“No, really.” He nods toward the muck I’ve cleared. “Most city folks would’ve quit two stalls ago. Especially ones with L.A. nails and a habit of glaring at everything that moves.”
I glance down at my hands. The nails are chipped, grime caught under them. I’ve never had fancy nails. Never could afford them. I was more worried about being able to afford food and shoes that weren’t held together by duct tape.
I wipe my forehead with my sleeve and meet his eyes. “I don’t quit.”
His gaze lingers on me a second longer than necessary. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you do.”
Something flickers between us then—heat, maybe, or challenge. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
I look away first.
“You going stand there, or are you going to grab a pitchfork?” I ask.
He tips his hat up, grin returning. “You askin’ for help now?”
“I’m threatening you with labor.”
Colter laughs, the sound low and warm, and steps toward the wall where a second pitchfork hangs. “Well, hell. Can’t say no to that.”
As he joins me in the next stall, I brace myself—not for the work.
But for whatever this is between us.
Because I get the feeling that’s going to be a whole lot harder to clean up.
Colter makes a show of rolling up his sleeves a little higher before grabbing a pitchfork. Of course he does. Like the man needs to flex on me in a literal stall full of shit.
“I gotta say,” he drawls, dragging the first forkful into the wheelbarrow, “you got good form. Real aggressive. Like you’re imagining someone’s face down there.”
“Not someone,” I mutter. “Just yours.”
He chuckles. “Damn. Should’ve worn armor.”
“You should wear a name tag, so I don’t accidentally bury you under a pile of this stuff.”
He scoffs like he’s unimpressed, tossing another load into the wheelbarrow. “You’ve got jokes now? Look at you. Ranch life’s turning you into a real peach.”
I shoot him a sideways glare. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, too quickly. “It’s written all over you.”
I pause. “What is?”
“You hate being here. Hate needing help. Hate not being the one in control.”
I grip the pitchfork tighter. “Keep talking, cowboy, and I’ll show you control.”
His grin slips for a second, and I catch it—the flicker of something behind his eyes. Something darker.
“That’s the thing, Peyton,” he says, voice low, calm. “You think you’re hiding it well. But people who’ve been through hell? We can spot each other from a mile away.”
My hands go cold around the wood handle.
“I didn’t come out here to play shrink,” he adds, softer now. “I thought maybe you’d wanna know someone sees it. That’s all.”
I force my shoulders to stay relaxed, force the tightness out of my jaw. “Well, you saw it. Congrats. Want a medal or a muffin?”
He chuckles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “A muffin sounds nice. You bake?”
