He huffs. “My only problem is the giant stick up your ass.”
“Really? That’s your comeback?” I snap. “You haven’t lifted a finger in a week, and now you’re throwing attitude?”
He steps close, dropping his voice to a low rumble. “Are you sure you’re not the one with the problem, blondie?”
His nearness seems to buzz in my veins, tightening something low in my belly. For half a second, I forget how to breathe. Then without a word, I walk away to greet Mad’s grandpa Joe. No way am I giving Dylan the satisfaction of seeing he’s gotten under my skin.
I’m already one week into my six weeks here. It’s all the time I’ve got doing the one job I love. It’s not just Dylan’s complete lack of interest in ranching that’s convinced me I’m ona countdown. It’s him. The man barely looks at me unless it’s to argue or sigh or roll his eyes. Even if he decided not to sell, even if a miracle happened and he wanted to keep the horses and run this place as a working ranch, I’d still be the last person he’d want hanging around.
Five weeks to find another ranch, another paycheck, and another shot at stability for Mad. Because if I don’t, it’s back to my parents’ house. Their life. Their rules. I might as well try to enjoy my time here. If that means biting my tongue and putting up with a man who is consumed by misery, sulking from his bruised ego, and who doesn’t give a damn who he takes with him on his way down to rock bottom, then so be it.
But something’s gotta give. Because this? This isn’t working. Not for me. Not for the horses. And sure as hell not for Dylan.
EIGHT
DYLAN
JAKE:Family dinner 7 p.m.! Chase, you bringing dessert? Nothing wacky this time!
CHASE:Sure am. Sweet potato pecan pie with chili chocolate drizzle wacky enough for you?
JAKE:Gross!
DYLAN:I’m busy.
JAKE:If you’re throwing another pity party, Dyl, maybe invite us next time!
CHASE:Before you buy a fleet of antique tractors?
JAKE:Or a herd of llamas. Ranch diversification, right?
DYLAN:Dicks!
JAKE:Yeah, but you’re gonna miss us next week.
DYLAN:Not even a little bit.
The sound of laughter drifts through the open window of my bedroom and I can’t stop myself from glancing out to where Izzy and Madison are striding out from the barn, deep in conversation. Guilt gnaws at my insides. They’re already halfway through the morning feed. Madison laughs at something Izzy says, the little girl’s face lighting up like waking early on a Saturday to work the ranch is the best thing in the world.
I watch them slip through the gate of the first paddock and force myself to look at the horses. Their coats gleam in the morning sunlight. They look like they belong—Izzy, Mad, the horses. They all belong on this ranch in a way I don’t anymore.
I head to my weights corner, grab a dumbbell, and launch into a shoulder set. This room has always been my safe zone. The place I came when I was a kid and struggling with the grief of losing my dad and not wanting to show it. The refuge I needed when I was recovering from my injury. Now, though? It feels like I’m hiding. Like I’m a coward, and everyone knows it.
Get your ass out of bed and get your head straight.
These are living creatures, not footballs.
Even Chase—the guy who only remembers appointments when Mama calls him twice—asked me what my plan was. I drop the dumbbell on the rack. I set up the damn feed account, didn’t I? Doesn’t that count for something? But Izzy’s voice echoes in my head like a barb:Bare minimum is still asking too much.
Shit, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. But this mess is mine and hiding sure as hell isn’t getting me anywhere.
I yank on jeans and a clean tee, lace up the work boots I haven’t worn in months, grab a cup of coffee and stalk into the morning sun. Madison is still in the paddock with the foals. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was deep in conversation,holding a team meeting, like she’s the coach and they’re the players.
So it’s just Izzy who greets me by the barn.“Hey, you found some appropriate work boots,” Izzy calls, nodding at my boots, reminding us both of my barefoot, sorry-assed state the day she arrived here and the sneakers I’ve been wearing every day since.
“Shame you couldn’t find any manners,” I bite back before I can stop myself. All my resolve to help disappears under her harsh glare.
She raises one eyebrow before she replies, “What are you doing here?”
