But here I was, and I sure wasn’t marching back to the ranch house, so I knocked on the bunkhouse door.
“Carson!” A cheerful, burly middle-aged cowboy with thinning hair greeted me like he’d been waiting for my knock. He had on faded jeans, a plaid shirt stretched over an ample middle, and a dish towel over one shoulder. “You made it.”
Despite my having no clue who he was, the guy warmly ushered me into an open-plan kitchen dominated by a large wooden table and chairs in the center. The room had a homey feel, with various faded cowboy signs on the walls and the smell of biscuits in the air. Three other men sat at the table.
“Here, let me help you with your bag.” A younger guy left the table to rush over to the doorway. He was way too skinny to be a cowboy and had fancy, styled hair that was better suited to aboy band, but he certainly seemed like he belonged here as he reached for my bag.
“I got it.” I held tight to my duffel, but the younger guy was persistent and pried it out of my hand.
“Have you eaten yet?” the older cowboy asked.
“Coffee.” The single word was about as much as I could manage as my head swam with the rush of activity and new faces.
“I’ll take that as a no and a request both.” He bustled over to a counter with a coffee pot and poured coffee into a large mug.
“That’s Casey, our cook.” The younger guy, who continued to hold my duffel bag, took it upon himself to make introductions. “I’m Adler, and at the table we have Motley and Chips.”
There was no way in hell I would remember all the names, but I nodded politely. “Hey.”
“And I’m Kat.” A tall woman with a long dark braid strode into the kitchen. “Stable manager, and darn glad to see you. We’ve been shorthanded, and Colt says you’re good with horses.”
“I’m a’right.” My tongue tripped on the word all right, giving me the same accent as a Philly-born buddy I’d had in basic training.
“We’ll ease you in, though, nice and slow.” Grayson entered the bunkhouse, stepping around me to offer a hearty handshake. He was somewhere north of forty-five, with the sort of rugged features and silver hair that made him appear older than the ranch itself. He’d worked here as the foreman long enough. Despite his grizzled appearance, he’d been welcoming the night before when he’d stopped by the main house.Too welcoming.My back stiffened as he added, “And we’re not gonna quiz you on names.”
“Don’t need easy.” I had to grit out the words, which came out far harsher than I’d intended. But of all the things I hatedabout my new reality, people pandering to me was the worst. “Treat me…any…another…other hand.”
I made a terrible case for myself as my tongue tripped all over itself, halting and reaching for the wrong words before settling back down. I cast my gaze down at the kitchen floor, not wanting to see Grayson’s expression transform from friendly to pity.
“Will do.” Grayson clapped me on the shoulder, undoubtedly already planning to give me the easy route anyway. “Eat up. Casey made biscuits and gravy in honor of your first day. We’ve got plenty of stalls in need of mucking.”
“Good.” I nodded sharply and took a seat at the table as Casey brought over the mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits and gravy.
Flaky, buttery biscuits with a rich, white sausage gravy were a favorite indulgence of mine. I’d had plenty of bad versions in the military, but Casey’s recipe was top-notch. Much as I loved the food, though, eating took all my concentration not to spill or slosh. I’d worked hours in PT and OT on fine-motor skills, yet drippy foods remained a challenge.
Something about my curt responses to Grayson or my expression must have warned the others off asking me too many questions. Their conversation swirled around me, familiar yet foreign, like taking a seat at a new chow hall as I started to piece together who was who. Adler sat next to Grayson. Maverick had mentioned last night that Grayson had a guy. Judging from how Adler ribbed Grayson, it had to be him, although his sunny demeanor was a stark contrast to Grayson’s stoicism.
After we ate, Grayson showed me to the bunk where Adler had tossed my duffel. Lower bunk, of course, and closest to the bathroom. More accommodations. My back was going to be a permanent stack of lumber by the end of the day, and I was more than a little relieved when we moved onto a tour of the barn with Grayson and Kat.
I’d hoped to let the two of them talk while I trailed along and got my bearings, but as we entered the large state-of-the-art horse barn with its rows of stalls and large, attached riding ring, Kat turned toward me.
“What sort of experience do you have with horses?” she asked, stopping near a tack room. “Can you ride?”
“Ride decent enough.” I measured out each word. Kat nodded, expression intent like she was expecting more info. I swallowed hard. “Worked…in school…for Colt’s…”
“He worked with Betsey’s folks’ horses during high school,” Grayson finished easily for me as I faltered. Fuck. I hated when others had to fill in the blanks for me, and I hated my relief at not having to explain further even more.
“Ah. I should have remembered that.” Kat gave a warm smile. Like Grayson, she was a longtime ranch employee, and she’d likely known Colt’s late wife Betsey, who’d come from a family of barrel racers. Colt had gotten me the job at her parents’ small stable and training facility when I’d been in high school. The area was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. “You were such a young’un back then. Guess I saw you around their barn a time or two.”
“Yep.” I didn’t have specific memories of her or Grayson, but our paths had likely crossed at some point.
“Better question is, are you cleared to ride?” Kat continued with the questions. “Any restrictions?”
“I’m good.” I offered an expression I hoped passed for friendly and competent. Hard to know what my face might actually be doing, especially as my temples throbbed and a muscle in my jaw twitched.
“Colt said the doctors recommended a riding helmet and caution around overexertion.” Grayson was too damn helpful.
“Helmet. Fine.” I’d served under enough commanding officers to know which battles to fight and which to let go. I’dlet the helmet requirement go in favor of the war to be taken seriously as a hand. “I can work.”
