. His other hand trails over my shoulders where he started kissing my neck.

Tilting my head to the other side, giving him better access I couldn’t take it anymore. Spinning around I connected my lips with his cupping his face in my hands, bringing him closer to me. “Watch yourself cowboy. I thought we were relaxing tonight.”

“I never said I’d go slow, Mrs. Dutton. We haven’t seen each other all day.” He connected my lips with his own a second time, twirling me around and gently pushing me down onto the mattress on my back with him hovering above me.

Grasping his shirt in my hands I went to throw it over his head yet he gently took my wrists in his hand, holding them above my head catching me off guard. “John! What are you doing?”

“Tonight’s about you, Y/n. You had a rough day so I’m makin’ it better.” My husband leans down and I giggled, getting tickled by his mustache but I did like it. Wrapping my arms around his neck I threaded my fingers in his dark hair.

John took his time removing the remained of my clothes and he actually let me do the same to his clothing tossing them into his pile of mine on the wooden floor of our bedroom. Our bodies connected with one another so easily just like the first time we had slept together on our wedding night. “Thank you, John.” I whispered once he had collapsed beside me on his back,throwing the covers over our bodies.