4. MATTHEW
Chapter four
MATTHEW
WHERE THERE’S A WILL, THERE’S A WAY
I follow Atlas around to the front of the old stables. The pungent scent of manure and straw stings the back of my nose.
“I don’t know a huge amount about horses,” I say as we round the corner. “But I read a few books when Connor said I’d be working with you. There’s nothing that can’t be learned in a book, I always say.”
Atlas doesn’t reply, and I wring my hands together.
“Did you know that horses can move their ears independently? How cool would it be to be able to do that? I mean, you probably already knew that. You are a horse guy after all. Not that you can’t do other things.
You know what I mean. So… umm, do you have a job for me to do, or do you want me to just keep spewing horse facts at you?
” I ask, my voice going all high and pitchy at the end.
Atlas turns on his heel just inside the doorway.
“Did any of those fancy books of yours tell you how to muck out a stall?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“That’s like cleaning them out, right?” I ask and he nods. “I’m sure it can’t be that hard. Which one needs mucking?”
“All of them.”
“All of them? That’s like twenty stalls; it’ll take me all day. What do I even do with all of it?”
“You’ll need to pile it all up just outside the stables on the right. We’ve got a farmer coming in later today to pick it all up.”
“That’s smart, selling it off.”
“Who said anything about selling it?”
“You just give it away?”
“Sure do. Why, do you have a problem with that?”
“It’s just… from what I’ve read, this stuff is like super strong fertilizer. Seems like a wasted opportunity to make some decent money.”
“Some things are more important than money,” he replies, grabbing a rope from the hooks on the wall and heading for the rear doors that lead out into the horse paddock.
“Wait, you haven’t shown me how to do it.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. It’s not that hard, remember?” he replies, and then he’s gone, and it’s just me and the growing scent of horse dung.
“Okay. I can do this. How hard can it be?” I ask myself as I look around.
People use shovels and stuff to do this, right?
If I were a shovel, where would I be? I’d be in another part of the farm that doesn’t smell so bad, is where I would be.
I spot a wheelbarrow leaning against the far wall, and beside it is a pitchfork. “Okay, that’ll work.”
I shove open the door of the first stall and set the wheelbarrow down at the side.
The second I lift the first forkful, the smell intensifies, and my head spins a little.
This can’t be good for a guy’s lungs, I think, but I push through, determined to show Atlas I know what I’m doing out here.
All the horses are out in the paddocks for the day, so it’s just me in here with all their mess.
I heave the first scoop into the wheelbarrow, but half of it flies over the edge and back onto the ground.
“Urgh, come on, give me a break,” I complain as I scoop the next lot. It doesn’t take long to fill the barrow, and after a little wobble at the start, I get it outside and dump it on the ground right where I’m about eighty percent sure Atlas said to put it.
When I get back to the stall, it looks like I’ve hardly made a dent, but I don’t let that discourage me. I once spent three hours on my hands and knees sorting through files, looking for a single piece of paper the VP I was working for was only half sure they even put there. I can do this.
I’ll show Atlas that I’m not one to shy away from hard labor.
I said I was happy to help, and I am. Sure, I kind of thought they’d have me organizing the storage rooms, though, or maybe looking for ways to make the ranch more profitable.
Like this stuff—they could be selling it and using the money to make the ranch better for everyone.
Atlas doesn’t think money’s important, but what does he think pays for all this?
I heave forkfuls, one after the other, into the wheelbarrow, making trips back and forth until I sweep and scoop up the last of the straw from the first stall and dump it out onto the pile.
“One down,” I say, turning back to the stables. The wheelbarrow wobbles a little, but I steady it fast enough. “Only eleven more to go.”
***
My hands sting, fingers wrapped around the old pitchfork, the ridges from the wood digging into my palm as I muck out the last stall.
Sweat drips from my forehead and down my back, the linen shirt I was wearing is slung over Loki’s stable door, and my white singlet clings to my skin, covered in what I am going to call mud.
It’s very much not just dirt, but my mind can’t handle admitting to that fact just now.
I load up the wheelbarrow and make my way to the mound. The ground surrounding it is soft from my going back and forth, and when I’m just about there, the wheel digs into the mud and the bucket tips to the side. I fall forward, landing on my face in the dirt. Yes, I’m still calling it dirt.
“Fuck. Urgh,” I groan, pushing up through aching muscles and spitting to try to clear my mouth.
“You okay?” Skye, the young farmhand, asks, and I sit back on my heels, scrubbing my face with my hands, though with the amount of dirt on them, it’s likely not making much difference. I grab the hem of the singlet and yank it up to wipe over my face.
“Fine. This is pretty much the last of it.”
“What I meant was, is there something wrong with the Sherpa?” Skye asks.
“The what now?” I ask, just now seeing that Atlas is with him. He’s looking at me with an intense scowl, and my stomach turns. Please don’t tell me I put it all in the wrong spot or something.
“The Sherpa, the mini tractor over there, beside the new stables, the one we use to muck our stalls,” Skye continues, and I follow his pointed arm in the direction of the new stables we had constructed for the ranch.
Beside it sits a piece of machinery that looks kind of like a Segway but with a big claw attached to an arm at the front of it.
My gaze moves to Atlas, and the fucker actually smiles.
“I figured you would see it. Oh well, job’s done now. Next time you might want to strip down a little more and save those fancy pants and shoes.” He winks, and I have zero words. I just stare at him, mouth open.
Skye punches his arm playfully. “Not everyone likes to work buck naked,” he says, and my mind instantly flashes to the memory of a few weeks back when I went looking for Atlas and found him totally nude up at his trailer.
Connor could have warned me he was a nudist. I didn’t even think we had those anymore.
Especially not out here in a place that gets so cold in the winter it actually snows. That can’t be comfortable.
Atlas leads a large black horse toward the new stalls.
“Come on, Queenie. I think you’ll make those new additions feel right at home. Let’s set you up in the new stalls,” he tells her, and I push up onto my feet.
My legs feel like they’re moving through tar; every step is an effort as I head back in for what should be the last barrow load. I’ve come this far using only my bare hands. Why stop now?
After I dump the last of it, I leave the pitchfork stuck in the top of the pile like a victory flag and grab my shirt and head for my car.
The sun is just starting to set over the mountains and is throwing pinks and purples across the sky like it’s painted with ink.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sky in my life.
“Well, you’re starting to look like a real cowboy,” Connor says when he spots me on his way to the house. “Might want to pick up some proper boots, though.”
“Yeah, I’ll get onto that. I don’t think I have ever seen any of you guys this filthy, though,” I reply.
“True. Maybe Skye, that one time Chewie dragged him through the mud after he got him out of the pool.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel a little better.”
“You headed home?”
“Yeah, unless you need something?” Please don’t need something. I have horse dung in places I don’t even want to think about, and all I want right now is a hot shower.
“No. We’re all good here. You should stay for dinner. I mean, you’ll have to shower first. Sally-May would not be letting anyone at her table looking like that.”
“I’ll be okay. Thanks, though. Maybe next time.”
“Sure thing. Well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I say, and he waves before making his way to join the muffled voices and laughter waiting inside with the others.
I grab a blanket out of my trunk and lay it over the driver’s seat, then I kick off my shoes and tap the soles against the gravel to try to dislodge some of the muck that clings to the soft brown leather.
My socks are wet and filthy too, so I strip them off, shove them into the trunk, and close it before climbing behind the wheel.
At this rate, I’ll be replacing every piece of clothing I own.
Connor’s right, I need some boots, and maybe a shirt I can get dirty without worrying about the dry-cleaning bill.
I put the car in gear and reverse, catching sight of Atlas in the rearview.
He’s strolling up the path, gaze locked on the stunning sunset, the warm light illuminating him in an iridescent glow.
His dark denim jeans and olive-green shirt don’t have a speck of dirt on them.
You win this round, Atlas Summers, but I’m not giving up.
I’ll prove I can make this place better. First, I just need to look the part.