Chapter 8 #2
Sam appears beside me, holding a thick winter coat. “Arms up,” he says gently.
I slide my arms through, and he helps button me in, his fingers brushing my chest as he fastens the top. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes something inside me flutter.
Then he places a stocking cap over my head like he’s done it a hundred times before. Not rushed. Not careful. Just easy. Familiar. Gloves are last.
Once we’re all geared up, we step outside.
And immediately, I shiver.
Even through layers, the cold slices through me, sharp and pure and so unlike anything I’ve ever known. But it’s not just the temperature. It’s the stillness. The weight of the snow muffling everything. The way the world seems to hold its breath beneath the sky.
My god.
It’s like stepping into a different world.
To the west, the mountains rise, bold and snow-covered, their jagged peaks swallowed by thick, low-hanging clouds that float like silent threats.
The sun glints off the snow, turning the world into a field of diamonds.
The trees—tall pines and firs—stand heavy with white, their branches drooping but strong, bending without breaking.
Nothing about this looks like April. Or California. Or even Oklahoma. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe this place doesn’t follow the rules I’m used to.
Maybe he doesn’t, either.
Sam glances over at me and smiles like he knows I’ve been watching him. Which I have. Without a word, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, grip steady as we trudge through the deep snow toward the barn .
My boots crunch softly with each step, the air sharp and clean in my lungs.
Everything around us sparkles under the late morning sun, but the barn draws my attention like a postcard come to life.
Red wood trimmed in stone, its sloped roof capped in a thick layer of snow.
It’s adorable, honestly. Picturesque and rugged, like something out of a country daydream.
And I really wish I had a cellphone to snap a picture.
As we get closer, I hear the soft stomping of hooves and a low snort from within—deep, earthy sounds that seem to vibrate in my chest.
“This is where we keep the family horses,” Sam says. “Bucking stock is kept separate.”
“Bucking stock?” I echo, blinking.
Behind me, Phern snorts. “What? Your research didn’t cover what we raise here?”
I laugh, sheepish. “Guess I missed that part.”
Sam squeezes my hand gently before letting go to open the barn doors. “We breed horses specifically for bronc riding.”
I follow him in, tucking my hands into my coat. “Still not following.”
He glances back with a crooked grin. “Bronc riding’s a rodeo event. Riders try to stay on a bucking horse for eight seconds, either bareback or saddle bronc.”
“Oh,” I say, wide-eyed. “I thought it was bulls.”
Sam chuckles. “Different event. Bulls are a whole other beast. Literally. That’s more up Liam’s alley.”
Phern moves past us toward the stalls, brushing snow from her shoulders.
“Because he couldn’t bear to let the family’s legacy die,” she adds, pulling open the top half of a stall door to reveal a sleek black mare .
I step closer, letting my gaze roam over the horse’s powerful frame. She’s beautiful. Muscles rippling beneath a glossy coat, intelligent eyes watching me with quiet curiosity.
“Bucking mares,” I murmur. “Who knew?”
Sam leans in again, brushing snow off my arm. “Guess you’ll be learning a lot while you’re here.”
I meet his eyes, that familiar thud echoing in my chest like a drumline that only reacts to him. Yeah. I already am.
For example, I’m learning this man can turn me on with a single sentence about learning. Unfair. Highly distracting.
Before I can say something wildly inappropriate, the horse beside me nudges my shoulder with her nose, like she’s reminding me I’m not alone in the barn. I smile and lift a hand to gently stroke her neck.
“What’s her name?”
“Delilah,” Sam says, watching me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Delilah, huh? Between her and Goliath, I’m sensing a biblical trend here.”
Phern, from two stalls down, doesn’t even look up. “We’ve also got Noah, Moses, and Esther.” She pauses, thinking. “Wait, no. We sold Esther last fall. She kept breaking through the fencing.”
“Classic Esther,” I say, and Sam snorts.
“Why biblical?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Sam shrugs, running a hand down Delilah’s mane. “Not really sure why. It’s just how it’s always been. Started with Grandpa, I think. He named the first foal ‘Job’ because the damn thing was more work than it was worth.”
I laugh, and even Phern cracks a smile at that.
“Well, that’s oddly fitting,” I say, running my hand along Delilah’s powerful neck. “Seems like there’s more history in this barn than in some small towns. ”
“There is,” Sam says, eyes meeting mine again. “And not all of it’s in the past.”
Phern makes a dramatic gagging sound from across the barn. “Brother, you’ve been out of the dating game way too long if you think that line’s going to work.”
Sam doesn’t even flinch. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I snort, nodding.
“Gross,” Phern mutters again. In a louder tone, she says, “We’ve got more horses to feed. Less flirting, more shoveling.”
Sam turns to me with that maddeningly smug grin. “Boss has spoken.”
I give him a mock salute. “Back to work.”
He leads me toward an empty stall and hands me a rake.
I eye it like it’s a medieval torture device. “I’m not liking where this is going.”
“It’ll be fun. I promise.” He grabs a shovel of his own and nods for me to follow. “Besides, you said you wanted to learn, didn’t you?”
I follow him to a fresh stall layered in straw and—yep—manure. The scent hits me like a punch, and I do my best not to grimace. He steps in first, boots crunching, and gestures like a gentleman welcoming me into the world of literal shit.
“Welcome to mucking,” he says, all charm and no shame. “We remove the dirty straw, toss it into the wheelbarrow, lay fresh bedding. Easy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You do realize I grew up in the suburbs, right? Didn’t even own a pet until I was an adult, and it was a cat. That’s the extent of my animal care experience.”
Sam laughs. “You’re gonna do great.”
He digs his shovel into the bedding with practiced ease and dumps a pile into the wheelbarrow like he was born doing this. I mimic him with far less grace, stabbing the rake into the straw and lifting a clump. It promptly falls apart mid-air and drops near my boot.
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I’m not cut out for ranch life.”
He grins, leaning on the shovel. “Not yet. But you’ve got potential, darlin’.”
I glance up at him, pretending to glare. “If you call me darlin’ while I’m holding a rake, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
He leans in just slightly, eyes dancing. “Now that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
And despite the cold, the smell, and the mess, I laugh.
Because somehow, with him?
This doesn’t feel like work at all.