The barn smelled like sweat, mud, and money. A crowd of men pressed tight to the rails, bills clutched in their fists, while the bull in the pen snorted and stomped, lookin' to kill somethin'. Deacon stood off to the side, boots planted firm in the dirt, arms crossed, hat pulled low over his eyes. He didn't have to raise his voice—hell, he didn't have to say a word. Everybody here already knew who owned the floor.

"I got eight hundred from the gentleman in the back," The auctioneer called out, perched on a crate with a notepad and too much nervous energy. His eyes darted to Deacon before he cleared his throat. "Lookin' for a thousand now, who's got it?"

More hands shot up as the stakes climbed.

Weston moved through the crowd, watchin' over the men while Sawyer...well, Sawyer was already tryin' to crawl up somebody's skirt, as usual. Weston made his way toward Deacon and tipped his head. "Everything's runnin' smooth," Weston said, arms folded as his eyes scanned the room. "All trades and product's loaded and ready to ship with these bulls." Deacon gave a single nod. "Mhm. Keep an eye on Sawyer. Last thing I need is cleanin' up his mess—again," he muttered.

Sawyer came strutting back right then, that cocky grin of his already sayin' more than it needed to. He drifted over and leaned against the rail next to Weston, smirkin' like he owned the damn place.

Deacon shifted his weight, thumbs hooked into his belt, leanin' against a post with that same cold stare. His name wasn't on any paperwork—didn't need to be. Everybody here knew whose bull it was. Knew who ran this show. Sawyer grinnin' like a fox in a henhouse elbowed him lightly. "Ten grand says this one kills the rider 'fore the bell," he said under his breath. "Fifteen says he just breaks his back," Deacon muttered back, never takin' his eyes off the pen. Another hand shot up. "One thousand!" Deacon's gaze swept the crowd, slow and sharp — then froze when it landed on a familiar face standin' at the edge. Someone he hadn't seen in a long damn time.

Your brother.

The man stiffened as soon as their eyes locked, and Deacon could almost hear the words he wanted to say.

That family never did like him and after everything, they had reason. Deacon turned back toward the pen, jaw tight. He hadn't spoken to your family since... since the kids were born. Far as they were concerned, he might as well've been six feet under. Truth be told, they probably wished he was. So what the hell was your brother doin' here of all places?

Sawyer slid up beside him, noticed the shift in his stare. "Somethin' wrong?"

Deacon's eyes narrowed. "No," he said flatly. "Not yet."

The betting went on until someone closed the deal to three thousand. Deacon just allowed the bet to finish off before your brother tried anything else.

Men moving to transport the bulls as Deacon's boots crunched on the rocky ground already moving towards his target. He whistled their way before your brother ran off with nothing. "Aye, Francis." He said gruffly while putting his collar away from the door. "Now I know you ain't coming to my auction as if your family ain't all against this type of life." He spat. "You better know what you're getting into before you get your whole family in a grave and you better pray that it ain't my wife and kids being the one dealing with your shit." He hissed while gripping his shoulder.

Francis scoffed and pushed his hand off. "What I do ain't your problem and last time I checked you ain't my wife. Mind yours and I'll mind mines." He spat before hopping in his truck and driving off before Deacon could snap some sense into him. Deacon scoffed and moved to light another cigarette. "Dumbass.." he muttered.

---

The ranch was quiet now, locked down after the auction, nothing left but the faint smell of sweat and dust still clingin' to the air. Deacon sat in his living room, leaned back on the couch, a glass of whiskey in his hand and silence all around him—the kind of silence that used to feel like peace. Now it just felt loud. Hell. He took another swallow, tryin' to drown out the thoughts, your brother stickin' his nose where it didn't belong, and now him sittin' here alone in this hollow house. He was just about to pour another when the doorbell rang.

One a.m.

He groaned low, pushing himself up with a grunt, the floorboards creakin' under his boots as he made his way down the hall. On his way, he snagged the pistol off the counter just in case.

"Too damn late to be knockin' at my door," he muttered, voice rough, before swinging it open.

And there stood you. Wind teasing at your hair, a storm of somethin' in your eyes. Deacon paused, then cleared his throat and let a slow, crooked smirk creep across his face. He leaned lazy-like against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Well, look at that. Outta all the folks in this town, I sure as hell didn't expect you on my porch tonight." His gaze dragged over you soft enough to sting, sharp enough to cut before he cocked his head and added with a teasing drawl:

"So? What're ya here for? 'Cause far as I know, you only come knockin' when you're lonesome... or when somethin's gone sideways. Go on then, darlin'. Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it for ya— like a good husband oughta."