I follow him to a fresh stall layered in straw and—yep—manure. The scent hits me like a punch, and I do my best not to grimace. He steps in first, boots crunching, and gestures like a gentleman welcoming me into the world of literal shit.
“Welcome to mucking,” he says, all charm and no shame. “We remove the dirty straw, toss it into the wheelbarrow, lay fresh bedding. Easy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You do realize I grew up in the suburbs, right? Didn’t even own a pet until I was an adult, and it was a cat. That’s the extent of my animal care experience.”
Sam laughs. “You’re gonna do great.”
He digs his shovel into the bedding with practiced easeand dumps a pile into the wheelbarrow like he was born doing this. I mimic him with far less grace, stabbing the rake into the straw and lifting a clump. It promptly falls apart mid-air and drops near my boot.
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I’m not cut out for ranch life.”
He grins, leaning on the shovel. “Not yet. But you’ve got potential, darlin’.”
I glance up at him, pretending to glare. “If you call me darlin’ while I’m holding a rake, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
He leans in just slightly, eyes dancing. “Now that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
And despite the cold, the smell, and the mess, I laugh.
Because somehow, with him?
This doesn’t feel like work at all.
9
It takes us about an hour to finish mucking out all the stalls. My back aches, my arms are sore, and I’m pretty sure I smell like something that’s never seen the inside of a bottle of dry shampoo.
That’s when Sam wipes his hands on his jeans and says, “Alright. Time to head to the other barn.”
I bite back a groan. Nooo. Why did I think ranch life was going to be all horses and flannel and lingering glances? This is manual labor.
But I follow anyway. Because apparently I’m a sucker for punishment and for the man leading me straight into it.
I grin when he reaches out and casually takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and sure, and something low in my chest tugs.
Outside, the sky has darkened. Thick, gray clouds roll in, and delicate flurries swirl around us like tiny warnings. The snow falls soft and silent, brushing against my cheeks, catching in my eyelashes. It’s beautiful in that quietly ominous way, like the calm before something bigger.
Sam glances up. “If it keeps coming down like this, we’ll need to hurry.”
But he doesn’t let go of my hand. And I don’t ask him to.
Phern leads the way down a hill toward another barn, her boots cutting clean tracks through the snow. This barn is older, broader, and the red paint is more faded than the first. It sits low against the hill like it’s bracing itself against the wind.
To the side, a wide pasture stretches out, enclosed by thick wooden fencing. Several horses stand scattered across it—tall, muscular, and wild-looking. Their coats are shaggy against the cold, and their eyes follow us with sharp caution. Their ears are pinned back slightly, heads high and alert.
It’s not the same calm energy I felt with Delilah. These horses carry something more volatile.
“Why aren’t they inside?” I ask, slowing my steps just a little.
“They do as they please,” Sam answers beside me, his tone even. “We leave the barn open in case they want shelter, but most of the time, they stay out.”
“They’re not cold?”
“They’re built for it,” Phern calls over her shoulder. “Strongest stock we have. Tougher than the rest of us, that’s for sure.”
My eyes drift back to the closest mare, a striking bay with a jagged white blaze down her nose. She watches me like she’s sizing me up, and I’m not sure I’d win the standoff.
“Are they dangerous?” I ask quietly.
