The vehicle pulls in and cuts the engine. The door opens. Nicole steps out into the floodlights like she belongs there. She’s in jeans and boots with her hair pulled back. There’s no hesitation in her stride as she takes in the scene with the fence line, men working in mud, and storm debris scattered like an afterthought.
She doesn’t ask permission. She walks straight toward us.
“I brought donuts,” she says, lifting a hand. “And coffee. Figured you’d need both.”
Luke grins. I don’t move.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say.
“You already said that.”
She turns to Luke. “Where do you want me?”
The question is simple and practical. Luke looks at me, eyebrow raised. I hesitate just a second too long.
“Barn,” I say. “Lower stall flooded earlier. We’re moving equipment.”
Nicole nods once. “Show me.”
She doesn’t wait for me to lead. Nicole moves into the rhythm of the ranch like she understands it and she probably does. She works with animals that break when pressure’s mishandled and situations that don’t care about excuses.
Watching her cross the yard, I feel the shift ripple through the place. The men straighten. Like her presence flipped a switch none of us realized was there.
She shouldn’t be here. But she heard about my problems and showed up to help solve them.
I leave Luke and Ben on the fence line and motion Nicole toward the lower barn. The ground squelches underfoot as we walk. Inside, mud clings to the boards where water pushed in earlier. The lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
“This is where it backed up,” I tell her, gesturing toward the far end. “Drain couldn’t keep up.”
She crouches immediately, running her hand along the edge of the concrete, eyes sharp and assessing.
“Water line reached here,” she says. “Didn’t sit long, though.”
“No,” I agree.
She stands and takes in the rest of the space. Saddles are stacked higher than usual, feed bins moved out of the way, but one piece of equipment still sits where it always does. It’s a heavy grooming cabinet on wheels, metal frame, packed tight with tools and supplies.
“That needs to move,” she says.
“It does,” I confirm. “And it’s heavier than it looks.”
She grips the handle anyway and gives it a test pull. It doesn’t budge. I step in without comment, placing my hands opposite hers. Together, we shift it back inch by inch until it clears the damp patch beneath it. The wheels squeal once before rolling free.
She exhales. “There.”
We position it farther up the aisle, out of the way. She wipes her hands on her jeans and turns back toward the flooded area, already mentally sorting through next steps.
“I can start clearing this,” she says. “Dry it out.”
“You don’t have to …”
“I know.” She looks at me then calm and certain. “But I can.”
I hesitate. It’s my barn. My responsibility. My instinct is to stay, oversee, make sure everything’s done right. But that instinct has been failing me lately.
She picks up a broom and nods toward the door behind me. “You’ve still got a fence line to finish.”
I don’t move.
