Chapter 2
I jolted awake to the buzzing of my phone alarm, heart hammering against my ribs. For one disorienting moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all rushed back—the Greyhound bus with its sticky seats, Maya's beat-up pickup truck, and my first glimpse of Grant Warwick's stern face as he'd sized me up like a horse at auction. I wasn't in Vermont anymore. I was in Texas, at Warwick Ranch, and today was my first day of work.
Four-thirty in the morning felt criminal. My body ached for more sleep, but I forced myself to silence the alarm. The room—my room now, I supposed—was chilly. The thin blanket had done little to keep out the early morning cold that seeped through the ranch house's old windows.
My hand moved instinctively under my pillow, fingers searching for and finding the small square of fabric hidden there. My baby blanket. Or what was left of it, anyway.
I traced the worn edge of the blanket scrap with my thumb, counting to ten in my head. Ten seconds of comfort. Ten seconds where I allowed myself to be who I really was. Ten seconds of weakness before I had to face the day.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
The satin edge was soft against my skin, familiar and soothing.
Four . . . five . . . six . . .
I fought the urge to bring it to my cheek, to breathe in the faint scent of home that still clung to its fibers.
Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
My breath caught on a small hitch, a moment of grief for everything I'd left behind.
Ten.
Time up. I tucked the fabric square back under my pillow and sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was cold against my bare feet, a shock that helped clear the remaining fog of sleep from my brain.
After dressing, I hesitated by the dresser where I'd unpacked my few belongings the night before. The bottom drawer contained things I shouldn't have brought—things that would get me sent packing if anyone discovered them. But I couldn't bring myself to leave them all behind.
I knelt and opened the drawer just enough to slide my hand inside. My fingers found the soft fur of my plush bunny's ear. I stroked it once, twice, drawing courage from the small contact. Then I pushed the drawer firmly shut, locking away that part of myself.
In the small attached bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. The shock of it erased the last traces of sleep. I stared at my reflection in the mirror—pale face, shadows under my hazel eyes, honey-blonde hair hanging limply around my shoulders. I looked scared.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection as I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail.
The words felt hollow, but I repeated them anyway as I finished getting ready. I squared my shoulders and left my room, navigating the dim hallway of the ranch house, then the yard to the mess hall.
The dining space was already alive with activity, ranch hands filling the long tables. The scent of coffee, bacon, and something doughy and delicious hung in the air.
I froze in the doorway, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces. Men and women in work clothes, weathered skin, and callused hands. Real ranch workers. Not a single face looked as soft or inexperienced as mine.
My nerve nearly failed me. I was about to retreat when someone called my name.
"Cherry! Over here!"
Maya waved from a table near the kitchen, her dark braids bouncing with the movement. Relief washed over me, and I made my way through the crowded room, feeling eyes on me as I passed. New girl. City girl. Outsider.
"Morning, sunshine!" Maya said as I slid onto the bench beside her. She pushed a steaming mug toward me. "Figured you'd need this. Rosa makes coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead."
I wrapped my hands around the mug gratefully, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. "Thanks."
"Sleep okay?" she asked, passing me a plate piled with eggs, bacon, and a massive biscuit swimming in white gravy.
"Well enough," I lied.
"Eat. Trust me, you'll need the energy."
I forced a forkful of eggs into my mouth. The food was good—unreasonably good—but my appetite had gone into hiding.
"Mrs. Hernandez believes no one should start work hungry," Maya explained, nodding toward the kitchen where a short woman with steel-gray hair efficiently directed two younger helpers. "She's been feeding ranch hands for twenty years. Says she can tell who'll last by how they eat breakfast."
I looked down at my barely touched plate. "What does that say about me?"
"That you're nervous, not that you can't hack it," Maya replied with a wink. She glanced at her watch. "Eat what you can. Ryder starts assigning duties at five sharp, and he hates late."
I nodded and managed a few more bites, along with several gulps of the strong coffee. As I ate, I found myself scanning the room, looking for one particular face.
"He usually eats earlier," Maya said, her voice casual but her eyes knowing. "Already been up for hours, I expect."
Heat crept up my neck. "I wasn't—"
"Save it," she laughed, not unkindly. "Every new hand does the same thing. Grant has that effect on people."
I ducked my head, embarrassed at being so transparent. "I just wanted to know what to expect today. If he'll be supervising or . . ."
"Ryder handles the day-to-day assignments. Grant oversees everything, but he's not usually breathing down our necks." Maya finished her coffee. "Though he has a way of showing up exactly when you wish he wouldn't."
Great. Just what my nerves needed.
Maya checked her watch again. "We should head out. Ten minutes till Ryder starts barking orders."
I followed her out of the mess hall, leaving my half-eaten breakfast behind. Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the stars fading. The air smelled of dew and cattle and something green and alive—so different from the city air I was used to.
"We still need to get you some proper boots," she said.
"I know," I admitted.
She didn't press for details, just nodded. "Ranch store in town has decent ones that won't break the bank. Maybe we can run in after work tomorrow, if you're not too beat."
I nodded gratefully, acutely aware of the stares my footwear was attracting from the other ranch hands gathering near what appeared to be the main barn. Their glances weren't unkind, exactly, just assessing. I curled my toes inward instinctively, as if that might somehow hide the inadequacy of my shoes—and by extension, myself.
Ryder, the ranch foreman, had eyes like a hawk. He surveyed the gathered ranch hands with a practiced sweep, his weathered face revealing nothing as he barked out assignments. When he got to me, those calculating eyes paused, taking in my canvas sneakers and clean jeans with a flicker of doubt. "New girl," he said, my name apparently not worth remembering yet, "you're with Maya. Southern herd needs vaccinating. Nothing too complicated on day one."
Maya shot me a reassuring smile. "Got it, Ryder."
As the crowd dispersed, each person heading to their assigned tasks with purpose, Maya led me toward a collection of pens in the distance. "Vaccination duty is good for beginners," she said. "You'll get hands-on experience without having to ride or rope anything yet."
The morning air was cool but already warming, promising heat by midday. Dust kicked up under our feet as we walked, coating my sneakers with a fine layer of Texas earth. In the growing light, I could see the vast landscape of Warwick Ranch spreading around us—acres of grazing land, scattered outbuildings, and in the distance, rolling hills that reminded me this was nothing like the small dairy farm my uncle had run back East.
"You ever work with cattle before?" Maya asked.
"Small dairy cows," I admitted. "Nothing like... these."
As we approached the pens, I got my first close look at the Warwick herd. These weren't the gentle Jerseys I was used to. These were massive Herefords, muscular and broad-shouldered, with thick necks and what looked to me like perpetually annoyed expressions. A steer turned toward the fence as we approached, and my steps faltered at the sight of its sheer bulk.
"They can smell fear," Maya said casually.
I stopped dead in my tracks. "Seriously?"
Maya's laugh rang out, bright against the morning quiet. "I'm just messing with you." She shook her head. "But they do pick up on nervousness. Try to project calm, even if you're not feeling it."
I swallowed hard, watching a particularly large steer turn its head to stare at me with what I swore was malice in its eyes. "They have horns," I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded.
"Just the bulls. Most are dehorned as calves," Maya explained, rummaging in a nearby supply box. She pulled out a pair of thick leather gloves and handed them to me. "Here. These will help you feel more secure when handling them."
The gloves were stiff and too large, but I pulled them on gratefully. They smelled of leather and dust and somehow made me feel slightly more prepared, even if it was just an illusion.
Maya walked me through the vaccination process, demonstrating with an efficiency born of practice. The setup was straightforward—guide the calf into a narrow chute, secure its head in a metal bracket, administer the shot quickly to the neck muscle, release the animal. Simple.
"We've got about sixty to do this morning," Maya said, gesturing to the pen where calves had been separated from their mothers. "Ready to try?"
No. "Yes," I lied, stepping forward with a determination I didn't feel.
The first calf seemed to sense my inexperience immediately. As I attempted to guide it into the chute, it balked, digging in its hooves. I pushed against its flank as Maya had shown me, but the animal was solid muscle and outweighed me significantly.
"Use your body weight," Maya called. "Lean into it."
I tried, pressing my shoulder against the calf's side, but just as it started to move, it jerked sideways. I lost my balance and stumbled, landing hard on my backside in the dusty pen.
"You okay?" Maya asked, offering me a hand up while clearly trying to suppress a smile.
"Fine," I mumbled, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I accepted her help. I dusted off my jeans, trying to salvage some dignity. "Just... getting my butt acquainted with Texas dirt."
"Try again. This time, plant your feet wider for balance," Maya advised. "And remember—you're the boss, not the calf."
I tried again with the same animal. This time it moved into the chute, but when I attempted to secure its head, it jerked violently. The rope slipped through my gloved hands, burning my palms despite the leather protection. The calf broke free, trotting back to the far end of the pen with what I swore was a smug look.
Two more attempts with two different calves yielded similar results. One sent me sprawling into the fence, and another stepped squarely on my foot. Only my inadequate canvas sneakers getting crushed convinced me that proper boots weren't just a fashion statement out here.
After my fourth failure—during which I ended up with my face inches from a fresh cow patty—Maya mercifully suggested a break. "Let's catch our breath for a minute," she said.
I leaned against the fence, my arms aching and my pride in tatters. Back home, I'd worked mainly with the youngest calves or helped with feeding. This was a completely different league. The morning sun beat down on my neck, and sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, making my shirt stick uncomfortably to my back.
"Don't beat yourself up," Maya said, passing me a water bottle from her back pocket. "First time I tried to handle a calf, it dragged me halfway across the pen before someone rescued me."
I took a grateful swig of warm water. "At least I'm providing the morning entertainment," I said, gesturing to a couple of ranch hands who'd paused on their way past to watch my struggles.
That's when I noticed him.
Grant Warwick stood on the far side of the pen, arms crossed over his chest, watching us. No, watching me. His stance was deceptively casual, but there was nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze. My stomach dropped. How long had he been there? How many of my embarrassing failures had he witnessed?
Maya followed my gaze and waved cheerfully. "Morning, boss!"
Grant raised a hand in acknowledgment and began walking toward us. His stride was purposeful, eating up the distance with long, confident steps. I frantically tried to dust off my jeans and straighten my shirt, aware of how disheveled I must look after my multiple tumbles.
"How's it going, ladies?" Grant asked as he reached us. His voice was deep, with a slight drawl that hadn't been as noticeable during my interview. His eyes, brown and steady, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Getting there," Maya answered cheerfully. "Cherry's learning the ropes."
"I can see that," he remarked, his tone neutral. But there was something in his expression—not mockery, but not complete approval either—that made my cheeks burn even hotter.
"I'm sorry," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "I'll get better, I promise. I just need more practice."
Grant studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped into the pen. "Come here," he said, gesturing me over.
I approached cautiously, hyperaware of his presence. He was taller than I remembered from yesterday's brief meeting, his shoulders broader. Up close, he smelled of leather and something woodsy—cologne, maybe, or just the natural scent of a man who spent his days outdoors.
"The problem is your stance," Grant explained, his voice matter-of-fact. "You're making yourself small. These animals respond to confidence."
Before I could respond, he moved behind me. My breath caught as his hands settled on my shoulders, gently but firmly adjusting my posture. The contact, though professional, sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the task at hand.
"Wider stance," he instructed, his voice close to my ear. "Ground yourself."
His boot nudged my feet farther apart, and his hands guided my arms into position. The heat of his body so close to mine sent an unexpected thrill down my spine—one that confused and alarmed me. His hands were strong and sure, his guidance precise. I stood perfectly still, absorbing every correction and trying desperately to ignore the way my heart raced at his proximity.
"When you approach," Grant continued, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil, "move deliberately. No hesitation. They sense that. You want to , uh, dominate the animal."
His hands dropped away, and I felt their absence like a physical loss. I instinctively straightened my shoulders, trying to maintain the posture he'd given me.
"Try again," he said, stepping back slightly but remaining close enough to intervene if needed.
Under his watchful eye, I approached the next calf. This time, remembering his instructions, I planted my feet firmly and moved with purpose. My hands still trembled slightly, but I kept them steady enough to guide the calf toward the chute.
The animal resisted initially, testing my resolve, but I leaned in with my weight as Maya had shown me, maintaining the confident stance Grant had corrected. To my surprise, the calf moved forward, allowing itself to be guided into the chute where Maya quickly secured its head.
"Good girl," Grant said simply.
Just those two words of approval sent a warm flush of pleasure through me that surprised me with its intensity. It wasn't sexual, exactly, but something deeper—a craving for validation that connected directly to the part of myself I was trying to suppress. The little girl inside who wanted so badly to be good, to be praised.
The realization disturbed me enough that I almost lost focus on the task. But Grant was still watching, so I helped Maya administer the vaccine, then released the calf back into the pen.
"See? You've got it," Maya said encouragingly.
I glanced back at Grant, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes met. There was something in his gaze—a recognition, perhaps, or an assessment that went deeper than supervisor to employee. It unsettled and thrilled me simultaneously.
"Keep practicing," Grant said, stepping back. "Maya knows what she's doing. Listen to her." Then, to Maya, he added, "Let me know if you need anything," before turning to leave.
I watched him go, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment rising within me. His tall figure moved with the easy confidence of a man completely at home in his surroundings, comfortable in his authority. Only after he was out of sight did I realize I'd been holding my breath.
"That was different," Maya said thoughtfully.
"What was?" I asked, turning back to the pen and the waiting calves, trying to appear casual.
"Grant usually doesn't do hands-on training with new hires. That's what Ryder's for." She gave me a speculative look that made me want to squirm. "He must see something in you."
I turned away, unsure how to respond. The memory of Grant's hands on my shoulders lingered, as did the flush of pleasure his approval had triggered. It reminded me uncomfortably of my little side—the part that craved guidance and praise, the part I was desperately trying to suppress.
"Let's get back to work," I said, forcing confidence into my voice. "Those calves aren't going to vaccinate themselves."
Maya grinned. "Right you are." She nudged my shoulder playfully. "And look at that—seems like the boss's lesson stuck. You're standing different already."
I realized with surprise that she was right. I'd unconsciously maintained the posture Grant had corrected—feet planted firmly, shoulders back, head up. It felt unnatural but also right, like I was finally occupying the full space my body was meant to take up instead of trying to make myself smaller.
As we returned to work, I pushed thoughts of Grant away and focused on the task. Each calf became a little easier to handle, though I still struggled with the larger ones. By mid-morning, my arms ached from the effort, and despite the gloves, my palms were raw from rope friction. But I hadn't fallen again, and I counted that as progress.
What I couldn't ignore, though, was how quickly my mind returned to that moment when Grant's hands had been on my shoulders, and how much a simple "good girl" from him had affected me. I told myself it was just the natural response to authority, to wanting to please my new boss.
But deep down I knew it was more than that.
*