And why do I care?
Dear Rosie,
Out here, morning doesn’t arrive all at once. It eases in slowly, carried on the chill in the air and the quiet stirrings of life around the ranch. While it enters slowly, it is always consistent. In the three weeks I’ve been here, I’ve learned it is a routine I have come to like. There is something steady about it. Predictable. It has the kind of rhythm that asks nothing from me except to show up and keep moving.
It reminds me of the center in ways I didn’t expect. The early mornings. The structured days. The quietunderstanding that routine isn’t a prison, it’s a lifeline. I remember how, at first, I hated how repetitive it all felt. Every hour was accounted for, and there was no room to disappear into myself, but now I understand what it gave me—something solid to stand on when everything else felt like it was collapsing.
Out here, it’s the same. Feed. Fence. Corral. Clean. Repeat. Simple things. Honest things. And somewhere between the first frost on the ground and the ache settling into my muscles by nightfall, I’ve noticed something else, too. The noise in my head has started to quiet. It’s not gone. Not completely. But it’s softer now.
The thought of a drink doesn’t claw at me the way it used to. It doesn’t sit heavy on my shoulders, whispering promises I already know are lies—but would let gaslight me anyway. Each day, the urge feels more distant. Less urgent. Like an echo instead of a screamed command.
The void is still there. I suspect italways will be. But it isn’t the only thing I feel anymore…
By the time I step out of the bunkhouse, the frost has already surrendered to the sun, leaving the grass damp, glittering like crushed sea glass. My muscles ache from digging post holes and stretching fence wire yesterday. I roll my shoulders once, in a futile attempt to loosen them, breathing in air that tastes like earth and woodsmoke.
I head toward the barn, my boots thudding against the packed dirt. The sun hasn’t even risen, and this place is already alive—low cattle calls in the distance, the metallic clang of a gate swinging shut, and horses shifting in their stalls.
Knox leans against a post near the corral with a tin mug in his hand, steam curling into the air. “You’re late,” he calls as I approach.
I glance at the sky, then down at my watch, and huff, “It’s four fifty-one.”
Knox grins over the rim of his mug. “Exactly. None of us has beaten you to the barn since you got here.”
Shaking my head, I sigh.
The barn doors groan open behind him, and Deacon steps out, shrugging into a heavier work jacket. “Storm rolled through last night,” he says. “Horses churned the stalls into a mess. Looks like this morning is as good as any to strip out the stalls.”
I nod. While I’m not exactly thrilled to be cleaning shit today, I’m not upset we won’t be running fences.
Teagan appears at the doorway a moment later, her hair in a low ponytail and cheeks already rosy from the cold. “We need to take care of the paddock, too,” she instructs, her tone brisk and efficient. “The runoff from the rain pooled near the gate, and it’s a mess.”
“Is that your way of giving yourself a job that doesn’t involve shoveling shit?” Knox dramatically scrunches his face.
“Did someone forget to tell me I got fired?” Deacon gruffs his annoyance. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m still the foreman.”
Knox snickers, a mocking smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“She’s going to take the stalls,” Deacon answers for me. His gaze shifts between us, and he jerks his chin at me. “Easton, you’re with Teag today.”
Her mouth tightens slightly, the only reaction on her face. “Fine.”
“Try not to kill each other,” Knox teases, his grin growing wider. “Actually, Easton… it’s just you I’m worried about.” His face falls flat, and he lifts his hand, curling it into a loose fist before dragging it slowly across his throat.Dead.He manages to hold the stoic face for about two seconds before he breaks out in laughter.
His playful warning has some merit. He wasn’t wrong when he told me that Teagan is nicer to the horses than the ranch hands. She is softer and more patient. Onnumerous occasions, I’ve seen her press her forehead to Daisy’s neck and whisper something with a gentle tenderness I’ve never heard her use toward another person. The animals get a version of her the rest of us don’t.One without bite.
But over the past few days, she has warmed to me a little. It’s small, easy to miss if I weren’t paying attention. Teagan doesn’t snap at every word that comes out of my mouth, and she is less sharp around the edges.Not that I’m paying attention.
Teagan flips him off without looking as we walk to the barn. The horses stir in their stalls, soft snickers and the shuffle of heavy hooves echoing off the wood and metal.
The damp air inside is thick with the scent of hay, leather, and the unmistakable bite of manure. I grab a pitchfork from the wall. “Where do you want me?”
She gestures toward the far end of the stable. “Start with Diesel’s stall. He’s the worst.”
“He can’t bethatbad.”
“You haven’t met him yet.” She chuckles. “He’s notthatgood.”
We fall into rhythm quickly. I fork out soiled bedding, tossing it into a wheelbarrow. She pulls water buckets from the stalls and scrubs them down at the wash station, her sleeves rolled past her elbows. The early-morning light filters through the slats in the barn walls, catching in her hair, turning it almost silver at the edges.
