Chapter 4
Josh
The barn floor is still damp from where the flooding reached two days ago, and I’m ankle-deep in sodden hay that needs to be cleared before it starts molding.
My crew and I have been working since dawn, and the familiar ache in my lower back reminds me I’m not twenty anymore.
The air smells like wet earth and livestock, with an undertone of diesel fuel from the pumps we’ve been running nonstop.
“Boss, we got the last of the cattle moved to the south pasture,” Elliott calls from across the barn. He’s my foreman, a man in his fifties who’s forgotten more about ranching than most people ever learn. “Water’s receding faster than we thought.”
“Good.” I straighten and stretch, surveying the damage. It could have been worse, but it’s still going to cost us thousands in cleanup and lost feed. “What’s the damage assessment looking like?”
“Better than I expected.” Andrew, my operations manager, appears with a clipboard and mud-stained boots. “We lost about thirty percent of the hay stores, but we saved the equipment. The insurance adjuster is coming Monday.”
I nod, trying to focus on the logistics instead of replaying Tuesday night’s dinner for the hundredth time.
Lindsay’s face when I had to leave keeps flashing through my mind, that moment when I braced myself for anger or disappointment and instead got understanding.
Most women would have been furious about being abandoned at a restaurant, but she seemed genuinely concerned about the livestock.
I’m worried she was just faking it, though, to ease an awkwardness and never wants to see me again.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Red’s number flashes on the screen, and my stomach does something complicated. I’ve been waiting for this call—both dreading and hoping for it in equal measure. “Hello?”
“Hello, Josh, I have a message from Lindsay.” Red’s voice is warm but businesslike. “She wanted me to tell you she hopes the flood situation is under control and everyone is safe.”
That’s not what I expected. “She’s not angry about the date?”
“Angry?” Red laughs. “She’s asking if she can visit your operation. She wants to see where you work, and she was very specific about not wanting a tour designed for guests. She wants to see the actual business.”
I lean against the barn wall while processing this information. Women who ask to visit the ranch usually want a romantic horseback ride through scenic pastures, not a realistic look at agricultural business operations. “She wants to see the actual work?”
“That’s what she said. Also, she asked me to give you her direct number so you can coordinate without going through me as an intermediary.” She rattles off the digits, and I save them in my phone. “Josh, whatever happened on that date, it worked. She’s genuinely interested.”
After Red hangs up, I stare at Lindsay’s number for a full minute before calling. It rings twice before her voice comes through, professional but friendly. “Lindsay speaking.”
“It’s Josh. Red said you wanted to visit the ranch?”
“If that’s not presumptuous.” Her tone shifts, becoming less formal. “I realize showing up at someone’s workplace might be weird, but I’m curious about what you actually do. I want to see the real version, not the sanitized tourist kind.”
I look around at the mud-covered barn and my equally mud-covered crew. “It’s not exactly picturesque right now. We’re still cleaning up flood damage.”
“Even better. I’d like to help if you’ll let me.”
The offer catches me completely unprepared. “You want to help with cleanup?”
She sounds brisk but still cheerful. “Why not? I have hands, and you probably have work that needs doing. Plus, I’ve never seen a working ranch, and this seems like authentic exposure.”
I glance down at my mud-stained jeans and work boots and then think about Lindsay in her elegant restaurant attire. “It’s going to be dirty work. Really dirty.”
“I can handle dirty.” The determination in her voice makes me smile. “What time should I be there?”
“Are you free tomorrow? Say, eight in the morning?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there. Just text me the address.”
After I hang up, Elliott wanders over with a knowing grin. “Was that the woman from your date?”
I scowl at him. “How did you know about my date?”
“Emma called to check on the flood situation and mentioned you had to cut dinner short.” Elliott’s grin widens. “She coming out here?”
I nod slowly, still not sure I believe she’ll really show up. “Tomorrow morning. She wants to help with cleanup.”
Elliott raises his eyebrows. “Help with cleanup?”
“That’s what she said.”
He shakes his head. “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it.” I’m hopeful but still pessimistic too. If she doesn’t arrive, I won’t be surprised, but I’ll definitely be disappointed. I like what I know of her so far.
Saturday morning arrives gray and drizzly, which is sucky weather for manual labor nobody wants to do, but it beats bright sunshine.
I’m in the main barn by seven, checking on the new hay delivery and making sure we have enough work gloves in various sizes.
The crew is already here, and word has apparently spread about our visitor because everyone keeps glancing toward the driveway.
At exactly eight o’clock, a sleek BMW sedan turns into our gravel drive, looking as out of place as a thoroughbred at a county fair.
I watch from the barn doorway as Lindsay emerges wearing dark jeans, a fitted jacket that’s probably from some design house where you have to show a Black Amex to even get in the door, and expensive boots that have never seen actual dirt.
She also carries a large paper bag and a cardboard carrier with coffee cups. The sight of her navigating the muddy yard in those pristine boots is both amusing and endearing.
“Morning.” Lindsay approaches the barn with careful steps, obviously trying not to slip in the mud.
“I brought coffee and breakfast sandwiches. I figured you’d been working since dawn.
” She looks around at the number of workers.
“I’m sorry. I think I underestimated how many cups we’d need, but I ordered plenty of sandwiches. ”
“We have more coffee up at the house.” I accept one of the coffee cups and am surprised by the quality.
It’s not gas station coffee, or even the semi-good stuff the housekeeper here buys, but something from an expensive place that actually knows how to roast beans.
“Not this kind of coffee, though. Thank you. That was thoughtful.”
She looks around the barn, taking in the concrete floors still damp from flooding, the industrial lighting, and the various pieces of equipment that make our operation possible. Her expression is curious rather than disappointed, which is a relief. “Where do we start?”
“Are you sure about this? It’s going to be messy work, and those clothes...”
Lindsay sets down the coffee carrier and shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a white button-down shirt that’s about to meet its doom. “I brought a change of clothes in my car. What needs doing?”
I gesture toward a pile of hay bales that need to be moved to higher ground. “We need to relocate those to the upper barn. Some of them got wet, so they’re heavier than usual.”
“Show me.”
For the next hour, I watch Lindsay approach manual labor with the same intensity she probably brings to meetings with high-profile clients when doing her “consulting” work.
She still hasn’t revealed the full details of that to me, but that’s because she’s busy working and asking questions about our flood mitigation strategies while simultaneously trying to figure out how wheelbarrows work.
She doesn’t really belong, but she’s determined to get past that.
“Why don’t you store everything higher to begin with?” she asks, wrestling with a hay bale that outweighs her by at least fifty pounds.
“Cost efficiency. Higher storage requires different infrastructure, and floods this bad only happen every few years.” I help her maneuver the bale onto the wheelbarrow. “We calculated the risk versus the expense.”
“Makes sense.” She wipes sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. “What other weather contingencies do you plan for?”
Her questions are intelligent and show she’s actually listening to the answers. Most visitors ask about the horses or want to know if we have cute baby animals. Lindsay wants to understand the business model.
Her first major disaster occurs when she volunteers to help distribute feed to the horses in the upper pasture. The feed comes in heavy buckets, and she approaches the task with characteristic determination. Unfortunately, determination doesn’t compensate for lack of technique.
“You want to keep the bucket closer to your body,” I advise, watching her struggle with the unwieldy container. “Use your legs, not your back.”
“I’ve got it.” She hefts the bucket and takes three determined steps before hitting a patch of uneven ground.
The bucket tips, sending grain cascading down her front and into her boots.
She stands there for a moment, covered in horse feed, and then starts laughing.
“That’s one way to bond with the livestock. They’ll be all over me.”
“At least you smell like breakfast now.” I grin at her wearing more grain than she managed to deliver. “Want to try again?”
“Absolutely.”
Her second attempt goes better, though she still manages to spill a fair amount. By her third try, she’s figured out the basic technique, and by the fourth, she’s moving with something approaching competence.
The real comedy begins when Emma shows up unexpectedly around noon. My sister takes one look at Lindsay, mud-covered and determined, and her face lights up with unholy glee. “You must be Lindsay.” She extends a clean hand to Lindsay’s very dirty one. “I’m Emma, Josh’s interfering sister.”
“The one responsible for the creative profile photos?” Lindsay grins, and I see Emma immediately warm to her.