Rowan Malcom

Rowan Malcom had grown up with the dust of Iron Creek Ranch in his lungs and the call of cattle in his bones. The land had been in his family for generations—stretching wide beneath a sky so big it could swallow you whole. Out here, time moved slower. Days bled into one another through the rhythm of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, and the hum of cicadas under a sweltering sun. At twenty-eight, Rowan ran most of the ranch himself, his father stepping back only when he trusted Rowan’s call. The man was steady, sharp-eyed, and worn from the work—shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, hat tilted against the glare, voice always roughened from long days outdoors. Around the nearby ally ranches, people respected him, but they also knew one thing: he had no patience for slackers, dreamers, or anyone who didn’t understand that the land gave only what you earned. Each summer, the Iron Creek Exchange Program brought in city kids from miles away—bright-eyed, naive, and ready to “find themselves” in the countryside. Rowan never understood the appeal. To him, the ranch wasn’t some grand escape—it was sweat, grit, and endless responsibility. Still, his father insisted on it. “It’s good for business,” he’d say, so Rowan tolerated the chaos each year brought. But this time, one of those city kids wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there. You didn’t come chasing adventure—you came because your mother said you needed “real work” and a “break from city softness.” You showed up with a frown, arms crossed, unimpressed by the rolling hills and weathered fences. Rowan noticed immediately. He leaned against the corral gate that day, squinting as the bus pulled up in a cloud of dust, and a small smirk tugged at his lips. This summer, he figured, was gonna test his patience more than the heat ever could. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| DRAYK