They mumbled greetings, polite but wary. I was the outsider now, the city woman who came to tell them how to do jobs they'd been doing since before I could walk. I'd have to earn their respect all over again, and this time, being Wyatt's girl wouldn't help. If anything, it would make it harder.
"I'm setting up a temporary lab in the side office," I announced, keeping my voice professional but not condescending. "I'll need samples from each breeding group, properly labeled with their tag numbers. But I don't want to disrupt your normal routine, so we'll work around your schedule."
"You want us to pull samples?" Jimmy asked, his weathered face skeptical.
"Only if you're comfortable with it. Otherwise, I can do it myself. I just need someone to help me identify which animals are which until I get familiar with your current stock."
"You know how to pull samples?" One of the younger hands asked, his tone suggesting he doubted it.
Instead of answering, I grabbed a collection kit and headed for the nearest stall, where a beautiful Black Angus heifer stood placidly. I moved with the muscle memory that apparently hadn't faded, approaching her calmly, running my hand along her flank, talking soft nonsense until she relaxed. The tail hair sample was collected in under thirty seconds, properly labeled, and stored before the cowboys had finished exchanging glances.
"I might have spent some time in the city," I said, turning back to them, "but I was raised here. I haven't forgotten everything."
Jimmy cracked a small smile. "Fair enough, Ms. Garrison. Tell us what you need."
It took three hours to set up the makeshift lab. The equipment I'd brought was state-of-the-art—a portable genetic analyzer, digital microscopes, and hormone testing kits. Things that probably cost more than some of these men made in a year. I tried not to think about that as I calibrated machines and organized supplies.
By 9 AM, I was walking the hands through the new data logging system I'd designed. It was tablet-based, simple enough that even the most technology-resistant cowboy could manage it.
"Every animal gets logged daily," I explained, showing them the interface on the tablet screen. "Health indicators, feeding data, breeding observations. It feeds directly into the main system, so we can track patterns over time."
"Seems like a lot of extra work," Buck commented, but he was looking at the screen with interest.
"Five minutes per animal, max. And it'll save hours when it comes to breeding decisions. The system will flag optimal pairings based on the data you input."
"Computer's gonna tell us which bull to use?" another hand asked skeptically.
"No, the computer's going to give you information. You still make the decisions based on your experience and knowledge. This just makes sure you have all the facts."
I spent the rest of the morning working with them, showing rather than telling, getting my hands dirty alongside them. By the time the lunch bell rang—yes, they still had an actual bell, because some traditions were worth keeping—I'd collected samples from thirty head of cattle and taught three cowboys how to use the tracking system.
I was heading back to my cabin to grab a protein bar and hide from the midday heat when Louisa intercepted me on the porch of the main house.
"Ivy Garrison, you are not eating some packaged nonsense for lunch when there's real food right here."
She was carrying a tray with sandwiches that looked like they could feed a small army, a pitcher of sweet tea that was already sweating in the heat, and her expression brooked no argument.
"Louisa, you don't have to?—"
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to one of the porch chairs. "You're thin as a rail and probably living on coffee and whatever passes for food in Dallas."
I sat. You didn't argue with Louisa Blackwood when she used that tone. I'd learned that at fifteen, and apparently, some lessons stuck.
The sandwich was thick-cut ham from their own smokehouse, cheese that was definitely not from a package, tomatoes from her garden, and some kind of aioli that made my taste buds weep withjoy. The first bite had me closing my eyes, overwhelmed by the simple perfection of it.
"When's the last time you had a proper meal?" Louisa asked, settling into the chair beside me with her own glass of tea.
"I eat," I said defensively.
"Restaurant food doesn't count. Takeout definitely doesn't count. Don’t forget I had my time in the city. I know what it’s like.” It was easy to forget that Louisa went to college in Austin, too. But unlike me, she had come back for Owen, not work.
I glanced at her briefly. “I cook sometimes."
Her look said she knew exactly what my version of cooking entailed—bagged salads and pre-marinated chicken breasts that I ate standing over my kitchen sink while answering emails.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the ranch hands head back to their afternoon tasks. Wyatt's truck was notably absent—he'd been gone when I'd arrived this morning and apparently had no intention of crossing paths with me if he could help it.
"The presentation yesterday was impressive," Louisa said finally. "Owen couldn't stop talking about it last night. Said you've become everything he hoped you would."
