I’m scraping the last of the manure into the wheelbarrow when my legs finally start to shake.
Not the good kind of shake that comes with a hard ride. This is the bone-deep,everything hurtskind that settles in when your day started before the sun and never once slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath or eat a sandwich.
I love all the changes that are happening here on the ranch. It wasn’t that long ago that our outlook was bleak. We were operating on bare bones, and Matty was holding this place together with duct tape and pure determination. Now, we’re taking on new clients, our stalls are full, and the new rodeo school will be opening next year. It’s a complete one-eighty, butrapid growth comes with its own set of challenges, and today is a great example.
We need more hands on deck.
Daddy and Matty have been concentrating the influx of revenue on much-needed repairs, replacing old equipment, constructing new boarding stalls, and buying stock for our breeding program. Charli, Cabe, and I have been bearing the brunt of the work.
I lean on the pitchfork for a second, breathing through my nose—the familiar scent of hay, horse, and sweat wrapping around me like an old, comfy blanket. The barn lights hum overhead, casting everything in that soft yellow glow that makes even the messiest stalls look peaceful.
Almost.
Charli drags the water hose across the concrete aisle, water slapping against the floor. “Last one,” she says, her voice echoing. “Thank God. My tank is completely out of gas.”
Cabe laughs from the far end of the barn, already swinging open the gate to turn out the final mare. “Your tank ain’t never been full.”
“Whatever,” Charli mutters. “I can go toe-to-toe with you any day. Even on empty.”
I snort despite myself and push the wheelbarrow out into the cool evening air. The sky is already slipping into that deep post-sunset purple, the kind that makes you realize how late it really is. My stomach growls like it’s personally offended.
Seven thirty. I know without checking the time. Because Grandma turned the porch light on half an hour ago.
And I also know what that means.
She’s not going to be happy with us.
We finish in practiced silence—feeding, checking water, latching gates. It’s muscle memory at this point, the three of us moving around each other without getting in one another’s way.When we finally make our way across the gravel toward the main house, my hands ache, and my shoulders are tight.
The aroma of Grandma’s meat loaf hits us as soon as we step up onto the porch.
Charli groans. “They’d better have saved some for us.”
“They did,” Cabe says cheerfully. “Grandma knows I love her meat loaf, and seeing as I’m her favorite grandchild, she’d never let them finish it off without me.”
“She sets that table at seven on the dot,” I say, untying my hair and running my fingers through the sweaty mess. “We’re thirty minutes late. And you know the rule—if your butt isn’t in a seat by seven, there’s no guarantee.”
“Well,” Charli says, “we would’ve been done on time if you hadn’t decided to get into a pissing match with a contractor, throwing our whole day off.”
I shoot her a look. “That was fifteen minutes at most. Besides, he’d started it.”
Cabe chuckles. “I heard about that. Lord help that poor man.”
The back door creaks when we step inside, and the smell of supper hits me full force—meat loaf, potatoes, gravy, cornbread. My stomach actually hurts now.
Grandma’s voice carries from the dining room. “Seven o’clock means seven o’clock. Not six thirty. Not seven fifteen. Notwhenever you feel like ito’clock.”
“I’ll take the blame,” I say, already heading for the sink. “I’m the oldest.”
“You are not,” Charli calls after me.
“I feel like it today.”
I scrub my hands at the kitchen sink, mud swirling down the drain, while Grandma continues to mutter under her breath. Charli and Cabe disappear down the hall to the bathroom, arguing about who gets the sink first.
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We lost track of time.”
She huffs, but doesn’t look at me. “Time doesn’t get lost. People do.”
