Chapter 24
Fable
“Alright, Harleigh’s been around stock auctions her entire life, so I bet she’ll keep you on track. But I’ll give you a quick overview of what they look like.”
Maribel looked to be in her late forties or early fifties.
She wore a button-down shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, a massive belt buckle cinching everything together.
She had the no-nonsense air of someone who’d spent her life in barns and arenas, and I had no doubt she could outwork most of the men here.
“This here is the stock auction barn, along with our indoor arena.” She gestured toward the large structure ahead. “Beaudreau can show you around it later, though I think he prefers the outdoor one.”
The indoor stock arena was big, and the air was thick with the scent of dirt, hay, and sweat. It was dirty, and I tried to avoid touching anything, but I could feel Harleigh’s eyes on the back of my head as Maribel walked us around.
The chutes stood tall on the other side, heavy-duty metal bars, their gates worn from bulls slamming against them.
Maribel tapped one of the chutes with her knuckles. “This is where we load ’em in. These are the bucking chutes. When we’re training, we strap a dummy to the bull’s back and buck ’em out.”
I nodded, turning toward her. “The dummy. Right, I remember reading this, so remind me what it does again?”
“A weighted rig that sits where a rider would. Has a timed release, so it pops off after a few seconds. Gets the bull used to the motion without a person on its back,” she explained. “Helps train ’em, make sure they’re ready for the real deal.”
I turned to Harleigh. “And how do the stock auctions work again?”
“Buyers watch the bulls move—either in the pen or on video. They’re looking at how they’re built, how they carry themselves, their attitude. A lot of it comes down to bloodlines. If the bull’s got champion genes, the bids get real high.”
Maribel nodded. “Yep. And if he’s a proven sire, meaning he’s thrown good calves before, people’ll pay big money for his genetics.” She smirked, tilting her head. “Ain’t much different from bull riding itself—you either got it in your blood, or you don’t.”
“And what exactly are you looking to gain by adding a project marketing manager?” I paused, glancing at Harleigh before flashing her a grin. “Two project marketing managers.”
Her smile stretched wide, excitement flickering in her eyes.
Harleigh was dressed the part, her long black hair pulled into a high ponytail, jeans snug against her frame, and a button-down tucked into a thick belt.
She blended right in. Me? Not so much. I adjusted my blazer, the maroon linen shirt underneath slightly damp from the humidity though it was winter.
My khaki wide-leg pants were a stark contrast to the dust-covered boots around me, but I’d been promised an office.
Maribel grinned. “Most of our auctions run through social media now. We need someone to push promotions, get the tapes up online, advertise the bulls, and make sure we keep our professional contracts in place.”
I lifted a brow. “Are they about to be taken away?”
“Every contractor’s got a one-year deal with the Bull Riding Association,” she explained. “To keep it, we gotta prove our bulls are the rankest, toughest, and can take riders to the eight-second mark.”
I nodded, following her train of thought. “And if you don’t?”
She shrugged. “Then we lose the contract. Simple as that.”
Harleigh frowned. “It’s cutthroat.”
“Yup. That’s how the business works. When a rider wins, so does the bull.
And so do we.” She tipped her head toward the arena.
“So if our bulls stop performing, we stop making money. And that’s not an option.
” Maribel let out a dry chuckle. “We gotta keep proving to sires that they want to be in our bloodline. The bulls that don’t cut it?
They get sold to rodeos or passed off to other contractors. ”
Translation: Only the best stayed. The rest were expendable.
“Does every stock contractor also have auctions?”
Maribel shook her head. “Not every contractor also breeds bucking bulls. We’re special in that we breed them too.”
“Don’t worry, Maribel. We’re going to make Twisted Spur Ranch the most profitable operation you can imagine.”
Maribel smiled. “That’s the hope, ladies.”
“When’s the first auction?” I asked as she led us to the back of the barn and up a set of wooden stairs.
“Should be in a couple of weeks. Will that give y’all enough time to get everything in order?”
“Absolutely.”
She opened the office door, and I was pleasantly surprised.
The space was clean and well organized, despite being decked out in full Western decor.
Two desks faced each other in the center of the room, and in the back, a large couch sat against the wall.
A small coffee bar was tucked into the corner, and there was even a connecting bathroom.
“This is where y’all will be working,” Maribel explained. “The door at the back of the barn is your best entrance, and from here, you’ll have a great view of the auctions.”
I walked over to the large windows overlooking the indoor arena, taking it all in.
“This is perfect,” Harleigh said, and I nodded in agreement.
It was a relief, honestly—a space that was clean, organized, and didn’t make my skin itch looking at it.
The fact that there was a bathroom connected to it made me even more grateful.
If I needed to wash my hands, I wouldn’t have to trek across the barn or deal with anything too unsanitary. Small victories.
“Alright, I’m headed up to the house, but feel free to holler if y’all need anything,” Maribel said, giving us a warm smile before making her way out the door.
The moment she was gone, I exhaled, pressing my palms to the glass. The arena below stretched out before me.
I turned to Harleigh. “I’m in way over my head.”
Harleigh, still looking around the office like she was already making a mental to-do list, glanced up at me and grinned. “Yeah, but when has that ever stopped you?”
I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. “This is different, Harleigh. This isn’t some new job or a temporary thing. This is—” I gestured out to the arena, the barn, the entire operation. “This is a whole lifestyle.”
She shrugged and plopped onto the couch. “Guess it’s a good thing you’ve got me, then.”
I sighed, rubbing my hands together before glancing at the bathroom door again, debating if I needed to wash them. The familiar tingling in my fingers told me yes, but I forced myself to stay put.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I admitted.
“We start by doing what we do best. You focus on marketing, I focus on the bulls. You don’t have to know everything about this life overnight, Fable. Just take it one step at a time.”
Without hesitation, she pushed off the couch, walked over, and grabbed me by the shoulders.
“Alright, let’s go,” she said, steering me toward the desk.
“Harleigh,” I groaned, dragging my feet as she guided me forward.
She ignored me completely, forcing me down into the chair before giving my shoulders a firm squeeze. “You’re going to research and watch bull auctions,” she instructed.
I sighed, leaning back. “And what exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”
She perched on the desk beside me, crossing her arms. “Bull auctions are a whole event. You’ve got the stock contractors who bring in their bulls, and buyers looking for the best stock for breeding, competition, or rodeo circuits.”
“You know so much,” I groaned, dropping my head against the desk.
Harleigh laughed. “Babe, I grew up with this. That’s why I’m here—to help.”
I lifted my head, pouting. “And what exactly are you doing while I’m stuck watching cowboy bidding wars?”
She pulled out her phone as she slid into the chair across from me. “I’m setting up our social accounts for the ranch and following every cattle, mare, and rodeo page around here. You focus on auctions, I’ll handle making us look like we actually belong in this world.”
I huffed, clicking open a tab on my laptop. “Fine. But I want breaks. And snacks.”
“Done.” She grinned. “Now, get to work.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of auctions and frantic note-taking. I watched the way buyers leaned in, the way the announcers hyped the bloodlines, and the charged energy in the room. It wasn’t about selling bulls—it was about selling a story.
That was where Twisted Spur Ranch could stand out.
People wanted more than stats on a page.
They wanted to see behind the scenes, watch the bulls train, learn their personalities.
They wanted to feel like they were part of something before they even placed a bid.
If we could make the auctions more immersive, if we could get people invested in these animals before they hit the ring, then the sales would follow.
Live streaming smaller auctions, letting buyers engage before they even set foot on the ranch. Featuring the bloodlines, hyping up the bulls like athletes, showing their lineage like a legacy worth investing in. Getting riders who worked with them to talk about their power, their skill.
There was so much potential.
At some point, Harleigh had left, saying something about getting food, but I barely registered it. I was too wrapped up in what I was watching.
By the time she returned, the scent of warm cheese and grease filled the office, but I didn’t look up. She dropped a pizza box on the desk beside me with a loud thud, but I was still too focused on the screen, barely acknowledging her as I reached for a slice.
“You are officially unwell.” She teased me, flopping onto the couch with her own piece.
I hummed in response, chewing as I scrolled through another auction, my fingers moving mindlessly to wipe the grease off on my napkin before typing again.
Harleigh sighed dramatically. “I mean, you could at least pretend to enjoy this and act like I didn’t save you from starvation.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled through a mouthful, still glued to the screen.
She groaned, but didn’t push it, eating in silence while I worked. I didn’t even notice how much time had passed until Harleigh stretched beside me, groaning as she rolled her shoulders.
“Alright, it’s five. I’m checking out,” she announced, sliding her phone into her back pocket. “You coming?”
I barely looked up from my screen, my fingers still typing. “I’m going to keep working,” I murmured.
She grabbed her bag. “Alright, workaholic. Don’t stay too late.”
I heard the door shut behind her, but I didn’t move. I kept at it until my eyes blurred, until my head felt too full, until my body finally forced me to stop.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling, staring at the ceiling for a long moment.
For the first time, I understood the lifestyle.
The stillness of everyday ranch life was a stark contrast to the raw energy of bull riding.
It wasn’t just about auctions or the sport itself.
It was about the buildup, the rhythm, the anticipation before the chaos.
The rush of an eight-second ride against the steady hum of life on the ranch.
It was more than feeding bulls hay. It was a way of living, a mindset, a balance between grit and patience. I may have been a city girl, but piece by piece, I was starting to understand small-town life.