Real ranch boots, the same one's I left here years ago, not the city-chic suede ones in my closet back in Austin. Those were a buttery-soft beige with gold accents, more fashion statement than footwear. Perfect for brunch and window shopping, not stomping through mud and manure.
These boots, on the other hand, are stiff as cardboard, rubbed raw around the ankles, and smell faintly like tractor grease and wet hay. These are dusty, stiff, and two sizes too big. A distant memory. Like everything else in this world I’ve walked back into.
The scent of manure hits me like a punch to the nose before I even reach the barn. A mix of hay, horses, and something I don't want to identify clings to the air thick as syrup. My stomach does a slow roll, but I breathe through my mouth and keep walking. Pride is a hell of a motivator.
Cash is already up, of course, leaning against the stall door like a Marlboro man come to life, arms folded, eyes gleaming with amusement and just enough challenge to boil my blood. That damn black Stetson casts a shadow over his sharp cheekbones, and the way his jeans hang low on his hips is criminal.
"You’re late," he says, not even looking up from the feed bucket he's measuring.
"It’s six-oh-five," I snap. "And it took me five minutes to convince my daughter, Emmy, not to feed the chickens her Pop-Tarts."
He smirks, and I want to throw something at his perfect, rugged face.
The chores start simple enough, mucking stalls. I have a pitchfork. I have determination. I have... no upper body strength. Ten minutes in, I’m sweating through my hoodie, my palms are blistering, and there’s something warm and suspiciously squishy stuck to my left boot. I gag. But I keep shoveling.
Harper pokes her head in just long enough to offer a cheerful thumbs-up and an apple for the horses. "You might want to armor up before facing the chickens," she teases, eyes twinkling.
"They’ve been extra feisty since I fed them leftover cornbread." She winks and adds, "Also, your city boots called, they're filing a complaint." Then she vanishes like the magical unicorn she is. Emmy’s giggles echo from outside, and I think I hear her telling a chicken a knock-knock joke.
My lower back screams. My arms ache. My hair’s falling out of its clip and clinging to the sweat on my neck. I want to cry. I want to quit. I want to stomp back to the house, throw my city shoes in the SUV, and drive back to civilization.
But I don’t.
Because this ranch, my father's legacy, no matter how complicated, is now mine to fight for. And because ifI leave, Cash wins. And I refuse to let that brooding cowboy with the stupidly sexy jawline and maddening smirk think I’m just some spoiled city girl who can’t handle a little dirt.
So I square my shoulders, grip the pitchfork, and shovel like my pride depends on it.
Because it does.
By mid-morning, I’m certain this ranch is trying to kill me.
Cash has vanished, probably off somewhere brooding attractively with a hay bale or glaring at a fence post, and left me with a wheelbarrow full of something that smells like dead body parts.
I try to push it toward the compost pile, but the thing has a mind of its own. It tips sideways like a drunken frat boy and dumps its entire load right onto my boots.
“Are you kidding me?” I hiss, hopping back and slipping in what Ihopeis just mud. My arms flail, and I land flat on my butt with a wet splat that soaks through my jeans.
Harper appears at the fence, sipping from her oversized iced coffee like she’s front row at a comedy show. "You’re doing amazing, sweetie," she calls, deadpan.
I flip her off with both hands.
Just when I manage to stand up, grimy, damp, and utterly defeated, Emmy gallops over with a stick she’s decided is her new horse. “Mommy! Look! I named him Burrito!”
Of course she did.
The next disaster is the chicken coop. Did you know chickens are terrifying? I didn’t. I open the gate and they charge like tiny, flapping velociraptors. One pecks my leg, and I swear she’s aiming for blood. Another tries to make a break for it, and I find myself in a sprint, arms out, hollering like a lunatic as I chase a chicken across the yard in boots that weren’t made for anything faster than a mosey.
Harper’s laughter is audible from somewhere behind me.
Eventually, after three laps around the henhouse, two near face-plants, and a scream that probably woke the dead, I corral the bird and stumble back into the coop.
The chicken, whom I’ve mentally named Satanetta, glares at me from the corner like she’s plotting my downfall. My boots are caked with something suspicious, my breath is coming in short gulps, and I’ve sprouted a feather in my hair like some deranged Disney princess.
All I need is a pitchfork and a musical number, only to realize I’ve locked myself inside.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
It takes ten full minutes of shouting before one of the ranch hands, Wyatt, I think, the one who always smells like peppermints and wears his shirt tucked halfway, ambles over to let me out. He gives me a slow once-over, eyes twinkling. “You’re adjusting real well,” he drawls.
