Only when she’s holding it right in front of her face can she make out what it is.
Despite the heinousness of her awakening, Grace smiles.
A bottle of Advil sits in her palm, left outside her tent by someone who knew she’d need it.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The day that accompanies thehangover to rival all hangovers is particularly grueling. Whether Crew already had this planned, or he’s doing it just to spite them all, Grace doesn’t know. About a month ago, about a quarter mile of the south fence had been destroyed, leaving the summer pasture and the entire south quadrant of the ranch vulnerable. They can’t risk losing cattle or having trespassers stomping around on the ranch without realizing they’re on private property.
And so, it’s up to the ranch hands to repair the fence, and every single hand is needed to expedite the process. They start early, well before the sun begins its boiling ascent, but it matters little. The humidity is the real kicker, and that thicket of hot, moist air waits for no sun.
Grace’s headache and nausea clear up by midmorning, which is nothing short of a miracle, because this work is a special kind of brutal. Barbed wire, even with heavy-duty gloves, is a cruel mistress. And manipulating it with tools and grit has her sweating through her shirt.
The guys seem less exhausted—they’re all significantly better at holding their liquor than she is—and almostjollyas they work, and Grace learns this isn’t the first time they’ve done something like this. Last year, it was the east fence nearest to the back road entrance, and they fixed it quickly, but not before a few memorable incidents occurred due to the opening.
“Those sweet, innocent kids,” Mikey laments, shaking his head. “They probably just wanted to get their exploration or wildlife badge. They still do badges, right?”
“Yes, Mikey,” Caleb grunts. “Boy Scouts do still earn badges. But your memory is shot. It wasn’t Boy Scouts—it was a church group. Remember the crosses on the bus?”
“Boy Scouts, church group, whatever,” Mikey spits back. “Point is, I’ve never seen a group of teenage boys all shit their pants at the same time.”
Crew, sitting at his piece of the fence, working in silence, finally snaps. “Every time you tell this story, it gets worse—first it was Swedish tourists, then a church group, now Boy Scouts?” he barks, waving the pliers in his hand toward Mikey animatedly. “It was a football team. College. Old enough to know better. They wanted to take the scenic route and didn’t listen to me the first time I asked them to stay on the other side of the fence.”
“But they listened the second time,” Pierce adds, snorting. “When you fired your shotgun into the sky and scared them so badly they were calling the sheriff the next day to complain about— What did they call you? ‘A hostile, murderous cowboy’?”
Crew shrugs. “Law’s the law.”
“That’s right, Grandpa,” Cooper tuts. “You keep those kids off our lawn.”
Grace smiles at that, and especially at the glare Crew pins his brother with in response.
It takes all morning and afternoon to get the fence back to its original glory. They eat cold cuts and toss back bags of Doritos as they work, and all the while, they continue to reminisce, rib one another relentlessly, and laugh until their stomachs hurt. Grace finds listening to them and giggling at the growing atrocity of their stories makes the monotonous task of bending and shaping thick, sharp wire not as daunting. Though her neck and back ache more than they did this morning, the routine of snipping, bending, and welding becomes muscle memory after a while. About an hour before dinner, they’re able to call it quits and admire their work.
“No Boy Scout is getting through that,” Cooper murmurs as they walk the line, checking the sturdiness and finding it consistently firm and unbudgeable.
Crew sighs. “Let’s go,” he declares, satisfied with the job they’ve done. “I’m starving.” He shoulder-checks Cooper on his way back to the campsite, and Cooper laughs cheekily as he sways from the collision.
They have breakfast for dinner, and while Forty and Grace flip pancakes and bacon on a portable griddle, the guys all take a dip at the watering hole, tossing around the communal bodywash and two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Grace is looking forward to doing the same after dinner. Her hair has certainly seen better days. She already washes it infrequently due to the time it takes in the shower, but the exertion of the day has left it especially oily and unpleasant. Dipping her entire head into cool water and washing out all the grime sounds like heaven.
Everyone ravenously inhales their food, complimenting the chefs on the banana–peanut butter pancakes and expertly crisped bacon. Grace finds herself equally as starved, and in her haste manages to accidentally dip the tip of her ponytail into a well of syrup. She frowns, still chewing a mouthful of pancake, then sucks it off until it’s no longer dripping down her T-shirt. But the sugary stiffness remains, adding to the already chaotic state of her hair. They all get seconds, then thirds, and continue to eat until a symphony of satisfied, overly full groans sounds around the circle.
Those who did not cook all pitch in to clean up, and then everyone scatters into their own preferred evening activity. With the sun only at the midpoint of its descent, it’s too early for a fire, and instead the majority of the guys walk out to the large clearing to toss a football. June stays behind with a book while Forty and Pierce break out a chess set. Grace has to squint from where she stands in front of her tent, but she’s pretty sure they’re using screws and hex bolts in place of some of the chess pieces.
It’s as good a time as any to go sink into the cool water of the pond. The day has produced a sheen of grime and stale sweat over Grace’s skin, the kind that feels like she could actuallypeeloff if she tried. It’s itchy and heavy and irritating, and she is in dire need of a good scrub. She grabs an extra set of clothes, a towel from the pile, and the bucket of toiletries on her way out. Her back and neck protest with each step she takes, and it’s becoming progressively more difficult to even turn her head. Now that the adrenaline of the day has worn off, it feels like she’s racing some invisible clock to get ahead of this pain. She hopes the bath will help—she’ll use the time to massage the achingmuscles into submission. She can’t be incapacitated tomorrow. Not when she’s going to ride Waylon for the first time.
The trees surrounding the pond come into view through ripples of heat, like a beckoning oasis on the precipice of disappearing. She’s stripped of everything except her bra and panties by the time she reaches the small opening between the trunks, and she can hear the water as it collides gently with the rocks scattered throughout and the foliage that lines the perimeter. A smile blooms on her lips at the thought of beingclean—and in less pain—in the very near future. With any luck, she’ll sleep like a baby later. Setting her belongings at the top of a small hill, Grace reaches behind her back to remove her bra, winces at the way her back spasms with the movement. She’s nearly there, nearly completely naked from the waist up, when someone clears their throat.
Grace yips, jumping an inch off the ground. Leaving her bra where it is, she turns around slowly to see who has dared interrupt her bathing time. She should’ve guessed—should’veknownsimply by the gravelly sound that escaped his mouth. Crew stands waist-deep in the middle of the pond. Shirtless. Possibly bottomless, too, but she can’t see anything below his belly button.
Despite herself, her mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
Obviously, she knows Crew is big; she’s five foot five and her eye level is at his bicep. She also knows he’s strong; she’s seen him lift a half-full horse trough off the ground without breaking a sweat. But observing these things from afar while he’s fully clothed and just doing his job is entirely different from standing before him now, with all of his physical…assets proudly, openly,nakedlyon display.
There’s no washboard abs, no overly bronzed skin like somany guys sport on television and in magazines. His biceps aren’t the size of watermelons, and his trapezius muscles don’t look like an Elizabethan collar around his neck, but even if he doesn’t outwardly check all the boxes forfit, orjacked, it’s clear that he is. He’s built like a weight lifter—strength billowing out of every inch of his body, and absolutely no regard for eating like a bird to maintain an eight-pack.
It looks like he may be speaking. Grace refocuses on his face, on the present moment, and silently reprimands herself for staring—for admiring. He seems to be waiting for her to answer, but whatever question he asked is lost to the ether of her ogling. “What?”
Crew smiles faintly. “I said I’m nearly done. I just need to grab my things,” he says, nodding toward the pile of his clothes and boots on the opposite side of the pond, “and I’ll be out of your way.”
