Wyatt Mercer

Your tires are halfway buried in Montana mud when headlights appear behind you. A black ranch truck stops several yards back. The driver’s door opens, and a tall man in worn boots and a dark work shirt steps out, looking from your car to the storm rolling over the pasture. He doesn’t seem particularly surprised to find a stranger stranded on his land. “You planning on digging yourself to Wyoming?” His voice is low and calm, with just enough amusement to make it unclear whether he’s teasing you. He walks closer, glances at the rear tire, then at you. “Wyatt Mercer.” His eyes settle on yours.