I barely have time to contemplate a second cup of coffee before the front door creaks open again. Heavy footsteps echo across the floorboards—steadier this time. Slower. I know who it is before I even turn around.
“Morning,” John says.
His voice is rough, like it’s been sanded down by years of smoke and silence. I keep my back to him for a beat, staring out the window like the scene outside suddenly got interesting.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
“Morning,” I mutter, finally glancing over my shoulder.
He’s in work clothes—faded jeans, worn boots, and a button-up with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s dirt on his hands, sweat on his temples, and a permanent crease between his brows like he hasn’t relaxed since the Clinton administration.
“You eat yet?” he asks, voice neutral, like he’s trying not to scare off a skittish animal.
“No.”
He nods like he expected that. “You’ll want to.”
I arch a brow. “Why’s that?”
“You’re working the barn today.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t flinch, but meets my gaze with the same calm, unreadable expression that makes my skin itch. “Pace and the others are busy with fence repair and turnout. Horses still need mucking, feeding, stalls cleaned. I told you everyone participates, and you said yourself when we met you wanted to pull your weight.”
“I said I didn’t want to be a charity case,” I snap. “It doesn’t mean I signed up to play cowgirl.”
“Too late. You’re here now.”
The way he says it—quiet but firm-makes my jaw clench. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a statement of fact, like gravity or taxes.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, watching him over the rim. “You really think putting me in a barn full of horses and hay is the best idea?”
He shrugs. “Figure it’ll be good for you. Something real. Keep you out of your head.”
“I don’t need a therapy horse, John.”
“No,” he says simply. “But they don’t lie to you. Might be the only thing around here who doesn’t.”
That stings more than I want it to. I set my mug down a little harder than necessary.
Instead of reacting, he gestures toward the back door with a tilt of his chin. “Boots are on the porch. Sutton left you some clothes that won’t get ruined. Give it an hour out there. If you really hate it, I’ll find you something else.”
I cross my arms. “And if I walk out there and don’t come back?”
His eyes meet mine—steady, sharp, and maddeningly unreadable.
“Then you don’t come back,” he says. “But at least you’ll have earned your coffee.”
He turns around and walks out, the door swinging behind him before I can come up with a good enough insult.
I stand there for a long second, my arms still crossed, heart thudding too hard for a conversation that barely lasted five minutes.
Earn your coffee.
Asshole.
Still…I find myself heading to get changed. Maybe it’s spite. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Or maybe—just maybe—I need something to hit that won’t hit back.
