A sigh of relief falls from my lips when I make it through the gates unscathed, and follow the unpaved dirt road toward the hub of the action. My attention is snagged by the ranch house on my left that boasts a wraparound porch. Two rocking chairs sit deserted by the door, halfway to the point of falling apart. I wonder if the place was actually taken care of at one point. There are little splashes of color that I can see through the overgrown brush on either side of the walkway—maybe there are still garden gnomes or little flags buried beneath the tangle of grasses. If not for the riotous weeds and the rank stench of cattle, I might be willing to call the place charming.
That scent gets heavier the closer I get, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. The cows and pigs roaming about in separate pastures to my right are kind of cute, at least from a distance, but the smell is truly unforgivable. A few men are out in the fields with the animals, wrangling cattle into massive trailers and shouting to each other over the din of a busy ranch. The only thing that separates my car from the throng of animals are wooden fences that are wrapped in equal amounts of weeds and barbed wire.
They’re obviously ancient, but they look… solid. Maybe.
I hope.
Shaking my head, I force myself back into a positive mindset as I head toward the wider opening where several other cars are parked. So, the place is in disrepair; oh well. It’s not like that’s exactly uncommon amongst our clients, and my boss told me that this was going to be a big project all around. I’ll whip things into shape and get back to the comforts of my cozy little apartment in no time.
With the promise of curling up on my couch with a bottle of wine, I scan the rows of cars, looking for a spot that seems like a reasonable place to park.
The massive barn stretches for what seems like a mile back, surrounded on all sides by dirt paths and unkempt grasses. It’s a classic dusty red with white accents, although the white is pretty scuffed and filthy. I guess it’s to be expected from the looks of the rest of the place, but I’d been hoping for at least one shining beacon of hope amidst the mess. Instead, it looks like I’m getting a ragtag group of rugged young men and a mess of livestock.
Between the animals and the various heavy machinery, I’d much rather park closer to the house, so I take a spot between one of the fence posts and a beat-up truck.
In all reality, I’d like to drive right up to the house and only have to walk about five feet to the front door, but there’s a closed gate that crosses off that driveway separately, and I decide to cut my losses. I can only hope that my pumps will survive walking through grass that has who knows what kind of filth hidden in it, just this once.
I shoot an award-winning smile in the rearview mirror, both checking that there’s nothing in my teeth and reminding myself that all I have to do is keep my chin up. I’m damn good at my job, and this is just going to be another opportunity to prove that I know what I’m doing.
So, with my shoulders straight and a pleasant smile on my face, I step out of my car.
And straight into a pile of shit.
My jaw drops as I look down, yanking my foot away with an unpleasant squelch. I fight off a gag, taking a few moments to curse a blue streak at every single one of my coworkers who are sitting in the office fielding phone calls right now. As soon as I have that out of my system, I wipe my shoe off on the grass next to my car, cringing at the thought.
“Forget it even happened,” I whisper to myself. “You can buy yourself a new pair with the bonus from this and you never have to look at them again.”
I watch my step much more carefully this time, stepping gingerly away from my car and toward the gate. A few of the ranch hands pause to glance over at me, and I can practicallyfeelhow obviously out of place I look here, but I ignore the stares. It’s not my problem that they’re not used to well-tailored pantsuits and a perfectly styled ponytail.
By the time I’m through with this place, they’ll all have neat uniform shirts and name tags.
I reach the gate leading to the house and hesitate, unsure how rude it would be to just duck beneath it and make my way up the walkway.
Thankfully, a voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see an older man with a wheelbarrow full of grain behind me. His brow arches curiously.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.
He’s covered in sweat and tanned in a way that speaks to a lifetime of working outside, and he looks frailer than I’d expect of someone doing this kind of labor. I make sure my smile is still firmly in place as I step closer, holding my hand out to him.
“I sure hope so,” I reply. “My name is Mary Bryce. I’m a marketing specialist from Branded. I have a meeting set up with the owner of the ranch to discuss some things today.”
The man looks at me for a considerably long moment before reaching out to take my hand in his own. I do my best not to grimace at the dirt I can feel on his palm as I shake his hand.
“Al,” he introduces. “If you’re looking for Everett, he’s probably somewhere in the barn.”
I bite back a groan at the thought of walking through there, not really all that interested in braving the stench offarmin such close quarters. I don’t allow my reticence to make an appearance, though, instead just offering Al a nod in thanks as he wanders off toward one of the pastures, pushing the wheelbarrow ahead of him.
A few bad smells and a little dirt under my nails isn’t going to stop me from giving this my all. Just because I drew the short straw on taking this project doesn’t mean I won’t turn the whole mess into a gold mine for my clientandmy resume. So I turn right back the way I came, navigating the chaos of poop piles and food storage bins and cattle pens. There are chickens roaming freely around a tall pen by the front of the barn, and I see a man hunched over, gathering up eggs.
I pick my way around the half-empty bags of feed and various weed-whacking equipment that looks like it hasn’t been used in a solid decade. It all smells like shit—cattle, bovine, equine, whatever you want to call it, it smells like shit. Everything seems haphazard and messy, and I almost want to hope that the major issue with operations here is just a lack of organization.
I probably won’t be that lucky, but it’ll certainly be nice if a set schedule and some spring cleaning isallthe ranch needs.
The moment I step into the barn, the sound of voices fills my ears. I can hear whoever’s in here—finding them is another story entirely. The stalls in the barn itself are mostly empty, save for the few horses who hand their heads out over the doors to stare curiously at me.
Brushing my hands against each other, I pray that my suit still looks neat, as I’m most definitely not going to touch its expensive lavender linen fabric again until I wash my hands about six times. Taking a quick breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, I glance over at the horse nearest to me.
“Wish me luck, Secretariat.”
