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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐍 hung high and golden as Stella and Montana moved quietly around the small clinic, putting away supplies for Doc, who was out on his rounds. Stella's hands worked with ease, sliding gauze into the cabinet, but her eyes, with a mother's intuition, stayed on her daughter. Montana's silence was unusual—normally she filled the air with gentle chatter about her morning walks with Makayl and Nicki, or about Mrs. Stafford-Smythe's therapy progress.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," Stella said, her voice warm, tinged with gentle concern. She set the gauze neatly into place before turning her full attention to her daughter. "Everything alright, darling?"

Montana startled slightly, as if pulled back from faraway thoughts. She gave her mother a graceful, composed smile, though her eyes held shadows. "Huh? Oh, I'm alright, Mama. Just... a lot on my mind."

Stella wasn't convinced. "I can see something's weighing on you." Her tone was soft, never pressing, but the bond between them was such that Stella could always feel when her daughter's heart was unsettled. "What is it, my sweetness?"

Before Montana could answer, the door opened and Jack stepped in. Stella's face softened into a polite smile, but Montana's mind shifted to the lunch they had shared only days before—his confession that he intended to serve only the wealthy, clients who could pay his fees. The memory pressed heavy on her heart.

"Hello, Jack. It's not your hand again, is it?" Stella asked with a trace of humor.

Jack looked down at his hand before glancing at Montana. "It's my finger. Think I might've broken it."

"There ought to be a law against letting you near a hammer," Stella teased lightly.

Jack chuckled. "To be fair, Mrs. Lawrence, the first time I hurt myself, it was on a wire." His gaze lingered on Montana, who gave him a gentle, guarded smile.

"Montana, why don't you look at his hand while I finish up in the back?" Stella suggested knowingly before disappearing into the supply room, giving them space.

Montana reached for Jack's hand, her touch feather-light as she examined the finger. "Can you bend it?"

Instead of answering directly, Jack closed his hand gently over hers, eyes full of quiet yearning. "Guess I can."

Montana slipped her hand free, her composure carefully intact. "It looks like a bruise. I can splint it if it worsens, though it may be a nuisance."

"Leave it," Jack said quickly, searching her face. "Have lunch with me at the Mercantile today."

Her lashes lowered, hiding her emotion. "I can't."

His disappointment flickered plain across his features. "Tomorrow, then?"

"I'll be with Mrs. Stafford-Smythe," Montana replied evenly.

"Perhaps another time, we can—"

"Jack, do you want the splint?" she cut in, her tone sharper than intended.

He shook his head, subdued. "No. No splint."

"Then excuse me. I have work to finish." With quiet poise, Montana turned away, her pink beret catching the light as Jack happened to slip out the door behind her.

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

In the Lawrence home, the supper table glowed under the soft light of the chandelier. Stella sat with her usual regal composure, passing a bowl of green beans with a gentle smile, while Johnny carved into the roast with his usual swagger, tossing a teasing glance at Robby across the table. Montana sat gracefully, Hailey next to her. Montana her hands folded neatly in her lap, quiet after her earlier conversation with Jack.

Robby leaned forward. "This roast is amazing, Mom. Seriously—better than anything Dad ever tried to cook."

Johnny smirked, fork pointed at his son. "Hey, watch it. I make a mean mac and cheese."

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, Dad. A box of Kraft isn't exactly the same thing."

Stella gave a soft, elegant laugh, her eyes gliding between them with warmth. "Robby, I'm glad you have an appetite. Johnny, you should take the compliment, not argue it."

Johnny gave her that cocky grin he only ever softened when looking at her. "Yes, ma'am," he said with mock-seriousness, but his hand brushed hers under the table with quiet affection.

Montana kept her head bowed slightly, pushing food around her plate. Her usual grace remained, but her silence spoke volumes to those who loved her most.

Johnny noticed. He always noticed when it came to his girls. "Hey, Princess," he said gently, voice dropping out of swagger and into softness meant only for her, "you're quiet tonight."

Montana only lifted her glass, offering him a polite smile before sipping, but said nothing.

Before Johnny could press, a knock sounded at the back door. He muttered, "Who the hell...," stood, and strode over. Opening it, he found Clark, Lydia's husband, holding an envelope.

"Hey, Clark," Johnny greeted.

"Evenin', Johnny. Sorry to interrupt your family meal," Clark said politely.

Stella rose slightly, her voice warm and gracious. "Would you and Lydia like to join us, Clark?"

"Oh, no thank you, ma'am," Clark said with a small smile. "Just came to drop this by. It's for Miss Montana." He handed the note to Johnny.

Johnny carried it back to the table, setting it by Montana's hand with a steady look. She unfolded it delicately, reading in silence.

Her voice was calm but distant as she placed her napkin on the table. "It seems Jack hurt himself again. I should go check on him. I'll be back soon, Mama."

She rose, draping her pink shawl around her shoulders, her beret poised in her hand. With a graceful nod to Stella, she slipped out the door.

Johnny shook Clark's hand firmly. "Appreciate it, Clark."

"Sure thing," Clark replied before heading off into the evening.

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

On the Lockhart ranch, Montana ascended the steps of the newly remodeled home, her shawl brushing lightly against her arms. Through the windows she saw the rooms dimly lit, shadows playing against the walls—yet there was a soft glow of candlelight that beckoned her inside.

"Jack?" she called gently as she stepped into the quiet room. "What is it?"

Jack stood near the parlor table, carefully lifting the lid of an old music box. The delicate notes filled the air, fragile and timeless. "I believe this belonged to my aunt," he said softly. "It must have meant a great deal to my uncle."

The melody lingered between them, tender and unbroken. Jack stepped closer to Montana, the beautiful blonde who had captured his entire heart. His voice carried both nervousness and reverence. "This isn't a ballroom. There isn't an orchestra. But if I can have this dance..." His hand extended toward her, steady but full of yearning. "...I promise I'll never forget it. Because it's with a woman who means the world to me."

Montana's eyes glistened as she smiled through her tears, touched to the core. With regal grace, she placed her hand in his. He drew her gently into his arms, one hand holding hers, the other settling around her slender waist. Her free hand rested on his shoulder, light yet certain.

They moved together in quiet rhythm, swaying to the music box's fragile tune. Jack held her closer, their steps unspoken, their connection undeniable. When their foreheads met, he closed his eyes, savoring the nearness as though he had found something sacred.

Later, as he walked her back to her door, Montana's smile was soft but thoughtful. "You know this doesn't change anything, Jack," she said, her voice laced with both tenderness and restraint.

"I think it changes everything," Jack replied earnestly, his eyes never leaving hers.

She turned toward the door, hand poised on the knob. "I should go inside." Her smile remained gentle, luminous in the lamplight.

Before she could step in, Jack's hand caught hers, warm and sure. With a playful tug, he spun her lightly toward him, his grin breaking through the moment's quiet gravity. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Montana's cheeks flushed softly. "Yeah," she said, her voice almost a whisper. She leaned in and kissed his cheek, lingering just a moment. "I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, the radiant blonde opened the door and slipped gracefully inside, turning once to give him one last smile before it closed.

Jack remained where he stood, breath caught in his chest, knowing with certainty that no dance, no ballroom, no grand moment in his life would ever compare to this night—because it was with her.