Chapter 5
The sharp whoops and hollers yank me from sleep. The second I crack my eyes open, a heavy sigh escapes me. Right. I’m not in Los Angeles anymore.
Outside, the yard’s already buzzing with life.
In the nearest corral, the man I met in L.A.
—Colter or something—is putting on a damn rodeo.
He’s got a cocky grin plastered across his face, gripping the saddle like a showman while the horse beneath him bucks like hell, clearly not thrilled about being ridden.
His little audience of cowboys is lined up along the fence, laughing, hooting, and cheering him on like it’s the best kind of entertainment.
It’s far too early for this level of energy. With a groan and zero motivation, I head downstairs. If I’m going to survive this morning, I’ll need coffee—lots of it.
After the other night’s awkward dinner, I’m not keen on seeing anyone, which is why it is refreshing to once again find the house is as silent as it had been yesterday. Leaving me alone to wallow in my misery.
The kitchen is blissfully empty. A quiet that makes you wonder if you’re still dreaming. No clinking dishes, no forced small talk, no judgmental stares from the unwanted sperm donor across the table. There is only the low hum of the fridge and the occasional thud of hooves outside.
I make a beeline for the coffeemaker, praying to the caffeine gods to show me mercy.
Thankfully, someone already brewed a pot—miracle of miracles—so I don’t have to fumble with buttons or pretend I know how to use this fancy-ass machine.
I pour a mug, black and steaming, and take along, scalding sip.
It doesn’t help my mood, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.
Leaning against the counter, I stare out the window above the sink.
Colter is still out there, putting on a show like he owns the place—which technically, he kind of does.
His shoulders roll as he reins the horse into submission, all grit and swagger like he knows exactly how good he looks doing it.
Annoying.
Worse than annoying. The way he smirks when he catches one of the female ranch hands attention. The way the other men feed off him, trying to one-up each other with louder cheers and rowdier jokes. This whole place runs on testosterone and bullshit.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, resisting the urge to flip them off through the window like some bitter city girl who can’t hang. But honestly? That’s exactly what I am. And I’m not sure I care enough to pretend otherwise.
With another sip, I glance at the empty doorway and mutter to myself, “Let’s get through the first damn week.”
The front door creaks open in the distance. Boots stomp. Male voices filter in. So much for peace and quiet.
I take one more long sip of the coffee, then set the mug down with a quiet clink.
Showtime.
I don’t turn around right away. Maybe if I stay still enough, they’ll think I am part of the furniture and leave me alone.
No such luck.
The heavy thud of boots grows louder until it stops behind me. I brace myself, jaw tight, and take one final sip of coffee like it is armor.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” a familiar voice drawls, low, gravelly, and way too smug for someone covered in sweat and dirt. “Didn’t think we’d see you up before noon.”
I turn slowly, mug still in hand. My brother, Pace, leans in the doorway like he’s auditioning for a Rugged Farm of the Year calendar—shirt clinging to him like a second skin, jeans dusty, hair damp with sweat, and his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place.
Because he knows he’s irritating.
And he no doubt lives for it.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say flatly. “But the stampede of voices outside doesn’t believe in sleep.”
He chuckles, not the least bit apologetic. “That’d be the ranch hands. They’re not used to outsiders, especially not ones from a big ‘ole city and enough attitude to start a brushfire.”
“They’re lucky I didn’t come out swinging.”
“Oh, I told ‘em you might,” he says, pushing off the doorframe and strolling into the kitchen. “Boss out there said it would help you build character.”
I roll my eyes as he grabs a glass, fills it at the sink, and chugs the whole thing without stopping for a breath. He finishes with a loud ahh and wipes his mouth on his sleeve like a twelve-year old.
“You settling in okay?” he asks, his tone a bit more serious now. “Barely saw hide nor hair of you the last two days except when you came down to eat.”
I shrug. “If lying awake and wondering why I didn’t stay in L.A. counts as settling, then yeah. I’m thriving.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he leans back against the counter and studies me with an older-brother squint that says he’s about to pretend he knows better.
“You know,” he says finally, quiet now, “you don’t have to stay. No one’s chaining you to the porch. If you’re unhappy, leave. Don’t be dragging everyone here down because life dealt you shitty cards. We all have our issues here. We don’t need yours, too.”
His words hit harder than I want to admit. Not because he’s wrong, but because it’s the first thing anyone’s said that feels like truth instead of obligation.
I take a slow sip of coffee. “Well, John is right. My mother put me in a shit ton of debt I can’t prove isn’t mine and apparently pissed off more than a few loan sharks. Your boss made sure I understood what would happen if I leave.”
Pace nods once, something unreadable flickering across his face. Respect, maybe. Or surprise. It’s gone before I can name it.
“Well,” he says, the smirk returning as he heads back toward the door, “if you change your mind, I think there’s still a seat on the noon Greyhound with your name on it.”
“Tell the driver to save it for you,” I mutter into my mug.
He barks a laugh and winks over his shoulder before slipping outside again, the door banging lightly behind him.
I stare after him for a second, then exhale hard and rub a hand over my face.
It’s not even 9 a.m., and I’m already exhausted.
This is going to be a long damn week.
I barely have time to contemplate a second cup of coffee before the front door creaks open again. Heavy footsteps echo across the floorboards—steadier this time. Slower. I know who it is before I even turn around.
“Morning,” John says.
His voice is rough, like it’s been sanded down by years of smoke and silence. I keep my back to him for a beat, staring out the window like the scene outside suddenly got interesting.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
“Morning,” I mutter, finally glancing over my shoulder.
He’s in work clothes—faded jeans, worn boots, and a button-up with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s dirt on his hands, sweat on his temples, and a permanent crease between his brows like he hasn’t relaxed since the Clinton administration.
“You eat yet?” he asks, voice neutral, like he’s trying not to scare off a skittish animal.
“No.”
He nods like he expected that. “You’ll want to.”
I arch a brow. “Why’s that?”
“You’re working the barn today.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t flinch, but meets my gaze with the same calm, unreadable expression that makes my skin itch.
“Pace and the others are busy with fence repair and turnout. Horses still need mucking, feeding, stalls cleaned. I told you everyone participates, and you said yourself when we met you wanted to pull your weight.”
“I said I didn’t want to be a charity case,” I snap. “It doesn’t mean I signed up to play cowgirl.”
“Too late. You’re here now.”
The way he says it—quiet but firm-makes my jaw clench. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a statement of fact, like gravity or taxes.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, watching him over the rim. “You really think putting me in a barn full of horses and hay is the best idea?”
He shrugs. “Figure it’ll be good for you. Something real. Keep you out of your head.”
“I don’t need a therapy horse, John.”
“No,” he says simply. “But they don’t lie to you. Might be the only thing around here who doesn’t.”
That stings more than I want it to. I set my mug down a little harder than necessary.
Instead of reacting, he gestures toward the back door with a tilt of his chin. “Boots are on the porch. Sutton left you some clothes that won’t get ruined. Give it an hour out there. If you really hate it, I’ll find you something else.”
I cross my arms. “And if I walk out there and don’t come back?”
His eyes meet mine—steady, sharp, and maddeningly unreadable.
“Then you don’t come back,” he says. “But at least you’ll have earned your coffee.”
He turns around and walks out, the door swinging behind him before I can come up with a good enough insult.
I stand there for a long second, my arms still crossed, heart thudding too hard for a conversation that barely lasted five minutes.
Earn your coffee.
Asshole.
Still…I find myself heading to get changed. Maybe it’s spite. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Or maybe—just maybe—I need something to hit that won’t hit back.
Either way, it’s a start.