He straightens, clearly surprised again. “That wasn’t enough for one day?”
“Nope.” I toss the gloves onto the post. “Unless you’re scared I’ll out-cowboy you.”
His mouth twitches. “I’d like to see you try.”
Challenge accepted, again.
And as I walk past him, chin high and heart hammering, I know I just earned a sliver of something from him. Maybe not respect yet. But something.
And I’m going to keep earning it, one rope loop, one dusty step, one slow-burn stare at a time.
By the time we break for water, my shirt’s stuck to my back and my hands are red beneath the gloves. Cash leans against the fence post, arms crossed, watching me like he’s still not sure if I’m a joke or a miracle.
“Not bad,” he says. “You lasted longer than I figured.”
I shoot him a look. “Is that your way of saying I impressed you?”
He shrugs. “I said ‘not bad. Let’s not get carried away.”
I walk over, chest still heaving, and grab my ice water from the fence. My arms ache in a way that feels weirdly satisfying. It’s not gym-sore. It’s earth-sore. Real. And despite the heat, the grime, and the way Cash’s sarcasm chafes worse than my jeans, I feel good. Like maybe I belong here after all.
“I didn’t come out here to fail,” I say, setting my oversized bottle back on the post.
Cash raises an eyebrow. “Sure about that? Because this ranch isn’t exactly built for soft hands and city shoes.”
I step up to him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar across his chin I never noticed before. “You think I’m soft?”
His eyes narrow slightly, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something warmer. “I think you’re determined. Doesn’t mean you’re ready.”
“I don’t need to be ready.” My voice is steady. “I just need to be here. And try. Every day.”
He studies me like I’ve flipped a script he was too proud to admit he was writing. Something shifts in his jaw, then relaxes.
“You know what your dad used to say?” he asks, voice low. “That you could get to the top of any mountain as long as you stopped making excuses.”
I blink at him. “He said that to you?”
“He said a lot to me.” There’s weight in his tone. Bittersweet. “Once told me I had more grit in one finger than most men had in their whole damn body. Said that meant something, even if my old man didn’t think so.” “Most of the time, I listened.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. I want to ask more. About what my dad said. About what Cash remembers. But the look on his face says this conversation’s over, for now.
Instead, I say, “Well, good. Because I’ve got more than mountains to climb around here.”
He huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh. “Don’t expect me to carry you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I grin, then toss him the gloves. “What’s next, cowboy?”
Cash catches them, his eyes still locked on mine. “Next? We move hay bales.”
I groan. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he says. “Unless you want Emmy doing it for you.” he says, while tossing the gloves back at me.
That gets a laugh out of me. “Fine. Lead the way.”
As we walk toward the barn, side by side and still worlds apart, Emmy comes running up behind us shouting "I want to help," something softens in the air between us. The tension doesn’t disappear. It coils tighter.
But now, there’s something else too.
