Page 115 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

She laughs, and I can’t help smiling with her.

I’ve only run into Abilene a handful of times at town events and the Sunday potluck, but talking to her always feels easy. She never fills every silence just because it’s there, and she never rushes a conversation either.

Everything about her carries the kind of patience that probably comes from spending every day working with thousands of tiny creatures that refuse to care about anyone’s schedule.

So when she invited me to hang out with the bees, of course I said yes. I just hope my adventurous side hasn’t brought me one step too far.

Once we’ve zipped ourselves into the protective suits, she leads me between the hives. “No sudden movements.”

“So all I have to do is ignore every instinct I have.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“I walked into this with impossible expectations.”

She shakes her head, smiling as she eases the lid from the nearest hive.

Thousands of bees cover the honeycomb, moving together so naturally that I can’t tell where one group ends and the next begins. They weave around each other without colliding, each one heading exactly where it needs to go while the colony carries on as if we’ve always been standing here watching.

I lean closer to the frame while bees weave around us, and my eyes catch the neat rows of honeycomb packed with more activity than I can possibly follow. “That’s incredible.”

“They really are,” Abilene says as she tilts the frame toward me. “See those larger cells? That’s brood. Those are the babies.”

I nod, although most of my attention stays fixed on the thousands of bees crawling over the frame inches from my face. “You trust them a lot.”

“I do.”

“How?”

She slides the frame back into the hive before answering. “They’re predictable. They usually tell you what they’re going to do if you pay attention.”

“I wish humans came with that feature.”

Abilene nods. “They surprise you instead.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“They can surprise you in good ways, too.”

I think about that while she closes the hive, and I find myself smiling before I even realize I’ve done it.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I guess they can.”

We move from hive to hive while she checks each frame, scrapes away extra wax, and talks me through every step without making me feel like I’m hopelessly out of my depth.

She explains how different flowers change the flavor of the honey, how bees pass directions to one another with dances, and how every colony develops its own quirks, which still feels impossible until she starts pointing them out and I begin spotting the differences myself.

By the time we finish the third hive, I realize I haven’t worried about getting stung in ages.

“I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth,” I tell her as we carry the equipment back toward the shed, “but this is actually a lot of fun.”

She flashes me a grin over her shoulder. “I knew you’d end up liking it.”

“What gave me away?”

“You strike me as the kind of person who agrees to the adventure before asking how much danger is involved.”

I wince. “That feels aggressively accurate.”