I led him to an empty stall and unlatched it. The ammonia smell hit like a wall. Beau’s face cycled through disgust, regret, and horror before landing on grim determination.
"Oh my god," he said, stepping back. "That’s—"
"A lot of manure. Told you." I stepped in and demonstrated. "Scoop, lift, shake, dump. Don’t get too much or you’ll tire out. Use your legs. And for the love of god, don’t step in the fresh piles."
"There are fresh piles?"
"Always. Horses poop like it’s their job."
He took a deep breath like he was about to dive underwater, positioned the pitchfork, and scooped. Immediately, half of it slid off because his angle was wrong. He did this weird juggle to catch it and nearly dropped the whole thing.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Angle it up. Tilt—no, the other way. There."
He tried again. Marginal improvement. He looked so proud when it actually landed in the wheelbarrow, you’d think he’d just brokered world peace.
"Good. Now do that about eighty more times."
His face fell. "Eighty?"
"Give or take. And this is just one stall. We got six more."
"Six—" He stopped, closed his eyes, took a breath. "Okay. I can do this. It’s just shit. Shit happens."
I turned away so he wouldn’t see me grin.
It started rough. His technique was all wrong—too much upper body, not enough leverage. He kept trying to scoop too much and nearly toppling over. He stepped in a fresh pile within five minutes and made a sound like his soul was leaving his body.
But he didn’t quit.
By stall three, he was getting the hang of it. His rhythm improved. He was sweating through his white shirt, breathing hard, hair plastered to his forehead—but he was doing it. Twelve-year-old Beau would’ve given up by now. Twelve-year-old Beau cried over a splinter.
This version kept going.
"You good?" I asked, leaning on the doorframe.
He looked over, face flushed, sweat dripping. "Yeah. Just hot."
"It’s gonna get hotter. Pace yourself."
He nodded and went back to work. I went back to supervising, making sure he didn’t impale himself or collapse from heatstroke. The fact that he was finally pulling his weight—barely—was mildly satisfying.
By stall five, the humidity in the barn had climbed to 'sauna' levels. Beau paused, yanked his soaked T-shirt over his head, used it to wipe his face, and tossed it over the stall door.
I looked away, focusing very hard on a bucket. Then I looked back.
A shirtless Beau Sterling—covered in sweat and smeared with Oklahoma dirt, breathing hard from actual labor—was... unexpected.
Not a catastrophe. Not a problem. Just... inconvenient.
His skin caught the morning light slicing through the barn slats, turning him into some kind of half-baked farm ad. Broad shoulders shifting as he stabbed the pitchfork into a stubborn pile of hay, chest rising and falling with each breath. It was the kind of build that said "personal trainer three times a week," not "shoveling manure for the first time." I figured he’d bail after stall two, whining about his cuticles or calling Daddy for a helicopter extraction.
Nope. Here he was, still going. Raw effort in every swing, like he was trying to prove something—to me, to himself, who knew.
I cleared my throat, the sound cutting through the quiet. "What’re you doin’?"
He paused, leaning on the pitchfork handle, looking at me like I’d asked why he needed oxygen. "It’s hot?"
"It’s not even seven."
