Beck's grip on the steering wheel was harsh, vice-like as he pulled into the lot, fixing the sign out front with a blank stare.
He pulled the keys from the ignition, pocketing them, before climbing out of the truck. As he moved toward the entrance, the sound of loud music traveled through the walls.

The building was filled to the brim with people milling about, nearly toppling each other over. Beck sidestepped a few cowboys, frowning as he narrowly missed the contents of one man's drink spilling down the front of his jacket.

He found an empty barstool easily enough, sitting down with a quiet sigh. He lifted his hand, waving down the bartender, pointing to a beer held by a woman beside him. The bartender nodded, turning away.

"Ditched your brother this time?" A familiar voice mumbled from beside him.

Beck turned to his right, looking up at Rip. He wasn't sure how to respond, gaze darting away to escape the other man's observant eyes.
Rio moved to sit down next to him, taking up an invitation that wasn't offered.

The bartender arrived, placing the bottle of beer in front of Beck with a polite smile. He nodded his thanks, reaching out for the cool drink in an attempt to stifle the newfound heat burning across his skin.

"How are you getting home?" The ranch hand murmured, eyes narrowing at the beer as the other man took a sip from it.

Beck met his eyes, shrugging silently. Rip continued to stare, causing Beck to shrink under the assessing gaze, looking down at his drink.
Rip didn't say anything else, moving to rest his arms atop the bar, leaning forward. He continued to watch Beck's shy eyes.

"Are you here with someone?" Beck asked.
Rip raised a brow at the question, turning to nod at the row of booths nearby.

"They come here practically every weekend." Rip muttered, seemingly dissatisfied by the notion.

The group of ranch hands conversed loudly with each other. Every individual looked significantly inebriated.
Beck spotted Lloyd and Jimmy, but he didn't recognize the others. His eyes traveled over each face, before settling on a shockingly familiar one.

"When did you hire Dale?" He murmured, watching the group intently.

"You know him?" Rip's eyes narrowed, turning to look in the same direction.

"My dad had to let him go." Beck explained quietly, confused. He looked to Rip, finding the other already watching him.
"You think John knew that?"

Rip slowly inhaled as his eyes narrowed, thinking. "Probably." He answered finally, tilting his head.
"Why'd he burn him?"

"He and Cassidy didn't get along." Beck supplied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Is your little brother the messiah?" The dark-haired man muttered, amused.

Beck frowned, turning back to the bar. He wrapped a hand around the neck of his bottle, lifting it to his lips. He ignored the burning feeling of watchful eyes at the side of his face.

"You were set on leaving this place the other night." Rip grumbled cryptically, seemingly determined.

"My dad chewed me out." The blond explained, shrugging again, before drinking his beer in earnest. "I didn't want to stick around."

When Beck chanced a glance at the other man, Rip's expression morphed into something he didn't recognize. He grew uncomfortable in the uncertainty, forcing himself to look back down at his beer.

"Do you know anything about..." Beck began before his confidence fizzled out into near nothingness. "...a dead dog?"

"Can't say I have." Rip's eyebrows knitted together, leaning back in his seat.

"One of our cattle dogs was shot just over the fence, in your field." Beck explained, moving a hand toward his face to chew nervously at the edge of his thumb.

"Haven't heard anything of it." Rip murmurs, voice certain. Beck believes him.
"Sounds like we have a game of chess." He tacks on.

"That means my dad's got the next move." Beck muttered, almost to himself.

"I'll keep an eye out." The other man replied good-naturedly. "Why aren't you set on helping him, anyway?"

Beck spared a courageous glance toward Rip, before his eyes returned to the bar top. "He doesn't like me and the ranch isn't mine." He replied simply.

"You're different." Rip states, voice certain.

Beck looks up from his fidgeting hands, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Your brothers are intent on following him off a cliff." The dark-haired explains, watching Beck earnestly.

Beck shrugs, unsure of how to respond. He watched a new beer slide across the table toward him to replace his now empty bottle.

Rip watches him, as if he has the other completely figured out. The blond grew nervous under the scrutinizing gaze, shoulders hunching over in an attempt at a defense.

"Why are you talking to me?" He asked, voice morphing into a tired rasp as he turned to eye the group of Dutton's ranch hands.

He watched as Rip's face transformed, an emotion replacing a familiar blank expression. It was minuscule, a ghost of a frown etched on his face.

"I'm—just confused, is all." Beck amended quickly, leaning forward. He watched as Rip's familiar emotionless face returned almost immediately.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't be?" He dodged the question, flipping it onto the other.

"Yes." A huffed laugh escaped Beck's mouth, softly shaking his head. Rip raised a brow, eyes narrowing, waiting for an explanation.
"Aren't we supposed to be enemies?"

"Who decided that?" Rip inquired, voice ever confident.

Beck's brows furrowed, confused. He shifted in his seat, unsure, before moving to take a sip of his drink.

"'Cause I thought your daddy didn't like you." Rip supplied easily, tilting his head.

The blond frowned in thought, noticing the fair point the other made.

"Maybe pawns need to stick together." The ranch hand proposed, watching the other man polish off his beer.

Beck licked his lips, placing the bottle atop the table. He shoved a hand in the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet. He slowly pulled a few bills from the fold, setting the cash alongside his drink.

"I thought you came here to get drunk?" Rip scoffed quietly, nodding toward the empty bottle. "Two beers is all it takes?"

The other man shrugged, sliding off the stool, and placing his wallet back.

"I'll drive you back." Rip murmured.

"I'm sure I'm under point-oh-eight." Beck assured in protest.

"You still shouldn't drive." The other grumbled, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He shouldered past a few of the bar's patrons, not sparing the blond a second glance.

Beck stood back and watched the other begin to leave, hesitant. He frowned for a moment, before jogging to catch the man at the door. As they neared the black pickup, he looked to his own vehicle.

"My truck'll be left here." Beck muttered in half-protest.

"Get in the truck." Rip demanded, unlocking the doors with the key fob before climbing in himself.

Beck reluctantly followed the order, getting into the passenger side. He restlessly shuffled in his seat, an attempt to become more comfortable in a situation that was entirely the opposite.

"Bill usually keeping ya' locked up over there?" Rip inquired, pulling the truck out of the parking lot.

The town was practically dead at that time of night, save for a few stragglers journeying home. Beck watched as a group of teens crossed the street ahead, the truck slowing to make room for them. His blue eyes followed them across the road, leaning further back into his seat. He snuck a small glance at his driver, stiffening when he found Rip watching his expectantly.

"Huh?" He raised his brows.

Rip chuckled quietly, seemingly amused. The dark-haired man grabbed a toothpick from the cup holder, placing it in between his lips at the side of his mouth.

"Sorry," Beck apologized, scrubbing a sobering hand down his face. "What did you say?"

"Sayin' Bill keeps you locked up over there." Rip explained, turning back to look out of the windshield.

"Yeah," Beck agreed reluctantly, eyeing the sparse streetlights as the truck traveled further out of town.
"A lot of cattle, not enough hands."

"You think that's it?" Rip muttered around his toothpick.

"I guess." The blond replied stiffly, the confirmation unconvincing even to himself. He picked gently at a loose thread at the seam along the knee of his jeans.

Rip hummed, truck slowing as asphalt made way for packed dirt beneath them.

"If you say so." The ranch hand said finally, eyes set on the darkened road. Beck looked up to watch the other man's steady hands at the steering wheel, listening to the tinny sound of an unrecognizable song playing quietly on the radio.

"Only seen you a couple of times outside your property, 'cept for the hardware store." Rip murmured, a biting observation rather than a harmless jest as it may have been intended.

"I remember as a kid, Kayce..." Beck began quietly, watching the other man's grip grow tighter across the steering wheel. "Kayce came over every Sunday, begging him—my dad, to let me come play."

"Rivalry runs deep, hmm?" Rip muttered.

"Guess so." The blond sniffed, forcing his anxious hands into the front pockets of his jacket.
"Kayce, he had that appy. He'd come blazin' in on it."

Rip scoffed at that. "Yeah, I remember. He thought he was tough shit on that horse, even as a teenager."

"Yeah," Beck's mouth upturned into a timid half-smile. "Think he wanted to be like you."

"Yeah?" Rip rolled his toothpick across his tongue. "You bet your ass he did."

Beck lifted his hands out of his pocket, raising them to the vents. He flexed them in front of the warm air, watching the skin grow pink.

"What about you?"

Beck blinked, tilting his head slightly.

"Did ya' wanna be like me?" Rip clarified, turning to look at him. Beck noticed the other's unguarded eyes seemingly for the first that night, unsure of when the man had taken his sunglasses off, or whether he had worn them at all.

"No." Beck replied, voice even, sure.  "I never had time to play games. Gather you didn't either."
He willed himself to look away from the other's scrutinizing gaze, turning toward the window. "I think we were too alike, for me to want to be you."

Rip didn't reply, the cabin of the truck stiflingly quiet. Beck wasn't brave enough to look away from the safety of the passenger window.
The truck slowed as it turned to pull into the narrow driveway of the Harrison ranch. Beck eyed the faded license plate of the vehicle they parked behind, taking a steadying breath.

"Thanks for drivin' me." He spoke softly, voice sincere.

"Sure, Beck." Rip caught the other's eyes, nodding. "Anytime."

Beck nodded stiffly, opening the door, before stepping down off of the truck.

"Maybe you need to piss Bill off some more." Rip suggested. Beck held onto the side of the door, brows furrowing.
"If it means you going out more often."

"Good advice." Beck murmured, biting his lip to hide his amusement. He shut the door, bidding the other goodbye with a raised hand before stalking off toward the side door.

He heard the crunch of treaded tires against rock and dirt grow quieter was the truck drove off, a hand reaching to fasten around the doorknob, sliding it open. He carefully closed the door after him, turning to toe off his boots near the entryway before moving deeper into the house.

"Was that a "Y" on the side of that pickup?" A voice inquired from the living room.

Beck stilled, sighing quietly. He stepped toward the entrance of the living room, leaning a shoulder against the wooden trim. He looked up to see Cassidy seated atop the couch with narrowed eyes.

"Pretty damning evidence." His brother spoke up again.

"Be quiet." Beck ordered in a murmur, expression blank. "People are sleeping."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Cassidy hummed, amused.

"Yes, I would." Beck refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Seriously ain't gonna explain what the hell a Dutton's doing dropping you off?" Cassidy hissed just above a whisper, leaning forward in his seat.

"I don't have to explain anything to you." Beck stuck a hand in his pocket, head reeling back.

"The hell you don't!" Cassidy bristled as his voice rose, moving to stand.

Beck didn't reply, his gaze unwavering.

"Did you forget they shot my fucking dog?" Cassidy reminded as he moved toward him.

"I said," The older began, his tone biting. "Keep your voice down."

"Don't tell me what to do." His brother muttered as he shoved at the other man's shoulders. Beck stumbled, walking back a step to keep his footing.
"You don't give a shit about our land. You ain't fighting, always keepin' your head down, you hardly fuckin' talk." Cassidy threw his hands up in defeat. "Where the hell do you get off?"

"This isn't my land." Beck's eyes narrowed, moving to step closer.
"And you can try to tell 'em I was with a Dutton, but they won't believe you." He jabbed a finger into the middle of his brother's chest, jaw twitching.
"And keep your fucking voice down." He ordered, before turning to leave.