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And that’s exactly how John finds you—sitting on the porch railing, legs dangling, eyes fixed on the sloping fields of Yellowstone.
A pint of ice cream in your hand, a glass of whiskey perched precariously beside you.
“You know,” he says in that gruff voice of his, “that’s my emotional support ice cream.”
He’s trying to joke his way through this, like he always does. The faint trace of a chuckle gives him away. He saunters over, but your gaze stays locked on the sky.
“Yeah, well, I needed it,” you reply evenly.
He lets out a long sigh. You resist the urge to glance at him—you won’t give him that satisfaction.
“The ice cream or the emotional support, darlin’?” he teases.
You shrug.
“Support, I s’pose. But beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?”
John clicks his tongue in disapproval. You finally turn to him, leveling him with a look.
“Any reason you’re acting like this, sweetheart?”
You don’t answer. Silence—it gets under his skin more than anything else, and you both know it.
He leans against the railing, long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s pretending to be at ease, but you know better. Most people believe John Dutton doesn’t pretend. He just is. But you’re not most people.
You always notice the way his hand clenches—tight, then tighter. It says more than he ever could. He’s losing his grip on your conversation, and that’s unfamiliar ground for him. There’s a quiet unease radiating off him. He shifts again, edging closer until his hand brushes against your side, tentative. He clenches and flexes his fist again, uncertain. You don’t pull away. His mouth twitches, maybe the start of a smile. The tension begins to ease from his shoulders.
It’s moments like this that make you hate the hold he has on you. No matter how far you try to run, no matter how wrong he is—you can’t seem to stay away. Not for long, at least. He probably knows that, but he’s never said it aloud. Wouldn’t exploit it either. He just leans on it sometimes, subtle, never cruel. And goddamn it, it’s working.
But you’re holding your ground. He crossed a line—one you thought even he would never dare approach. You always knew John Dutton didn’t play nice. He was rough around the edges, often needlessly difficult. But intentionally hurting someone he loves? That wasn’t him. Or so you thought.
His hand clenches again.
You drain your whiskey, set the glass back on the railing, then scoop another bite of ice cream. He hisses when you bite into it instead of licking the spoon. The sound escapes him before he can stop it—pure instinct.
“Jesus, darlin’,” he drawls. “Doesn’t that hurt your teeth?”
A chill runs down your spine—part from the ice cream, part from the cooling Montana air.
“Come on now,” he says. “Get on inside.”
You turn at that, eyes gleaming with something he can’t quite read.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, John.”
He grunts as he pushes away from the railing, joints protesting with the weight of the day. You swing your legs to the other side, curious to see what he’ll do next.
“Gettin’ tired of your games, sweetheart. Either give it to me straight or don’t give it to me at all. But this…” —he gestures between you— “this is just gettin’ on my nerves.”
There’s no venom in his voice. He’s never lost it with you—not fully, at least. Sure, you’ve caught a few sharp remarks when he thought you were being unfair, or when ranch business needed handling and you didn’t jump up fast enough. You’ve seen how he is with Jamie—fighting, yelling, sometimes downright cruel. You always chalked it up to that Montana toughness, that blunt, hard-edged demeanor of his. And deep down, you’ve always believed he means well, even if his methods are anything but gentle.
“John…” He steps closer, placing his hands on either side of your hips. There’s a look in his eyes—intense, searching. You can’t quite read it.
“What’s with you callin’ me John all of a sudden, sweetheart?”
You wish you hadn’t caught the quiver in his voice, the way it wavers just slightly on that last word.
God, why is this so hard? You place your hand on his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Your fingers act on their own then, clutching at the lapels of his shirt. His breath brushes your ear as he leans in.
“Gotta tell you something,” you say quietly, his hands tracing a slow, soothing path along your back. There’s no pressure in his touch—no hidden intention.
“Anything,” he murmurs, the word barely a breath against your neck. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the way his accent softens the ends of his words, like they’re melting.
“My father… he wasn’t a nice man.”
At that admission, John leans back slightly, unsure where this is going. His eyes flicker between your face and your stomach, something unreadable crossing his expression. You shake your head quickly. You’re not pregnant. Never wanted to be—and certainly not with a man twenty years your senior.
He resumes rubbing your back, tracing absent-minded circles while his eyes search yours. Sometimes it feels like he sees right through you, like he already knows everything that matters. But he never lets you return the favor. John Dutton is one of the most guarded men you’ve ever known.
“Anyway,” you say softly, “I can’t get into it. Don’t want to. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Trust means something on the Dutton ranch, doesn’t it? So do that for me, yeah?”
He gives a silent nod.
“I believe you’re a good father, John.”
He scoffs, rubbing a hand across his face before looking away. You reach up and gently place your palm on his cheek. He leans into it like he doesn’t know what else to do with the gesture.
“I do,” you continue. “I’m not always sure you’re a good man—morally, you can be quite fucked up, to be honest. But I believe everything you do puts two things first: the ranch and its legacy. You’re not afraid to make sacrifices, even when they hurt others. Not even when they hurt the people you love.”
His eyes lock onto you again, that unreadable look returning. It’s like he’s silently urging you to keep going.
“But what you did today, John… that went too far. With Beth—”
“She needs to hear it the hard way or she won’t hear it at all,” he cuts in, voice rough. “She needs to fix herself. She needs to man up.”
There’s no mistaking it—you hit a nerve.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant that other thing you said to her. About her mother.”
“That’s not for you to meddle with.”
The motion of his hand on your back stills. He steps away, and you feel the shift immediately.
The walls you’ve been slowly chipping at begin to rebuild, fast. His gaze hardens, his expression shutting down in a way you haven’t seen in months.
“I’m not meddling, John. I’m just saying it.”
“Don’t call me John.”
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
You don’t know why you’re pushing his buttons—it’s not helping in the slightest.
John turns to leave, but he’s underestimated you. You’re on your feet in a flash, stepping in front of him before he can get away.
He worries his lip between his teeth and looks off to the side, but he doesn’t shove past you. It's a small win in your book. If he truly didn’t care, he would’ve walked right by and gone inside.
"John…”
“You’re outta line.”
“I’m trying to make you see reason,” you say, exasperated.
John scoffs, then just stares at you. Clearly waiting to see what you’ll do next.
“God!” you burst out, shoving lightly at his chest. “Why won’t you just listen?”
“Can’t say anything I don’t already know. Don’t you think I know they all hate me? Wanna pile on? Be my guest!”
If you didn’t know better, you might take that personally. But you’ve long since learned that John gets mean when he’s defensive. It’s how he keeps people at a distance. It’s how he’s always been. Lashing out is easier than letting anyone in.
You step forward, taking a risk, placing your hand gently against his chest. You feel the rapid beating of his heart—more erratic than you expected.
“Darlin’,” he says, voice low, “don’t get close if you’re gearing up to leave.”
There’s a desperation etched into his features that you wish you could erase. Your heart aches, and you hate that the words you want to say don't come out properly.
“God, John,” you murmur, “you’re smarter than this, aren’t you?”
He rolls his eyes, but his hands find their way back to your hips like they belong there. Like they always have.
“I don’t think they hate you,” you say gently. “You’ve done everything you could for them. But don’t you think Beth already carries enough guilt? You really want to add to that?”
You try not to sound accusatory—and judging by the way his hands stay steady on your waist, you’re succeeding.
“I said it before I thought about it,” he mutters. “She’ll understand.”
You raise an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“Won’t she?”
“I don’t know, John. Maybe. But you should talk to her. Doesn’t she deserve at least that?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then finally, “Maybe,” he whispers. “You’re getting me soft.” The fake grumble in his voice fools no one, but you don’t call him on it.
“No,” you say quietly. “I’m trying to help you see what kind of man you could be.”
“Too old to change, ’m afraid.”
“You don’t need to change, darlin’. Just get better at a couple of things.” The pet name slips out before you can stop it, but he seems to take it as a win. His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing over your lips. You can tell he wants to kiss you—but he doesn’t. Not yet.
“So,” he says, quieter now, “about your father…” You glance up at him, warning in your eyes.
“I don’t want to know anything you don’t want to tell me, darlin’. Just… why’d you bring him up? Some sort of premonition?”
You rise up on your toes, brushing your lips softly against his. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment.
“Nothing like that. Just… I know how bad it can get. Haven’t spoken to my old man in over ten years. For all I know, he’s dead and buried. That’d be better for everyone.”
“I could take care of that for you,” John growls, his voice low.
“Don’t bother.”
You kiss him again.
“But no—it wasn’t a warning, not a prophecy. I just wanted to help you see reason. You’re not the worst father in the world, John. Hell, you’re not even a bad one.”
He scoffs again, and you swat his chest, not used to him being so self-deprecating.
“But I think you could be a better one sometimes. And holding guilt over your daughter’s head? That’s not part of being better. Deep down, I think you know that.”
He rubs a hand over his face—the telltale sign that he’s relenting. Then he pulls you into his arms and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re right, darlin’. I know you are. It’s just…” He pauses, sighs. “I’ve been like this for so long. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and all that.”
Now it’s your turn to ground him. Your fingers trace slow, comforting patterns along his arm. He relaxes into your touch—eventually he always does.
“Maybe not new tricks,” you murmur, “but I can sure help you sharpen the ones you already know, cowboy.”
“That a promise?” he asks, stepping back just enough to look at you properly. You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
“Seems like it is, honey’.”