Chapter 7
The barn smells of hay, manure, and sweat. The trifecta of country living.
I’m on my third stall, my arms already aching, the borrowed boots Sutton left me digging into my heels like they’re personally offended by my existence.
My shirt sticks to my back, and there’s straw in places straw should never be.
Every time I heave the pitchfork, I question my life choices all over again.
Sunlight filters through the slats of the barn walls, casting stripes across the dust hanging in the air like floating reminders of how out of place I am here.
I grunt as I lift another shovelful into the wheelbarrow. It lands with a wet, squelching thud that makes me gag a little.
“Need a hand?”
The voice behind me stops me cold.
Low. Smooth. Infuriating.
Sure, I’ve only interacted with him once. The day his father escorted me out of the homeless shelter but once was enough. I went to school with people like him. Rich ass entitled men who oozed sex appeal and used it to their advantage.
I close my eyes, mentally preparing myself before turning around.
Colter Shaw leans against the doorway like he’s been posing there for the last ten minutes, arms crossed, hat tipped low. Of course he’s not sweating, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up enough to show off those forearms that probably have their own fan club.
“You here to help or just admire the view?” I ask, jabbing the pitchfork into the ground a little too forcefully.
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Wasn’t sure if you knew which end of the pitchfork to use. Thought I better supervise.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
He walks farther into the barn, the soles of his boots crunching over stray hay. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves, like he belongs in places that smell like this. Places where the work’s hard and honest. It pisses me off how good he looks doing absolutely nothing.
He stops at the next stall over and peers inside. “You missed a spot.”
“Say that again and I’ll stab you with this.”
His grin widens. “Feisty.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the muck. “Don’t you have a bronco to harass or a mirror to flirt with?”
“Nope. Got the morning off.”
“Lucky you.”
“Not really,” he says, and his tone shifts enough to make me glance at him. He’s watching me, expression unreadable. “Drew the short straw. Got stuck making sure you don’t pass out or run off.”
I narrow my eyes. “John sent you?”
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
“Figures,” I mutter, going back to work. “Didn’t trust me to handle a damn shovel on my own?”
“No, he trusts you fine. He just knows what you went through can… get to people.”
I stab the pitchfork into the bedding again, harder than necessary. “Well, I’m not most people. And I don’t need babysitting.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with dust and tension. The wheelbarrow creaks as I dump another load into it. My arms burn. My back screams. And yet, I refuse to let him see even a flicker of weakness.
Colter leans against the stall gate, one boot propped up behind him. “You know, you’re doing better than I thought you would.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, really.” He nods toward the muck I’ve cleared. “Most city folks would’ve quit two stalls ago. Especially ones with L.A. nails and a habit of glaring at everything that moves.”
I glance down at my hands. The nails are chipped, grime caught under them. I’ve never had fancy nails. Never could afford them. I was more worried about being able to afford food and shoes that weren’t held together by duct tape.
I wipe my forehead with my sleeve and meet his eyes. “I don’t quit.”
His gaze lingers on me a second longer than necessary. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you do.”
Something flickers between us then—heat, maybe, or challenge. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
I look away first.
“You going stand there, or are you going to grab a pitchfork?” I ask.
He tips his hat up, grin returning. “You askin’ for help now?”
“I’m threatening you with labor.”
Colter laughs, the sound low and warm, and steps toward the wall where a second pitchfork hangs. “Well, hell. Can’t say no to that.”
As he joins me in the next stall, I brace myself—not for the work.
But for whatever this is between us.
Because I get the feeling that’s going to be a whole lot harder to clean up.
Colter makes a show of rolling up his sleeves a little higher before grabbing a pitchfork. Of course he does. Like the man needs to flex on me in a literal stall full of shit.
“I gotta say,” he drawls, dragging the first forkful into the wheelbarrow, “you got good form. Real aggressive. Like you’re imagining someone’s face down there.”
“Not someone,” I mutter. “Just yours.”
He chuckles. “Damn. Should’ve worn armor.”
“You should wear a name tag, so I don’t accidentally bury you under a pile of this stuff.”
He scoffs like he’s unimpressed, tossing another load into the wheelbarrow. “You’ve got jokes now? Look at you. Ranch life’s turning you into a real peach.”
I shoot him a sideways glare. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, too quickly. “It’s written all over you.”
I pause. “What is?”
“You hate being here. Hate needing help. Hate not being the one in control.”
I grip the pitchfork tighter. “Keep talking, cowboy, and I’ll show you control.”
His grin slips for a second, and I catch it—the flicker of something behind his eyes. Something darker.
“That’s the thing, Peyton,” he says, voice low, calm. “You think you’re hiding it well. But people who’ve been through hell? We can spot each other from a mile away.”
My hands go cold around the wood handle.
“I didn’t come out here to play shrink,” he adds, softer now. “I thought maybe you’d wanna know someone sees it. That’s all.”
I force my shoulders to stay relaxed, force the tightness out of my jaw. “Well, you saw it. Congrats. Want a medal or a muffin?”
He chuckles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “A muffin sounds nice. You bake?”
I snort. “Only thing I’ve ever burned faster than my life.”
He finally lets out a real laugh, warm and rough around the edges, and for a second, the air between us doesn’t feel so thick.
But then he ruins it.
“Bee careful,” he says, dropping his voice again as he looks over the stall wall like someone might be listening.
“I told John to keep an eye out because something’s off lately.
Fence line was cut this morning. Someone was testing our perimeter.
Could be nothing. But out here? Nothing usually means someone lying. ”
I blink. “Testing the perimeter?”
He nods once. “And you, city girl, happen to show up right before it starts happening. Lucky timing… or not.”
I freeze, pitchfork halfway to the ground.
“You saying you think I had something to do with it?”
He looks at me, hard. “I’m saying I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Silence.
I feel the burn in my arms again, in my face, too, but it’s not from work this time. It’s the heat of being exposed, accused, however gently. I don’t like it.
Colter sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did,” I snap. “You wanted to see how I’d react.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t move. He simply stands there, holding that damn pitchfork like he’s waiting for me to crack.
But I don’t.
Instead, I turn, jam the tool into the pile and walk past him, close enough my shoulder brushes his.
I don’t stop when I say, “Next time you come out here to help, maybe keep the accusations to yourself.”
“Next time,” he says behind me, voice flat, “try not to look so damn guilty when I’m not even accusing.”
I don’t turn back.
Because if I do, I’m not sure if I’ll scream at him—or admit he’s right.
And I’m not ready for either.