Chapter 3 Rebecca
three
Rebecca
My first day of actual ranch work is a disaster of epic proportions.
"Easy," Joseph says for the third time as I approach the ornery black cow that's decided the water trough belongs to her alone. "Don't let her see you're nervous, she’s probably the grumpiest cow I’ve ever met."
"I'm not nervous," I lie, gripping the lead rope so tight my knuckles are white. "I'm just... cautious."
"She weighs twelve hundred pounds. Cautiousness is smart."
The cow—Bertha, according to Joseph's extremely creative naming system—snorts and tosses her head, clearly unimpressed by my veterinary school credentials.
Three years of studying animal anatomy apparently doesn't translate to actually handling animals that don't want to be handled.
Though I can see from her stance and the way she's favoring her left rear hoof that she might have a stone bruise. That's something, at least.
"She's just testing you," Joseph says from where he's leaning against the fence, managing to look completely relaxed while I'm having a standoff with livestock. "Show her who's boss."
"Right. Boss. That's me." I take a step forward, trying to project confidence I absolutely don't feel.
Bertha takes two steps back, directly into the water trough.
Water explodes everywhere. I jump back with a yelp, slipping in the sudden mud and going down hard on my ass. Bertha, apparently satisfied with her victory, wanders off to terrorize a different section of pasture.
"Joseph, wait." I touch his arm. "Bertha's limping slightly on her left rear. Might be a stone bruise or an abscess starting. We should check her hoof before she gets worse."
He pauses, looking back at the cow with new attention. "You sure?"
"Pretty sure. The way she's shifting weight, keeping pressure off it." I feel a flush of confidence. "That might be why she was extra grumpy this morning."
"Show me."
It takes some doing, but we manage to get Bertha into the small holding pen and examine her hoof. Sure enough, there's a small stone wedged against the sole.
"Good eye," Joseph says as he carefully removes it with a hoof pick. "How'd you spot that?"
"Gait analysis. We spent a whole semester on lameness evaluation." I watch him work, noting his gentle competence with the animal. "You're good at this too."
"Practice." He releases Bertha, who immediately stops favoring the foot. "Three years of learning everything the hard way."
"Well, now you've got someone who actually studied this stuff. Even if I can't wrangle chickens."
"About those chickens..." He grins. "Maybe approach them more like patients, less like enemies."
He hands me a towel that appeared from nowhere, and I attempt to clean the worst of the mud off my jeans. It's hopeless—I'm soaked and filthy and it's not even noon yet.
"Let's try the chickens," Joseph suggests. "Less chance of drowning in a water trough."
The chickens, it turns out, are even worse than the cows.
"They're so... aggressive," I pant, clutching the egg basket like a shield while a particularly vindictive hen pecks at my boots.
"That's Gladys. She doesn't like strangers."
"Gladys needs therapy."
"Gladys needs to lay eggs. That's her job."
"Well, she's not very good at customer service."
This time Joseph doesn't even try to hide his grin. "You're afraid of a five-pound chicken."
"I'm not afraid. I'm being strategically careful."
"With a chicken."
"A hostile chicken."
"Rebecca." He steps closer. "You outweigh her by a factor of twenty. You've got opposable thumbs and higher brain function. You can handle one cranky hen."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one she's trying to murder."
"She's not trying to murder you. She's protecting her territory. It's instinct."
"Great. So I'm being defeated by instinct."
"You're overthinking it."
He moves behind me, his chest brushing my back as he reaches around to guide my hands on the basket. The contact sends heat shooting through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his breath tickles my ear.
"Confident movements," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low rumble that does things to my insides. "Don't give her time to think about it."
I try to focus on his instruction instead of the way his hands cover mine, warm and sure. But when I reach for an egg, my concentration shatters completely. I fumble, knock over the water dispenser, and somehow manage to step directly into the mess.
Before I can process what's happening, I flash back to the old world—where I would have just driven to the grocery store and bought a dozen eggs for three dollars. No hostile chickens, no mud, no wondering if these are the last eggs I'll see for weeks.
"In my past life, YouTube would have taught me how to do this," I mutter, trying to salvage my dignity along with the eggs.
Joseph chuckles. "In your past life, you didn't need to know."
The sound that attracts them is part crash, part splash, and entirely loud enough to carry across the valley.
The zombies stumble into the yard twenty minutes later—three of them, drawn by the noise. Slow-moving but persistent, with the single-minded determination of the truly dead.
"Stay behind me," Joseph orders, already moving toward the rifle he keeps mounted near the barn.
But I'm already moving too, grabbing the pitchfork I'd abandoned earlier. Three years of survival have taught me that freezing gets you killed.
"Rebecca, get back."
The first zombie lurches toward me, and instinct takes over. I drive the pitchfork forward, catching it center mass and using its own momentum to drive the tines deep. It drops, twitching.
The second one is faster, or maybe I'm slower. It gets close enough that I can smell the rot, see the milky eyes. I stumble backward, pitchfork tangled in the first zombie's ribcage, and go down hard.
Joseph's rifle cracks once, twice. When the ringing in my ears clears, both remaining zombies are down and Joseph is standing over me.
"You okay?" His voice is rough.
"Yeah. I think so." I let him help me up, hyperaware of his hands on my arms, checking for bites or scratches with professional thoroughness. "Are they all dead?"
"Dead-er." He releases me, stepping back. "That was stupid."
"Excuse me?"
"Running toward zombies instead of away from them. That was stupid."
"I was helping!"
"You were panicking."
"I was not panicking. I was fighting."
"You were about to get yourself killed."
"But I didn't!"
"Because I saved your ass!"
"I don't need you to save my ass!"
"Could have fooled me!"
We're standing toe to toe now, both breathing hard, adrenaline and anger crackling between us like electricity. His eyes are storm-dark, jaw clenched, and I can see the pulse jumping in his throat.
Part of me knows I should be scared. I barely know this man, and he's bigger and stronger and clearly used to making life-or-death decisions on his own. But the bigger part of me is furious that he thinks I can't handle myself, that he sees me as just another helpless refugee who needs protecting.
I've been taking care of myself for three years. I didn't survive this long by hiding behind other people.
"You don't get to be reckless with your life," he says, voice low and intense. "Not here. Not on my watch."
"My life, my choice."
"Not anymore."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Instead of answering, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's desperate, fierce, like he's trying to convince himself I'm really alive. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I melt into him without a single coherent thought.
Instead of pushing him away, I fist my hands in his shirt and kiss him back just as desperately. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I moan against his mouth.
The sound seems to break something in him. He backs me against the barn wall, his body caging me in, one hand braced beside my head. The other slides down my side, deliberate and possessive.
His mouth crashes down on mine again, hungrier this time. His hand finds the hem of my shirt, slides underneath to palm my ribs, and I arch into the touch without thinking.
"Fuck," he growls against my neck. "You're so soft."
His beard scrapes against my throat as he kisses his way down, and I shiver. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra and I gasp.
His hand moves higher, cupping me properly. Even through the fabric, his touch burns. His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss deeper, take more.
I reach for his belt…And reality crashes down.
Three years of survival instinct screaming at me all at once. Don't get attached. Don't need anyone. People die. People leave. People turn into the things we just killed in the yard.
I push against his chest. Hard.
He releases me instantly, stepping back, breathing like he just ran a mile. His eyes are wild.
I can't look at him. I press my palms against the barn wall behind me, needing something solid.I can’t lose my nerve just because a sexy-as-fuck cowboy just made me whimper with a kiss. I need to keep my head straight.
"Rebecca—"
"Don't." My voice sounds wrecked. "Just... don't."
I walk past him to where the bodies are waiting. Grab the first one by its ankles and start dragging it toward the burn pile.
He doesn't follow. Doesn't try to stop me or explain or fix it.
After a minute, I hear him pick up another body and follow.
We work in silence for an hour. Disposing of the dead. Cleaning up the mess. Not talking about what just happened or what it meant or what happens next.
When we're finally done, I'm filthy and exhausted and my lips still taste like him.
"I'm going to shower," I say to the ground between us.
"Okay."
I make it three steps toward the house before I stop. I don't turn around.
"I need more time."
Silence. Then: "Okay."
It's the right answer. The only answer that doesn't make this worse.
I walk inside without looking back, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way.