Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs. Then Beau appeared in the doorway looking like death in denim.
His hair was sticking up in about fifteen directions—not styled, actually wrecked. His eyes were slits. He wore a plain white T-shirt that looked too clean for what was about to happen to it.
He looked soft. City soft. Like he’d shatter if I handed him anything heavier than a latte.
The last time I’d seen Beau Sterling, we were twelve. He’d been all gangly limbs and big eyes, following me around asking a million questions, getting spooked by chickens, stepping in cow shit, and crying about his sneakers. He’d been sweet in that clueless, rich-kid way—tried hard even when he was useless.
Looking at him now, sleep-deprived and stumbling toward the coffee like a zombie, I couldn’t see much of that kid. Just an exhausted man who clearly regretted every decision that led him here.
Good.
"Coffee," he croaked.
I slid the mug across the counter. "Figured you’d need it."
He grabbed it with both hands and drank like his life depended on it. When he finally surfaced, those blue eyes blinked at me, confused and vaguely annoyed.
"What time is it?"
"Five forty-five."
"In the morning?"
"No, Beau. Five forty-five at night. Sun just rises real early in Oklahoma." The sarcasm was automatic. "Yes, in the mornin’. Welcome to ranch life."
He made a pained noise and went back to the coffee. I watched him gulp it down, unimpressed. Twelve-year-old Beau used to chug apple juice like that after we’d spent an hour trying to teach him how to ride.
"This should be illegal," he muttered. "Waking up before six violates human rights."
"Human rights don’t apply to livestock," Pops said cheerfully, sliding pancakes in front of him. "Eat up, son. You’ll need fuel."
Beau ate without complaining, which was something. He looked more human with food in him—stubble on his jaw, sleep creases on his face. Less magazine cover, more actual person.
Still didn’t look like he belonged here, though.
"Alright." I stood, draining my mug. "Time to see what you’re made of. Grab those boots by the door."
He looked at the work boots—proper mud-caked leather, not his fancy bullshit—like I’d just told him to strap cinder blocks to his feet. "Those aren’t mine."
"They are now. Pops dug ’em out. They were mine when I was younger." I grinned. "Hope you don’t mind wearin’ girl boots."
His face did something complicated, but he put them on without arguing. At least he’d learned that much since he was twelve.
"This is Bandit," I said, stopping at the first stall. My gelding was already giving Beau a look that said I will end you. "He’s mine. Best barrel racer in three counties, but he don’t like strangers. Don’t try to pet him."
"Wasn’t planning on it," Beau said, eyeing Bandit like the horse might explode. "He looks like he wants to kick me."
"He probably does. Bandit’s got good instincts."
I grabbed a pitchfork and tossed him the second one. He caught it, barely.
"This is a pitchfork," I said. "You use it to scoop dirty hay and horse shit. Put it in the wheelbarrow. Take the wheelbarrow to the manure pile. Come back. Do it again. Questions?"
He stared at the pitchfork, then the stall, then me. "How much shit are we talking?"
"Depends on the horse. Bandit’s prolific, so... a lot."
"Great. Love that."
