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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐍 spilled gently through the curtains of the clinic, brushing the room in a pale golden glow as Mrs. Stafford-Smythe stirred awake.

Montana entered with quiet elegance, her presence both calming and luminous, a warm smile softening her features. She moved to the bedside, her voice gentle but assured.

"You're awake. Good. How do you feel today, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe?"

"Tired," the older woman murmured as she tried to sit up. Without hesitation, Montana reached for an extra pillow, sliding it behind her back with tender care.

Montana's smile lingered, warm and encouraging. "Your speech is stronger today."

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe frowned slightly. "But not my arm."

"With physical therapy, it's possible to regain the use of it," Montana said softly, her tone carrying both hope and quiet certainty.

At that moment, Windsor entered, his face alight with joy. "You're awake, madam. This is wonderful."

"Don't fuss over me, Windsor," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe replied, though there was affection in her voice.

Montana turned to him with her calm grace, her words spoken as though she were smoothing the air itself. "We should let her get some rest, Mr. Windsor."

"Of course, miss," Windsor said, bowing his head slightly before turning back to his mistress. "I'll be in the next room, madam. I won't leave you."

"I know you won't, Windsor," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe said, her voice softened by trust.

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30 minutes outside of Austin, the late Texas sun stretched long shadows across the Lockhart ranch, its barbed-wire fence running the line between the Lockharts' land and the Walkers'.

Dust clung to boots, sweat beaded foreheads, and the air hummed with cicadas as Nathan, Clay, Robby, JB, Derek, and Johnny worked shoulder to shoulder, tightening wire and driving posts.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "I'd be at a great disadvantage if you fellas hadn't shown up to help me fix this place up. I'd never have gotten it near ready to sell."

Nathan leaned on his hammer, his voice carrying that firm Walker steadiness. "Well, Jack, neighbors look out for each other. Always have."

Robby smirked, sweat glinting on his jaw as he kicked at a loose coil of wire. "Yeah, besides—this is nothing. I've fixed worse fences with one hand tied behind my back."

"Sure you have," JB drawled, his grin cocky, roping twang in his voice.

Derek chuckled low, quiet but amused, shaking his head.

Johnny adjusted his grip on the post driver, smirking. "Kid's got Cobra Kai mouth but zero ranch calluses. Give him another decade." His swagger rang out, but the edge softened when he glanced at Montana's name stitched faintly on his thoughts—his little girl, always his soft spot. Still, his eyes narrowed on Jack, a flicker of annoyance he couldn't quite hide.

Jack swallowed, ignoring Johnny's look, and bent back to the fence.

"Drew was always helping me out," Bobby said from down the line. "Church, town, didn't matter. Least I can do is return the favor."

"Drew was one of the first to welcome Jenny, the kids, and me to Austin," Jimmy added, clipping the wire.

Nathan's sharp eye caught movement. "Hey, careful there—you're gonna cut yourself on that rusty—"

Too late. Jack hissed as the barbed wire bit deep into his palm. Blood welled, dark against his skin.

Clay was at his side in seconds, setting down his tools, Rip Wheeler calm and commanding. "Let me take a look."

"It's nothing," Jack muttered, trying to pull away.

"Hand." Clay's voice left no room for argument. Reluctantly, Jack showed him the wound. Clay studied it, jaw set. "That's deep. Rust and puncture don't mix. You don't mess around with cuts like this—you'll get a bad infection. You need to get it cleaned out proper. Town. Now. Stella or Montana can handle it."

"I'm fine—" Jack began.

Nathan cut him off, his Walker authority heavy as the Texas heat. "No. You're not. Rust isn't something you play cowboy with. Go."

Jack's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."

Johnny smirked faintly at Jack's retreat, muttering under his breath, "Kid better not be running to the clinic just to moon over my daughter."

JB leaned back on the post, grinning. "What's the matter, Lawrence? Afraid the fancy lawyer's got smoother moves than you ever did?"

Derek chuckled, quiet and dry. "Hell, JB, Johnny still struts like it's 1984. Kid just happens to wear a tie instead of a gi."

Johnny shot them both a glare, his lip curling in a half-smirk. "Yeah, difference is—I knew what I was doing. That kid? He's barely housebroken."

JB barked out a laugh. "Housebroken or not, he's got eyes for Montana. Better get used to it."

Johnny straightened, shoulders squared, voice dripping with swagger. "Trust me—there's not a guy alive who's good enough for my daughter. Especially not a big shot lawyer with a cut hand."

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Inside, Stella and Montana moved with quiet rhythm, stocking shelves, their presence gentle as sunlight. When footsteps sounded on the porch, Montana's head lifted, blonde hair catching the light. She peeked through the window, her lips curving. Stella followed her daughter's glance and saw Jack making his way up the steps.

"I've got paperwork to finish," Stella murmured, retreating toward the back, her steps graceful and quiet

Montana opened the door with her bright, welcoming warmth. "Hi, Jack."

Jack smiled, a little sheepish, his injured hand tucked behind his back. "Hi, Montana. Came to see Dr. Jackson about my hand. He around?"

"He's out checking on patients," Montana replied gently. "What happened?"

"Had a little run-in with a rusty wire. When do you expect him back?"

"Not for hours," Montana said. Before he could object, she reached for his hand, her touch soft but sure. Her violet eyes darkened with concern. "Rusty wire? Tetanus sets in quick. You've had your shot?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then let me take a look." Her voice left no room for pride. She guided him inside with that quiet, regal authority that always seemed to come so naturally to her.

Jack sat near the exam table, watching her gather supplies. Every movement of hers—gentle, deliberate, graceful—pulled him in deeper. It wasn't just her beauty; it was her strength, her compassion, her quiet fire. And as she bent to clean his wound, he knew with startling clarity: he loved her. Not with a flicker of infatuation, but with a force that felt irrevocable.

"My grandpa said you studied at Columbia," Montana said conversationally, her tone light as she worked. "You didn't mention that the other night at supper."

Jack gave a faint grin. "Guess I could've worked that in."

Montana chuckled softly. "Well, between my father interrogating you, and my brother and uncle reliving their karate glory days, you didn't get a word in edgewise." Her smile warmed him. "Still—you're fortunate. Columbia's an incredible opportunity."

"Which university did you attend?" Jack asked, wincing slightly as she wrapped the gauze.

"Texas at Austin. Rodeo scholarship." Her tone softened, thoughtful. "Always wanted to be a physician. Watching friends hurt in the rodeo and not being able to help—it stayed with me. But medical school's too expensive. Nursing was the next best step."

Jack studied her, struck by the quiet courage in her words. "You'd make an excellent physician." His voice was firm, sincere.

Montana flushed, her gentle grace glowing as she tied the last knot. "I should've warned you—it might sting."

Jack shook his head, smiling, his eyes holding hers with a steady fondness. "No. You've been careful. Gentle. Better than most doctors I've met."

Montana smiled softly, heart fluttering. "All set. Keep it clean, okay?"

"Thank you, Montana," Jack said, holding her violet eyes for a moment that lingered too long to be casual.

"Be careful around that fence. Let my grandpa, brother, and uncles wrestle with the rusty wire."

He chuckled, warmth in his gaze. "Deal. I'll see you later."

"Tell them I said hello," Montana replied warmly.

"I will."

At the door, Jack paused. He turned back, his eyes finding Montana this time—not fleeting, not uncertain, but steady, certain, already devoted. For a heartbeat, she looked back at him, violet eyes soft and luminous. The silence between them swelled, comfortable and full of unspoken promise.

Jack stepped out into the Texas sunlight knowing with absolute certainty: his heart belonged to her.

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"Those sheets are rough," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe complained as Dr. Jackson checked her pulse, while Stella and Montana smoothed the fresh linens beneath her.

Montana and Stella exchanged a soft chuckle, then glanced at Dr. Jackson, whose patience was clearly thinning.

"They're all I've got," he deadpanned.

"That cot is like sleeping on a board. And the draft in here practically blows the blanket off my legs. How long until I can leave?"

"You can move to the boarding house today, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe—if Montana will stay with you. Can you do that?" Dr. Jackson asked.

"But I thought I'd continue to work here with you and my mom," Montana said, violet eyes flicking between them.

"Mrs. Stafford-Smythe needs a nurse," Dr. Jackson reminded her. "Which is what you are."

"Actually, I'm—" Montana began, her voice gentle but firm.

"It's all settled, then," Dr. Jackson cut in briskly.

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"Windsor, is this the best room the boarding house has to offer?" Mrs. Stafford-Smythe sniffed as she sank back against the bed.

"I'm afraid so, madam," Windsor said, hands clasped before him.

"I suppose it's a step up from the clinic," she allowed, fussing with her pillows. "Still, these pillows are much too flat. They'll never do. And surely they've got better linen."

"I'm mortified by these inferior accommodations," Windsor said, his voice full of pomp, "but I fear it's not possible to get anything better in this...uncivilized outpost."

A soft knock interrupted them.

Windsor opened the door to reveal Montana, poised and radiant, her smile gentle. "Oh, Ms. Lawrence. Please, come in."

"Thank you, Mr. Windsor," Montana said, stepping inside with effortless grace.

"Madam, I'll just be downstairs in the restaurant to check on your tea and pastries," Windsor said.

"Wash the china yourself, Windsor. I don't trust these people to have high standards of cleanliness."

"Yes, madam," Windsor said, bowing before leaving.

Montana glided closer to the bedside, her voice warm. "How are you feeling today, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe?"

"How do you think I'm feeling? Being forced to endure these primitive conditions?"

"You know," Montana said gently, her smile steady, "we're not all uncivilized here."

"Really? Did I somehow miss seeing the opera house, or a good library, or even a hat shop with the latest fashions from Europe? No? I thought not."

"Austin has other things to offer," Montana replied, lowering herself gracefully into the chair.

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe arched a brow, unconvinced. "Such as?"

"Good people. And a church that welcomes everybody—even strangers. We take care of each other in difficult times," Montana said, her voice tender but resolute.

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe studied her a moment. "Let me ask you something, Ms. Lawrence—have you ever even been outside this small town?"

"My father's originally from the San Fernando Valley in California. I used to visit when I was a toddler." Her tone softened. "I prefer Austin. Shall we begin your therapy?"

She reached for the older woman's arm with delicate hands, guiding it slowly in gentle circles. Her voice was calm, soothing. "Now, remember—as I'm moving your arm, you've got to imagine you're doing it on your own, okay?"

"I saw you reading late into the night last night," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe said.

"Oh—I'm so sorry. Did the light keep you awake?"

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe shook her head. "My age keeps me awake."

Montana's smile warmed further. "I'll turn the light out earlier tonight."

"Must've been a very interesting book to keep you awake at that hour."

"Oh, it is. It's called The Laws of Life, written by Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell." Her eyes lit with admiration. "My grandma Ava's great-great-grandmother heard her speak once in Boston. I can't imagine what it must've been like to hear her in person."

"You sound like you greatly admire her."

"I do. She paved the way for women to become doctors." Montana's smile was luminous.

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe studied her thoughtfully, her tone softer now. "Ah. And that's what you want to be."

"I'm fortunate that I was able to become a nurse," Montana said, her grace unwavering. "I rodeoed all my life and earned a scholarship, but it only covered so much. So I chose nursing school. Still—it's always been my dream to be a sports physician."

As she spoke, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe's arm lifted faintly from the bed.

"You moved your arm," Montana said gently, her voice brightening.

"Your powers of observation are remarkable," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe quipped dryly.

Montana's answering smile was soft, patient, and encouraging. "This calls for a cup of tea." She reached for a cup and held it lightly, as though presenting a treasure. "Now, imagine this is your favorite Earl Grey. See if you can lift your arm enough to take it."

"What? Like a dog doing tricks?"

"Like a woman who wants her independence back," Montana said firmly, though her tone remained kind. "If you apply your willfulness to your therapy, you might just get better."

Mrs. Stafford-Smythe tried again, lifting her arm, though not high enough to take the cup. She let out an exasperated sigh, eyes closing.

"It's alright," Montana soothed, her voice calm. "We'll try again in the morning."