Chapter 24
Dear Rosie,
Out here, morning doesn’t arrive all at once.
It eases in slowly, carried on the chill in the air and the quiet stirrings of life around the ranch.
While it enters slowly, it is always consistent.
In the three weeks I’ve been here, I’ve learned it is a routine I have come to like.
There is something steady about it. Predictable.
It has the kind of rhythm that asks nothing from me except to show up and keep moving.
It reminds me of the center in ways I didn’t expect.
The early mornings. The structured days.
The quiet understanding that routine isn’t a prison, it’s a lifeline.
I remember how, at first, I hated how repetitive it all felt.
Every hour was accounted for, and there was no room to disappear into myself, but now I understand what it gave me—something solid to stand on when everything else felt like it was collapsing.
Out here, it’s the same. Feed. Fence. Corral.
Clean. Repeat. Simple things. Honest things.
And somewhere between the first frost on the ground and the ache settling into my muscles by nightfall, I’ve noticed something else, too.
The noise in my head has started to quiet.
It’s not gone. Not completely. But it’s softer now.
The thought of a drink doesn’t claw at me the way it used to. It doesn’t sit heavy on my shoulders, whispering promises I already know are lies—but would let gaslight me anyway. Each day, the urge feels more distant. Less urgent. Like an echo instead of a screamed command.
The void is still there. I suspect it always will be. But it isn’t the only thing I feel anymore…
By the time I step out of the bunkhouse, the frost has already surrendered to the sun, leaving the grass damp, glittering like crushed sea glass.
My muscles ache from digging post holes and stretching fence wire yesterday.
I roll my shoulders once, in a futile attempt to loosen them, breathing in air that tastes like earth and woodsmoke.
I head toward the barn, my boots thudding against the packed dirt. The sun hasn’t even risen, and this place is already alive—low cattle calls in the distance, the metallic clang of a gate swinging shut, and horses shifting in their stalls.
Knox leans against a post near the corral with a tin mug in his hand, steam curling into the air. “You’re late,” he calls as I approach.
I glance at the sky, then down at my watch, and huff, “It’s four fifty-one.”
Knox grins over the rim of his mug. “Exactly. None of us has beaten you to the barn since you got here.”
Shaking my head, I sigh.
The barn doors groan open behind him, and Deacon steps out, shrugging into a heavier work jacket. “Storm rolled through last night,” he says. “Horses churned the stalls into a mess. Looks like this morning is as good as any to strip out the stalls.”
I nod. While I’m not exactly thrilled to be cleaning shit today, I’m not upset we won’t be running fences.
Teagan appears at the doorway a moment later, her hair in a low ponytail and cheeks already rosy from the cold. “We need to take care of the paddock, too,” she instructs, her tone brisk and efficient. “The runoff from the rain pooled near the gate, and it’s a mess.”
“Is that your way of giving yourself a job that doesn’t involve shoveling shit?” Knox dramatically scrunches his face.
“Did someone forget to tell me I got fired?” Deacon gruffs his annoyance. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m still the foreman.”
Knox snickers, a mocking smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“She’s going to take the stalls,” Deacon answers for me. His gaze shifts between us, and he jerks his chin at me. “Easton, you’re with Teag today.”
Her mouth tightens slightly, the only reaction on her face. “Fine.”
“Try not to kill each other,” Knox teases, his grin growing wider.
“Actually, Easton… it’s just you I’m worried about.
” His face falls flat, and he lifts his hand, curling it into a loose fist before dragging it slowly across his throat.
Dead. He manages to hold the stoic face for about two seconds before he breaks out in laughter.
His playful warning has some merit. He wasn’t wrong when he told me that Teagan is nicer to the horses than the ranch hands.
She is softer and more patient. On numerous occasions, I’ve seen her press her forehead to Daisy’s neck and whisper something with a gentle tenderness I’ve never heard her use toward another person.
The animals get a version of her the rest of us don’t. One without bite.
But over the past few days, she has warmed to me a little. It’s small, easy to miss if I weren’t paying attention. Teagan doesn’t snap at every word that comes out of my mouth, and she is less sharp around the edges. Not that I’m paying attention.
Teagan flips him off without looking as we walk to the barn. The horses stir in their stalls, soft snickers and the shuffle of heavy hooves echoing off the wood and metal.
The damp air inside is thick with the scent of hay, leather, and the unmistakable bite of manure. I grab a pitchfork from the wall. “Where do you want me?”
She gestures toward the far end of the stable. “Start with Diesel’s stall. He’s the worst.”
“He can’t be that bad.”
“You haven’t met him yet.” She chuckles. “He’s not that good.”
We fall into rhythm quickly. I fork out soiled bedding, tossing it into a wheelbarrow.
She pulls water buckets from the stalls and scrubs them down at the wash station, her sleeves rolled past her elbows.
The early-morning light filters through the slats in the barn walls, catching in her hair, turning it almost silver at the edges.
“You’re extra quiet this morning,” she observes, not looking at me as she rehangs a bucket a few feet away.
“Still half asleep.”
“You’d probably be less grumpy if you got up in time to get a coffee.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “That why you keep flinging open stall doors like the horses owe you money?”
“I’m not—”
She laughs softly, the sweet sound silencing and surprising me.
I spin to find her chin tucked to her chest and a broad smile creeping across her face, fighting to hold back a giggle.
Her bright emerald eyes peer up at me through her lashes, sparkling mischievously at the victory of getting a rise out of me.
Warmth creeps up the back of my neck, flaming along my jawline. For a second, I think it’s just my usual irritation from her teasing, but it lingers too long to ignore. It’s not her witty repartee. It’s the way she’s looking at me. And… the fact I like it.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. Almost as heavy as the guilt that takes a seat with it. Since I met Rosie, no other woman’s attention has affected me like this. The very idea of reveling in the interest of another woman—even over something this small and harmless—feels impossibly wrong.
Needing to step outside, I push the full barrow out to the manure pile behind the barn, my breath fogging in the cool air.
The cold should help. It should cut through whatever this is, dull the warmth still lingering under my skin, but it does nothing.
I stand there far longer than it takes to empty the wheelbarrow, my hands resting on the handles as I stare out over the pasture.
The guilt doesn’t loosen its grip. If anything, it settles deeper, taking up nest right beside the emptiness Rosie left behind, like I’ve done something wrong.
I drag in a slow, deep breath and force myself to head back to the barn. The air feels thicker as soon as I step inside, and the previously vast space is now nearly claustrophobic.
Teagan is at the wash station with her back to me, focused on her task. She doesn’t look up or acknowledge my return, which I’m grateful for. I keep my head down and grab the pitchfork, walking straight to the next stall without a word.
I focus on the work—scoop, lift, toss, repeat—and the ache building between my already sore shoulders, needing to quiet my mind and keep my distance from her. I suddenly don’t trust myself not to push our conversation or lean into something I have no right in wanting.
By mid-morning, the stalls are stripped and re-bedded, water buckets are filled, and the tack room has been swept clean. The barn smells fresh, hay, wood shavings, and a faint sweet hint of grain filling the air.
I grab a fresh bale of hay from the stack near the door, and when I turn, I collide with Teagan. The impact is solid, my shoulder catching hers, knocking her off balance, and the hale bale slips from my grasp. Her hand shoots out on instinct, grabbing my forearm to steady herself.
I react without thinking. My other hand catches her waist before she can fall.
Instead of falling to the floor, she comes to a stop, her body pressed against mine, with my hand curved around her side, the warmth of her skin seeping through her shirt.
This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose, and the gold flecks shimmering against the green of her irises.
“Sorry,” I mutter automatically. For the first time since I’ve met her, Teagan is at a loss for words. Her only response is a small bob of her throat when she swallows. I ease her upright carefully, my hand lingering on her hip a fraction too long before she steps back.
She leans against the open barn door of the stable. “We’re goin’ into town tonight,” she shares.
“Yeah? What for?”
“The Dew Drop.” She hooks her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans and gives them a nervous shove, her shoulders hunching inward slightly. “Knox insists it’s necessary to unwind after a long week.”
The Dew Drop.
The name alone conjures images of sticky floors, dim lighting, and clinking glasses, much like the bars I found myself in before I checked myself into rehab.
“Deacon will be there. His wife, too, sometimes,” she adds as the wind picks up and blows the loose strands of her ponytail across her face.
“I appreciate the invite…”
Her head tilts as she tucks the stray locks of hair behind her ear. “But?”
“I’m gonna pass.” There’s a slight disappointment in her eyes.
It mirrors my own. I can’t deny the temptation—not for the bar, but for the idea of being included in a night of listening to stories and company.
Teagan’s company. But I know that’s not where I should be, and not just because of the alcohol. “Maybe another time.”
“All right, city boy,” she murmurs softly with a nod. “Another time.”
As she heads back into the barn, golden braid swinging behind her, the conflicting weight of my decision settles over me.