Chapter 24

The Montana night air was crisp and still as Rip approached Damian's corpse, his boots crunching softly on the frost-covered grass. The mercenary lay sprawled where he'd fallen, Nathan's precise shot having torn through his neck with devastating efficiency. In the moonlight, Damian's dead eyes stared sightlessly at the star-filled sky above, his expression frozen in the surprise of a man who'd never expected to be outgunned by a small-town veterinarian.

Rip crouched beside the body, his experienced hands moving with methodical efficiency as he began searching through Damian's tactical gear. Years of dealing with the Dutton family's enemies had taught him that dead men often carried the most valuable intelligence, especially when they'd been foolish enough to think they were untouchable.

Damian's pockets yielded the usual assortment of mercenary equipment: spare ammunition, a tactical knife, night vision equipment, and encrypted radio gear. But it was the smartphone tucked into an inner vest pocket that made Rip's pulse quicken with predatory satisfaction.

The device was high-end military grade, the kind of secure communication tool that cost more than most people made in a month. But all the encryption in the world was useless when the user was dead and face-unlock technology could be defeated with a corpse.

Rip grabbed Damian's head and positioned the phone in front of the dead man's face, holding it steady until the device chirped softly and unlocked. Within seconds, he'd disabled the security features and gained full access to what was essentially Dale Farnsworth's entire operation laid bare.

The contents of the phone were a prosecutor's dream and a criminal's nightmare. Rip scrolled through contracts that explicitly outlined payment for "removal of obstacles" and "acquisition facilitation services." There were detailed plans showing ranch layouts, guard schedules, and tactical approaches. Bank transfer receipts showed payments totaling millions of dollars, all traced back to shell companies that any competent forensic accountant could link directly to Dale Farnsworth.

But the real treasure trove was in the audio files. Recorded conversations between Dale and various mercenary contacts, discussions of "permanent solutions" to the "Dutton problem," and explicit instructions to "eliminate any witnesses who might complicate future development."

Rip's smirk grew wider with each piece of evidence he uncovered. Dale Farnsworth had been meticulous in his planning, which meant he'd also been meticulous in documenting his own crimes.

"Good job, Nate." Rip said quietly to himself, pocketing the phone before standing up. The gentle veterinarian had just handed them the keys to destroying their enemy completely.

The walk back to the log mansion felt lighter despite the weight of the night's violence. Rip moved with the satisfaction of a man who knew that victory was no longer just survival, but total annihilation of the threat against his family.

When Rip entered the main house, he found Beth pacing in the living room like a caged predator, her sharp heels clicking against the hardwood floors with agitated energy. The stress of the attack had manifested in her usual way, barely controlled violence looking for an outlet.

"How bad?" Beth asked immediately, not bothering with pleasantries.

Rip held up the phone with the expression of a man bearing gifts. "Actually, not bad at all."

Beth's eyebrows shot up as she recognized the significance of what he was holding. Her predatory smile spread across her face like sunrise, transforming her features from worried wife to dangerous adversary in the span of seconds.

"How'd you get this?" she asked, moving closer to examine the device.

"The leader." Rip replied simply.

Beth's tone turned sarcastic, though her eyes remained fixed on the phone. "Really? He just gave it to you?"

Rip's answering look was deadpan. "Obviously not, Beth. You should ask your assistant about it."

Beth's eyebrows climbed even higher, genuine surprise flickering across her features. "You're saying Nate–"

Rip nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Oh yeah. Looks like that one goes berserk when he's pushed hard enough."

Beth's smile turned genuinely proud, the expression of someone who'd always suspected there was steel beneath Nathan's gentle exterior. "Pretty and dangerous, huh."

Rip looked at his wife with a smirk that held years of appreciation for her particular brand of lethal beauty. "Takes one to know one."

"Except I don't need to be pushed," Beth replied with the casual confidence of someone who'd never needed an excuse for violence. She gestured toward the phone with barely contained excitement. "Let's save the foreplay for later. Right now, I need to make some phone calls and you have a cleanup to do."

Rip leaned in and kissed his wife, tasting the metallic edge of adrenaline and satisfaction on her lips. Beth's hand briefly gripped the back of his neck, a possessive gesture that spoke of shared victories and mutual respect for each other's capacity for destruction.

When they broke apart, Beth was already reaching for the phone, her mind undoubtedly racing through the various ways she could weaponize the evidence against Dale Farnsworth. Rip knew that look. It was the expression Beth wore when she was about to destroy someone so completely that they'd never recover.

"I'll be back in a few hours," Rip said, heading toward the door. "Make sure John knows we won."

"Oh, he'll know," Beth replied with vicious satisfaction, already scrolling through the phone's contents. "The whole world's going to know what Dale Farnsworth really is."

Rip stepped back out into the Montana night, breathing deeply of the crisp air that no longer carried the scent of gunpowder and fear. There were still bodies to dispose of, evidence to eliminate, and loose ends to tie up. But the hard part was over.

The Dutton ranch had survived another war, and this time, they had the ammunition to make sure their enemies never threatened them again.

—

The early morning sun was just beginning to paint the Montana sky in shades of pink and gold when Rip pushed through the bunkhouse door, expecting to find his ranch hands crashed in exhausted sleep after the night's violence. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of everyone still awake, gathered around the small living area with the kind of wired energy that came from surviving something that should have killed them.

The adrenaline hadn't worn off yet. Maybe it wouldn't for days.

Jimmy sat on the couch, his bandaged arm resting in his lap while he gestured animatedly with his good hand, recounting his part in the firefight with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered he was braver than he'd thought. Ryan listened with the patience of someone who'd been there, occasionally correcting details or adding his own perspective.

Lloyd occupied his usual chair, his wounded leg propped up on a wooden crate, nursing a cup of coffee that was probably more whiskey than caffeine. Colby and Teeter were tangled together on her bunk, sharing a bottle of beer and speaking in the low, intimate tones of people who'd just watched each other survive hell.

Even Trevor was upright, though he looked like he'd been hit by a truck. His face was a patchwork of bruises and bandages, his left arm in a makeshift sling, and his movements were careful and deliberate. But he was conscious, alert, and somehow managing to enjoy a beer despite the fact that he should probably be in a hospital.

The only one not participating in the impromptu wake was Nathan, who lay unconscious in his narrow bunk, his face pale but peaceful in sleep. He'd been carefully positioned there by gentle hands, a thin blanket pulled up to his chin, looking smaller and more vulnerable than anyone had ever seen him.

Rip surveyed the scene with the satisfaction of a commanding officer whose troops had not only survived but triumphed. "You look like shit," he said to Trevor without preamble.

Trevor raised his beer bottle in a mock toast, his split lip pulling into something that might have been a grin. "I know."

Rip's eyes moved to Nathan's sleeping form. "He's out?"

Jimmy snorted with exhaustion-tinged humor. "Would be weird if he isn't."

Teeter sat up straighter, her pink hair disheveled but her eyes bright with the kind of admiration reserved for genuine heroes. "Rip, you should've seen Nathan pulling bullets out of Trevor. 'Cause if I had to do that to Colby, I would throw up on his wounds."

Colby looked at his girlfriend with mock offense. "Really?"

Teeter shrugged with characteristic honesty. "Blood and guts are one thing when it's enemies. Different story when it's family."

Rip nodded slowly, his respect for Nathan deepening with each story he heard about the night's events. "Yeah, he keeps proving us he's so much more than what we thought he was."

Trevor carefully set down his beer and limped over to Nathan's bunk, his movements stiff and painful but determined. He settled onto the edge of the narrow mattress and reached out with his good hand, gently caressing Nathan's face with fingers that trembled slightly from fatigue and medication.

Rip watched the tender moment with the understanding of someone who'd seen too many good people break under pressure. Nathan had not only survived the test – he'd exceeded every expectation and proven himself worthy of the loyalty these men were prepared to give him.

But there was still business to attend to.

Rip turned his attention to the corner of the room where their prisoner sat bound to a dining chair, forgotten in the aftermath of more important concerns. The young mercenary looked exactly like what he was. A scared kid who'd gotten in way over his head and was now paying the price for his poor judgment.

The smell hit Rip before he got close enough to see the dark stain spreading across the young man's tactical pants. Fear had a distinctive odor, and this kid was drowning in it.

Rip couldn't help but chuckle as he approached the terrified prisoner. "The dog made a mess."

Without ceremony, Rip reached out and pulled the gag from the mercenary's mouth. The young man immediately began gasping, his breathing rapid and shallow as panic threatened to overwhelm him completely.

"I'll tell you everything I know," the kid blurted out before Rip could even ask a question, his voice high and shaky with terror. "Please, I'll tell you everything, just don't hurt me."

Rip settled into a chair across from the prisoner, his expression calm and patient. He had all the time in the world, and they both knew it. "Then start talking."

The words poured out of the young mercenary like water from a broken dam. Dale was staying at the Grand Hotel downtown, the most expensive suite they had. He was supposed to hold a press conference that morning about his development campaign, probably planning to announce some major breakthrough in negotiations with local landowners. The arrogant bastard must have thought his night's work had gone exactly according to plan.

But Dale Farnsworth was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Rip's smirk grew wider as he listened to the details about the press conference. Beth was going to love this. The chance to destroy Dale publicly, in front of cameras and reporters, while he was celebrating what he thought was his victory? It was the kind of poetic justice that would make her absolutely feral with joy.

When the kid finished spilling everything he knew, Rip stood up and moved behind the chair. Without warning, he cut the ropes binding the mercenary to the furniture and quickly replaced them with zip ties that bit into the young man's wrists with unforgiving efficiency.

"Come on," Rip said, grabbing the prisoner by his arm and hauling him toward the door. "You're taking a little ride with me."

Rip dragged the stumbling mercenary outside to one of the ranch trucks, shoving him into the passenger seat with the casual brutality of someone handling livestock. The kid's eyes were wide with terror, darting around like a trapped animal looking for escape routes that didn't exist.

Rip climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, the familiar rumble of the diesel motor filling the cabin. As he put the truck in gear, the mercenary's nerve finally broke completely.

"Please don't kill me..." the kid begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "I'm begging you to spare me... I have a family, I have a little sister..."

Rip glanced over at his passenger with something that might have been pity if it hadn't been mixed with such cold satisfaction. "We won't have to kill you because your life is already over."

The words hit the young mercenary like a physical blow, and his face went even paler as the implications sank in. Whatever Rip had planned for him was apparently worse than a quick death, and that realization sent fresh waves of terror through his already shattered composure.

As the truck pulled away from the ranch, heading toward town and whatever fate awaited Dale Farnsworth, Rip allowed himself to feel the deep satisfaction of a job well done. The Dutton ranch had been attacked, had fought back, and had won decisively.

Now it was time to make sure their enemies understood exactly what that victory meant.

—

The Grand Hotel downtown was buzzing with activity when Rip's truck pulled up to the curb at precisely 8 AM. Camera crews were setting up their equipment, reporters were checking their notes and adjusting their microphones, and curious onlookers had gathered to witness what was being billed as a major announcement about Bozeman's future development.

Rip parked directly in front of the building where he had a clear view of the makeshift press area that had been established on the hotel's front steps. A small podium had been set up, flanked by banners bearing the Market Equities logo and architectural renderings of the proposed development projects.

"Perfect timing," Rip murmured with satisfaction, settling back in his seat to wait for the main event.

Beside him, the young mercenary was practically vibrating with terror, his zip-tied hands shaking as he watched the crowd gathering outside. He kept glancing at Rip with the desperate hope that this was all some elaborate bluff, that he wouldn't actually be thrown to the wolves in front of cameras and reporters.

About thirty minutes later, Dale Farnsworth emerged from the hotel entrance like a conquering hero. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month, his silver hair perfectly styled, his smile radiating the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of getting exactly what he wanted.

Dale took his seat behind the podium with theatrical flourish, clearly savoring the attention as reporters leaned forward with their questions. His expression was smugly satisfied, the look of a man who believed he'd just pulled off the greatest coup of his career.

"Mr. Farnsworth, can you tell us about the progress of your acquisition efforts?" one reporter asked.

Dale's smile widened as he leaned into the microphone. "I'm pleased to announce that we're making excellent progress in securing the necessary properties for our development project. Some of the more... stubborn landowners are beginning to see reason."

Rip's jaw clenched as he watched Dale lie with practiced ease, painting himself as a legitimate businessman rather than the murderous criminal he actually was.

"Let's crash this party," Rip said grimly.

He climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side, grabbing the terrified mercenary by his tactical vest and hauling him out onto the sidewalk. The young man stumbled, nearly falling as Rip dragged him toward the crowd of reporters and onlookers.

Dale's smug expression faltered the moment he spotted them approaching. His eyes widened with disbelief and growing panic as he recognized both the ranch foreman he'd tried to have killed and the mercenary who was supposed to be back at base camp celebrating a successful mission.

Rip didn't waste time with subtlety. His voice cut through the ambient noise of the press conference like a blade, immediately capturing everyone's attention.

"Dale Farnsworth sent a group of mercenaries to attack the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch because we refused his offer to buy the land," Rip announced, his words carrying clearly across the crowd.

A murmur of confusion and excitement rippled through the gathered reporters as they turned their cameras and microphones toward this unexpected development.

Without ceremony, Rip shoved the young mercenary forward, sending him sprawling onto the concrete steps in front of the podium. The kid tried to scramble to his feet but his zip-tied hands made it impossible, leaving him lying there like a piece of evidence for everyone to see.

"People of Bozeman really should think twice before letting a man like that do anything to your town," Rip continued, his voice carrying the kind of authority that made people listen.

The crowd erupted in questions and chaos. Cameras swung toward Dale, who had gone pale beneath his expensive tan. He opened his mouth to deny the accusations, but before he could speak, phones began ringing throughout the crowd.

Reporters answered their calls with growing excitement, their expressions shifting from confusion to predatory hunger as they received information from their editors and producers. Beth had done her job perfectly – the incriminating evidence from Damian's phone was now public knowledge, leaked simultaneously to every major news outlet in the region.

"Mr. Farnsworth, we're receiving reports of documents that show payments to mercenary companies," one reporter called out, her voice sharp with professional excitement. "Can you comment on allegations that you hired armed contractors to intimidate landowners?"

"We have bank records showing millions of dollars in payments to military contractors," another reporter added, pressing forward with his microphone. "What was this money for if not to force people off their land?"

Dale's composure cracked completely. His face flushed red as he stood up from the podium, his carefully practiced media persona dissolving into panic. "This is... these are fabricated documents... I don't know what you're talking about..."

But his denials were drowned out by the growing chaos as more reporters received additional information. Audio recordings were being played on news networks across the country – Dale's own voice discussing "permanent solutions" and "elimination of obstacles."

The wail of police sirens grew louder as squad cars raced toward the hotel. Within minutes, uniformed officers were pushing through the crowd, their hands resting on their weapons as they approached the podium.

"Dale Farnsworth, you're under arrest," the lead officer announced, pulling out his handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent..."

The press conference had become a perp walk, and every second of Dale's downfall was being broadcast live across the region. His empire was crumbling in real time, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.

Rip watched with deep satisfaction as Dale was led away in handcuffs, his expensive suit wrinkled and his perfect hair disheveled. The man who'd thought he could intimidate the Duttons with mercenaries and violence was now facing the rest of his life in federal prison.

As Rip walked back toward his truck, several reporters tried to intercept him for interviews, but he ignored them completely. He had nothing more to say, the evidence spoke for itself.

Behind him, other reporters had descended on the abandoned mercenary like vultures, shouting questions that the terrified young man had no idea how to answer. His stammered responses would only dig Dale's grave deeper, confirming details that would ensure there was no escape from the legal consequences.

Rip climbed back into his truck and drove away from the chaos, leaving Dale Farnsworth's destroyed empire in his rearview mirror. The Yellowstone Dutton Ranch had not only survived another war. They'd won it so completely that their enemy would never threaten anyone again.

Beth was going to be absolutely delighted.

—

When Rip's truck pulled up to the ranch, he barely had time to step out before Beth came flying out of the main house like a woman possessed. She launched herself at him with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for major holidays, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his with fierce satisfaction.

"Watching the defeat on that fucker's face made me have an orgasm." Beth declared against his mouth, her voice vibrating with the kind of vicious joy that came from completely destroying an enemy.

Rip chuckled, his arms wrapping around his wife's waist as he savored both her enthusiasm and the memory of Dale's expression as the handcuffs clicked into place. "He should be in prison now."

Beth pulled back slightly, her eyes bright with the aftermath of victory. "We should celebrate. Tell everyone we're hitting the bar tonight."

Rip glanced toward the horizon where morning sunlight was beginning to reveal the full scope of the previous night's battlefield. Bodies still lay where they'd fallen, evidence that needed to be eliminated before anyone official came asking questions.

"Maybe tomorrow, Beth," Rip said, his practical nature overriding any desire to celebrate prematurely. "We still have some trash to take out."

Beth followed his gaze and nodded with understanding. Four dead mercenaries scattered across the ranch property would require careful disposal, the kind of cleanup work that couldn't wait for hangovers and recovery time.

"Fine," Beth conceded with impatience. "But I don't wanna see anyone working tomorrow. Those idiots deserve a day off."

Rip nodded in agreement. After what they'd all been through, especially Nathan and Trevor, the crew had more than earned some recovery time.

The sound of boots on the porch announced John's arrival, and both Beth and Rip turned as the patriarch stepped outside. Despite the early hour and the chaos of the previous night, John looked composed and alert, carrying himself with the quiet authority that had kept the Dutton ranch intact through decades of conflict.

"Rip, you got a second?" John asked, his tone suggesting this wasn't a casual conversation.

Rip nodded immediately. "Of course, sir."

John's office felt like a sanctuary after the violence and chaos of the past twelve hours. The familiar smell of leather and wood polish, the weight of family history contained in photographs and awards, the solid presence of furniture built to last generations – all of it spoke of permanence and tradition in a way that felt grounding after a night of survival.

John settled behind his desk while Rip took the chair across from him, both men falling into the comfortable rhythm of discussions they'd had countless times over the years. But there was something different in John's demeanor today, a thoughtfulness that suggested deeper considerations.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" Rip asked, his foreman instincts picking up on the subtle shift in atmosphere.

John leaned back in his chair, his weathered hands folded on the desk's polished surface. "Quite the opposite. I'm glad I'm still here, breathing, standing and talking instead of being in a casket because of last night's attack."

Rip frowned slightly, trying to read between the lines of what John was actually saying. The patriarch wasn't given to philosophical reflections without purpose.

John's blue eyes fixed on Rip with the intensity of someone making an important point. "Do you think we could've survived without Trevor and Nathan?"

The question hung in the air between them, carrying implications that Rip was only beginning to process. He considered his words carefully, understanding that John was leading toward something significant.

"I can't answer to things that didn't happen, sir," Rip replied honestly. "But those two keep proving themselves to be invaluable to this ranch."

John nodded with satisfaction, as if Rip had confirmed something he'd already concluded. "Don't I know it. So, why don't they have the brand? I'm surprised they still haven't worn it to this day."

The question hit Rip like a revelation. Of course. The Yellowstone brand, the mark that transformed ranch hands from employees into family, signifying absolute loyalty and belonging to something greater than themselves. It was an honor reserved for those who'd proven their willingness to die for the ranch and everything it represented.

Rip had been considering it for months, watching Trevor and Nathan integrate into the ranch family, prove their worth time and again. But he'd been waiting for the right moment, the right circumstances.

"I have considered that quite a few times," Rip admitted, "but I just haven't found the right time to offer them that."

John's expression was decisive, carrying the weight of a man who'd just made an important decision. "Well, now's as good a time as any."

The significance of the moment wasn't lost on either man. After last night, there could be no question about Trevor and Nathan's loyalty, their willingness to sacrifice everything for the ranch and the people they'd come to consider family. Nathan had killed to protect them. Trevor had nearly died defending the property. They'd both proven beyond any doubt that they belonged.

"I'll have a talk with them." Rip said, already thinking about how to approach such a significant conversation.

John nodded approvingly. "Good. They've earned it."

As Rip prepared to leave, John's voice stopped him at the door.

"Rip? Make sure they understand what it means. What they're agreeing to."

Rip turned back, meeting John's steady gaze. "Always do, sir."

Because the Yellowstone brand wasn't just heat on skin. It was a promise, a commitment, a transformation from outsider to family member that could never be undone. It meant that the ranch would always come first, that loyalty was absolute, and that some bonds were stronger than blood.

Trevor and Nathan had already lived up to those standards.

—

The late afternoon light filtering through the bunkhouse windows felt like emerging from a deep cave. Nathan's eyes fluttered open slowly, his body protesting every small movement as consciousness gradually returned. He felt refreshed in the way that only came from truly deep sleep, but every muscle in his body ached with the kind of soreness that followed extreme physical and emotional stress.

As his vision cleared, Nathan found Trevor sitting on the edge of his bunk, casually scrolling through his phone as if he hadn't been fighting for his life just hours earlier. Despite the swelling and bruises covering half his face, despite the careful way he held his injured arm, Trevor looked remarkably composed.

Nathan pushed himself up to sitting, the movement sending fresh waves of stiffness through his shoulders and back. Trevor immediately noticed he was awake and quickly put his phone away.

"Trevor, we should go to the hospital," Nathan said urgently, his medical instincts overriding everything else. "I don't know if I stitched you up right. What if there's still fragments in your wounds, what if there's infection, what if–"

"Nathan, I'm fine." Trevor interrupted gently, his Alabama drawl carrying the patient tone of someone who'd been expecting this conversation.

The simple words hit Nathan harder than he'd expected. The fear he'd been holding back while unconscious came flooding back all at once. The memory of seeing Trevor broken and bleeding, of Damian's hands around his throat, of how close they'd come to losing everything.

Nathan's chest tightened as tears began to blur his vision. "I thought I'd lost you..."

Trevor immediately scooted closer, carefully wrapping his good arm around Nathan as the emotions he'd been holding back finally broke free. Nathan cried softly against Trevor's chest, his body shaking with the release of twenty-four hours' worth of suppressed terror and relief.

"You didn't," Trevor whispered against Nathan's hair, his voice rough with his own emotions. "I'm not going anywhere, Nate. And it's all because of you."

Nathan allowed himself a few more moments of vulnerability before taking a shuddering breath and pulling himself together. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, embarrassed by the display but feeling cleaner for having released some of the pressure.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Nathan asked again, studying Trevor's battered face with clinical attention.

Trevor nodded reassuringly. "Other than the swelling on my face and wounds you treated very well, I'm good."

Nathan finally managed a smile, the first genuine one since waking up. Reassured that Trevor was truly stable, he became aware of his parched throat and the way his body was crying out for basic care.

He got up from his bunk and walked to the kitchen area for a glass of water, taking in the scene around him. Everyone was lounging in various states of recovery: Lloyd with his leg propped up, Jimmy favoring his injured arm, Colby and Teeter tangled together on the couch. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost festive, like the aftermath of a hard-won victory.

Trevor joined the others in the common area as Nathan drank deeply from his water glass.

"Sleeping beauty's up," Teeter announced with irreverence.

Nathan frowned, trying to piece together how much time had passed. "How long was I out?"

Colby checked the time on his phone. "Fourteen hours."

Nathan nearly choked on his water. "Fourteen hours?! I-I don't even remember going to bed..."

Jimmy grinned with the enthusiasm of someone about to perform. "Of course you don't, you were like..." He proceeded to mime Nathan's collapse from the night before, dramatically swooning and falling backward, only to land directly on his injured arm.

"Jesus Christ, you're a fucking idiot." Ryan said with exasperated affection as Jimmy yelped in pain.

Nathan looked around at the group with growing concern. "Why didn't anyone wake me?"

Lloyd's weathered face carried the kind of respect usually reserved for heroes. "You deserved it, kid. Some of us could've died if it wasn't for you."

The sincerity in Lloyd's voice made Nathan flush with embarrassment and pride in equal measure. Before he could respond, the television in the corner caught everyone's attention. The local news was running a breaking story, and Colby quickly turned up the volume.

The screen showed Dale Farnsworth in handcuffs being led to a police car, his expensive suit wrinkled and his perfect hair disheveled. The reporter's voice provided commentary about the ongoing investigation, federal charges, and Market Equities' frantic attempts at damage control by completely severing ties with their former partner.

The bunkhouse erupted in cheers and celebration, everyone shouting their satisfaction at seeing their enemy brought low.

"Eat shit, motherfucker!" Teeter hollered at the television.

"Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talking about!" Jimmy added, his injured arm forgotten in his enthusiasm.

The celebration was interrupted when Rip entered the bunkhouse, his expression serious despite the obvious victory they'd achieved.

"We'll take a trip to the train station," Rip announced without preamble.

Nathan frowned in confusion, looking around at the others' suddenly sober expressions. "Which one?"

Ryan's voice carried the tone of someone explaining something to a child. "Not the kind of train station you know, Nate."

Everyone began getting ready with practiced efficiency, grabbing jackets and checking weapons. Nathan and Trevor followed suit, though Nathan was clearly confused about what was happening.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" Nathan whispered to Trevor as they prepared to leave.

Trevor's expression was thoughtful, pieces clicking together in his mind. "Maybe, but I haven't been there."

Trevor had a good idea what "the train station" meant in ranch parlance. He'd heard similar euphemisms in military and mercenary circles. It was the place where problems disappeared permanently, where bodies went when they couldn't be explained or investigated. Every organization that dealt in violence had their version of it.

He was curious to see what the Yellowstone Dutton Ranch's version looked like, and how they'd perfected the art of making their enemies vanish without a trace.