8. Summer
Summer
I don’t know why it should surprise me that Jaxon says he’s staying. Maybe because he hasn’t stuck around in Golden Springs longer than a weekend in fourteen years. Our little backwater town doesn’t have much to offer a man who’s used to arenas and cities that stay awake past nine p.m.
But on the farm, horses don’t care about your career stats.
They don’t know how my mom stopped recognizing me last spring or what the memory care unit at Golden Haven costs.
They don’t understand how desperately I need my flower business to work, so I can stop feeling like I’m one bad month away from losing everything.
Horses just need water, feed, clean stalls, and someone who loves them. That I can do. What I’m less sure about is whether I can teach Jaxon if he’s not willing to learn. Especially when he treats me like I’m hired help who forgot her place on this farm.
Jaxon’s always been too restless to put down roots, always chasing the next win. His hockey career didn’t change that about him, and the farm won’t either.
I spent the rest of the evening walking the brothers through everything I know: the staff, seasonal schedule, contractors, boarding clients, breeding calendar. It took nearly an hour and a full plate of Ada Mae’s fried chicken to get through, plus her apple pie afterward.
Jaxon took it all in, asking only two questions. But when his brothers started discussing how we were going to prepare for the Keeneland yearling sale, he kept checking his watch like he had somewhere to be.
“Are you done yet?” he said at one point.
“Oh, I could go on for hours.” I rested my chin on my hands and smiled. “Farm time and city time aren’t the same thing. Around here, we work from sunup to sundown. Meals are just a break before you head back out to the barn.”
“Then you’ll have to excuse me.” He pushed back from the table.
“Ada Mae has the coffee pot going by four thirty in the morning. No Starbucks in Golden Springs, in case you’re wondering. I keep oat milk in the fridge.”
He grimaced. “No, thank you.”
“Plenty of horse manure to scoop, though.”
Without missing a beat, he added, “Then I’d better get my beauty rest.”
He washed his plate in the kitchen sink, set it in the drying rack, and walked outside. I watched through the window as he headed down the fence line, just like his dad used to do.
Maybe he just didn’t want to be around me—which is fine as far as I’m concerned.
We have to work together, and that line needs to be clear.
No more arguing with him just to feel that old push-pull between us.
With him, I’ve never been able to tell the difference between flirting and fighting, and that’s going to be an inconvenience I can’t ignore.
As soon as I get home that night, I text Larissa.
She’s been the only real friend I’ve had since I was twenty-one, back when she moved here to be closer to her dad and started playing acoustic gigs around Lexington.
Larissa is a city girl through and through, and her father never quite knew what to do with a daughter who wanted to sing for a living.
She likes her cutoff jean shorts and Converse shoes, which are totally impractical on the farm.
But we hit it off when I showed up at the Blue Moon Saloon the same night her boyfriend dumped her.
My hidden talent is that I can spot someone having a bad day from across the room with amazing accuracy. When I saw Larissa that night, I convinced her to join me on the dance floor, and we’ve been friends ever since.
Me: You’ll never guess who’s back in town.
Larissa: Spill the tea. I need some excitement in my life.
Me: The Chance brothers.
Larissa: WHAT? All of them?
Me: Yep. Jaxon is running Lucky Chance for the next two years.
Larissa: You think he’ll last?
Me: He’s not farm material. He still thinks he’s God’s gift to the women of Golden Springs.
Larissa: This is either the best news or the worst.
Me: Definitely the worst! He acts like he’s the boss.
Larissa: Technically, he is now. But I’m sure he has at least one redeeming quality.
Me: I don’t know. He rinsed his own plate?
Larissa: A man who cleans up after himself? Green flag.
Me: I was joking.
Larissa: I’m serious. There’s nothing more attractive than a man with his hands in soapy water, scrubbing a plate.
Me: It’s called adulting.
Larissa: You really don’t like him, do you?
Me: No, I don’t.
Larissa: But rivals-to-lovers is the BEST trope!
Me: The man was nearly kicked by a horse and STILL couldn’t ask for my help.
Larissa: Did you ever kiss him?
Me: Why would I do that?
Larissa: Hate kisses are a thing!
Me: I will definitely not be hate-kissing Jaxon Chance. Hate-slapping him? Maybe.
The thought of hate-kissing him makes my heart do something weird. But I push the thought away immediately. Not Jaxon Chance. Ever.
Larissa: Does he look good?
Me: I don’t know. I wasn’t staring.
Larissa: Sure you weren’t. Send pictures of some cowboys doing farm things.
Me: He is not a cowboy. This is a horse farm.
Larissa: Semantics. Enjoy that delicious snack of a man on a horse.
I tuck my phone away. My resolve needs to be hard as steel around that man if I’m going to survive working with him. And the only snack I’ll be enjoying tomorrow morning is the fresh cinnamon rolls Ada Mae makes.
Definitely not cowboys.
The next morning, Jaxon shows up right on time, dark shadows under his eyes, holding a tin mug of coffee.
He’s in jeans and a white T-shirt, which tells me he must not remember what it’s like to work on a farm.
By noon, that white tee will be a shade of dirt and sweat that no amount of Spray-n-Wash will fix.
He strides into the mare barn, then slowly circles the place while I use those ten seconds to note the way he fills out a pair of jeans. The man has no business looking like that at five in the morning before I can even string together two words. Not that I’m noticing.
I don’t even realize my gaze is still glued to him until he circles around. “Mornin’,” he says, mouth tipping up, amused that he caught me gawking.
My face heats, and I grab the nearest stall fork. “Morning,” I mutter, keeping my eyes down as I start raking through a perfectly clean bed of shavings. It’s all Larissa’s fault—she’s always had a cowboy obsession. I clear my throat. “How’s the coffee?”
“Haven’t tried it yet.” He takes a sip, then chokes and spits it back into the cup. “What does she put in this stuff?”
“Motor oil, probably.”
“Tastes like dirt,” he grinds out before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Same coffee she’s been serving since 1970.”
One side of his mouth tips up.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “But I keep some flavored syrup in the farm office. Only way I can tolerate it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s enough to save it.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “But it’s all we’ve got.”
He dumps the rest of his coffee out the barn door, then brushes his hand on his jeans. “Where do we start?”
I pick up my clipboard from the hook and hold it out to him.
“What’s this?” He glances over the sheet.
“Morning checklist. Every mare gets assessed each morning—feed, water, and anything flagged by the night farmhand. We record it every day so we all know what’s going on.”
“You know they’ve invented digital devices for that,” he says.
“I know they have. I also know Golden Springs has the worst cell phone and Wi-Fi services around.”
He looks around the barn. “Why haven’t we upgraded things?”
“Oh, we have. Your dad got rid of the outhouses,” I say, grabbing the clipboard and moving toward the first stall.
He follows, keeping his distance. “So what happens now?”
“My job every morning is to walk the mare and foal barns, check each horse, and note anything that needs extra attention. Then I approve the day’s schedule and handle any communication from boarders.
When your mom was here, she handled that side, taking calls after hours.
Since she’s been gone, it’s fallen to me. ”
He tracks the long row of the barn, every mare waiting for me. “You’ve been doing all of this…alone?”
“Someone had to. Horses don’t wait, Jaxon.”
A mare swings her head over the door next to me.
“You remember Dolly? Named after the Queen of Country, Dolly Parton herself. She’s been on the farm longer than I have.
” I run my hand along her neck. “Hey, Dolly girl.” Then I check her feed bucket and water.
“Feed is down, which is good. Water level is fine too. Seems like her usual self.” I note everything on the chart before I move on.
“How am I supposed to know whether she’s acting okay?”
“They each have personalities, kind of like people. Dolly’s friendly, so I always start with her.” I hand him the clipboard so I can fill up the water bucket. “You’ll learn their traits in time.”
Jaxon leans against the door, watching my every move. My hands feel clumsier than usual under his gaze, and I slosh water over the rim, soaking the toe of my boot.
He turns back through the pages and points at one column. “What’s this tracking?”
“Heat cycles.”
“Oh.” He keeps his eyes on the page. “Okay.” He clears his throat and studies the sheet a little too intently, like it might save him from having to say anything else on the subject. “You’ve got a column for each mare’s cycle on paper?”
“Yep,” I confirm. “Earl doesn’t do digital. But I duplicate it on the computer so we have records.”
He gives me the side-eye. “Seems extra to me.”
“It’s the only thing keeping all the farmhands on the same page,” I add. “Plus, I’ve always been extra.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “That I can agree on.”
It’s the first sign he’s enjoying this, and his smile still has the same effect on me—spiking my heart rate. He used to offer that crooked grin to half the girls in school without even trying. Probably still does.