I felt kind of bad her driving 5 hours to maybe be turned down… I sighed, drank the last of my coffee and walked towards the house. I knocked three times, and then she came out, her eyes slightly red.
"Hey, Solene. Want a tour? Horses first."
She wiped under her eyes once more and titled her head. "Horses? Like, actual ones?"
"Unless you’d rather watch paint dry."
Solene huffed but followed me to Daisy’s stall. "Fine. But make it quick. I’m not really an animal person." She peered over the gate.
"Oh!" Solene jumped back. "It’s huge! And slobbery! Please don’t spit on me"
"Horses don't spit. That’s llamas." I unlatched the gate. "Come on. Pet her nose. She’s gentle."
Solene hesitated, then stepped in—white espadrilles first. She extended a manicured hand. Daisy blew a soft breath, and Solene yelped, stumbling backward into me.
"Easy," I said. "She likes you."
From the next stall, Bandit whinnied—a loud, welcoming hello.
Solene’s head snapped toward the sound, startled. She took a step back, overcorrected, and her heel caught on a loose clump of hay. She windmilled her arms, eyes wide with panic.
"Whoa—!"
Time slowed. Beau reappeared just in time, brushes in hand, but he was too far. Solene’s foot slipped fully, and she went down—backward.
Right into a fresh, steaming pile of manure I’d mucked out earlier but hadn't fully cleared yet.
She landed with a wet, heavy squelch that sounded like a boot being pulled out of mud.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Then chaos.
"Oh my GOD!" Solene shrieked, scrambling up, her pristine white shorts now a muddy brown disaster. Manure smeared her calves, her hands, and there was even a streak across her cheek where she’d wiped at her face in panic. "What IS this? It’s warm! And it stinks! Beau!"
Beau was there in an instant, but not to help her—he was biting his lip so hard to stifle a laugh that his face turned purple. "Solene, it’s... uh..."
"Manure!" she wailed, hopping on one foot like it would help. "Horse shit! On me! My clothes—my skin—oh god, is it in my hair?"
Pops, who’d been watching from the doorway, let out a low chuckle that built into a full guffaw. "Welcome to the ranch, miss. Happens to the best of us."
I couldn't hold it in anymore. Laughter bubbled up, starting as a snort and exploding into full belly laughs. Solene, covered in shit—literally—flailing like a diva in a bad rom-com. And Beau, trying so hard not to crack, his shoulders shaking with silent tremors.
"It’s not funny!" Solene snapped, but her voice cracked, and even she started to giggle—hysterical, teary-eyed giggles. "Beau, help me! Shower! Now!"
Beau composed himself enough to offer a hand, pulling her up fully but keeping her at arm's length. "Guest house has hot water. Come on."
She clung to his arm—manure and all—as he led her out, shooting me a look over his shoulder that was equal parts apology and relief. I waved them off, still laughing. Not in bad faith, but because it has been so long since it happened to anyone there, and to be honest it was always that funny.
By evening, Solene had showered (twice) and emerged in fresh clothes, subdued. Dinner was quieter than I expected—her sitting next to Beau, but not clinging. She asked Pops about the ranch, about how long we’d been here, about what it took to run a place like this.
“It’s a lot of work,” Pops said. “But it’s honest work. You know where you stand at the end of the day.”
Solene nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever done honest work in my life.” She said it like a confession.
Beau looked at her, surprised.
“I’m serious. Everything I do is for show. Charity galas where we don’t actually care about the cause. Brunches where we compete over who has the better table. It’s exhausting.” She looked at me. “How do you do it? Just… be yourself?”
