By the time I pull into Ironhorse, the sun is already up.
I kill the engine of the old truck and sit there for half a second longer than necessary, rubbing a hand over my face.
I step out of the truck, and Darby is waiting, arms crossed, chewing on a piece of straw. His eyes narrowed on me.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I know.”
He squints at me. “You sick?”
“No.”
“Truck break down?”
“Nope.”
I didn’t get much sleep last night because a certain cowgirl kept me up till the wee hours. Not that I’m complaining.
I don’t share that with Darby though.
“Just forgot to set my alarm.”
I’ve been here before dawn every day since I started. I take the longest shifts. The hardest chores. The jobs nobody else wants. Not because I’m trying to impress anyone, but because this place, this work, makes me feel like I’m earning my keep.
“Don’t make a habit of it,” he finally says.
“Won’t.”
He jerks his chin toward the barn. “We gotta head out. Last herd’s gotta get pushed south before the weather turns.”
“Turns?”
“Yep. Forecast is calling for snow this week. Might get six inches. Might get three feet. Gotta prepare for it all.”
I nod and head for Blackjack’s stall. He snorts softly when he sees me, dark eyes bright, and I rub his neck the way I always do.
I’ve laid claim to the sable gelding that was once considered Caison’s horse before he purchased his new stallion, Midnight Storm.
“Hey, boy,” I murmur. “You ready to get to work?”
I brush him down quickly and tack him up. Saddle. Cinch. Bridle. Everything clicks into place like it’s supposed to.
Unlike my head.
Out on the land, the sky is already starting to look different. The blue is sharper. The air bites. You can feel winter coming the way you can feel a storm rolling in.
We ride out to catch up with the others, hooves thudding against frozen dirt, and the herd comes into view in a slow, moving mass of brown and black. We fan out, pushing them the long way south, toward lower ground and better shelter.
It’s hard, honest work. The kind that usually keeps my head clear.
Today, it doesn’t.
Every time I slow, my thoughts drift right back to Shelby. The way she looked, curled up in my bed this morning. The way she felt in my arms last night.
I shake my head, urge Blackjack forward, and focus.
We spend the day building windbreaks out of old fencing and hay bales, dragging extra feed out with the tractor, laying down straw and cornstalks in thick bedded packs behind the barriers so the cattle have a fighting chance when the snow hits.
