Chapter 3
Chapter three
Mucking Through It
Avery
Only this time, I’m not rolling out of a plush memory foam mattress to saunter into a boutique studio. I’m dragging myself out of a twin bed in a creaky ranch house that smells faintly of liniment and old cedar.
The air outside is still crisp, that dry Texas morning chill biting through my flimsy hoodie as I step onto the porch. The sky’s painted in watercolor shades, blush pinks bleeding into orange and gold, but all I can think about is how my boots feel like concrete on my feet.
Real ranch boots, the same one's I left here years ago, not the city-chic suede ones in my closet back in Austin. Those were a buttery-soft beige with gold accents, more fashion statement than footwear. Perfect for brunch and window shopping, not stomping through mud and manure.
These boots, on the other hand, are stiff as cardboard, rubbed raw around the ankles, and smell faintly like tractor grease and wet hay. These are dusty, stiff, and two sizes too big. A distant memory. Like everything else in this world I’ve walked back into.
The scent of manure hits me like a punch to the nose before I even reach the barn. A mix of hay, horses, and something I don't want to identify clings to the air thick as syrup. My stomach does a slow roll, but I breathe through my mouth and keep walking. Pride is a hell of a motivator.
Cash is already up, of course, leaning against the stall door like a Marlboro man come to life, arms folded, eyes gleaming with amusement and just enough challenge to boil my blood.
That damn black Stetson casts a shadow over his sharp cheekbones, and the way his jeans hang low on his hips is criminal.
"You’re late," he says, not even looking up from the feed bucket he's measuring.
"It’s six-oh-five," I snap. "And it took me five minutes to convince my daughter, Emmy, not to feed the chickens her Pop-Tarts."
He smirks, and I want to throw something at his perfect, rugged face.
The chores start simple enough, mucking stalls.
I have a pitchfork. I have determination.
I have... no upper body strength. Ten minutes in, I’m sweating through my hoodie, my palms are blistering, and there’s something warm and suspiciously squishy stuck to my left boot. I gag. But I keep shoveling.
Harper pokes her head in just long enough to offer a cheerful thumbs-up and an apple for the horses. "You might want to armor up before facing the chickens," she teases, eyes twinkling.
"They’ve been extra feisty since I fed them leftover cornbread." She winks and adds, "Also, your city boots called, they're filing a complaint." Then she vanishes like the magical unicorn she is. Emmy’s giggles echo from outside, and I think I hear her telling a chicken a knock-knock joke.
My lower back screams. My arms ache. My hair’s falling out of its clip and clinging to the sweat on my neck. I want to cry. I want to quit. I want to stomp back to the house, throw my city shoes in the SUV, and drive back to civilization.
But I don’t.
Because this ranch, my father's legacy, no matter how complicated, is now mine to fight for. And because if I leave, Cash wins. And I refuse to let that brooding cowboy with the stupidly sexy jawline and maddening smirk think I’m just some spoiled city girl who can’t handle a little dirt.
So I square my shoulders, grip the pitchfork, and shovel like my pride depends on it.
Because it does.
By mid-morning, I’m certain this ranch is trying to kill me.
Cash has vanished, probably off somewhere brooding attractively with a hay bale or glaring at a fence post, and left me with a wheelbarrow full of something that smells like dead body parts.
I try to push it toward the compost pile, but the thing has a mind of its own. It tips sideways like a drunken frat boy and dumps its entire load right onto my boots.
“Are you kidding me?” I hiss, hopping back and slipping in what I hope is just mud. My arms flail, and I land flat on my butt with a wet splat that soaks through my jeans.
Harper appears at the fence, sipping from her oversized iced coffee like she’s front row at a comedy show. "You’re doing amazing, sweetie," she calls, deadpan.
I flip her off with both hands.
Just when I manage to stand up, grimy, damp, and utterly defeated, Emmy gallops over with a stick she’s decided is her new horse. “Mommy! Look! I named him Burrito!”
Of course she did.
The next disaster is the chicken coop. Did you know chickens are terrifying?
I didn’t. I open the gate and they charge like tiny, flapping velociraptors.
One pecks my leg, and I swear she’s aiming for blood.
Another tries to make a break for it, and I find myself in a sprint, arms out, hollering like a lunatic as I chase a chicken across the yard in boots that weren’t made for anything faster than a mosey.
Harper’s laughter is audible from somewhere behind me.
Eventually, after three laps around the henhouse, two near face-plants, and a scream that probably woke the dead, I corral the bird and stumble back into the coop.
The chicken, whom I’ve mentally named Satanetta, glares at me from the corner like she’s plotting my downfall. My boots are caked with something suspicious, my breath is coming in short gulps, and I’ve sprouted a feather in my hair like some deranged Disney princess.
All I need is a pitchfork and a musical number, only to realize I’ve locked myself inside.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
It takes ten full minutes of shouting before one of the ranch hands, Wyatt, I think, the one who always smells like peppermints and wears his shirt tucked halfway, ambles over to let me out. He gives me a slow once-over, eyes twinkling. “You’re adjusting real well,” he drawls.
I mutter something about chicken mutiny and storm back to the barn, my pride bruised, my jeans filthy, and my hair a wild mess of hay and frustration.
But I don’t quit.
Because this isn’t just about surviving, it’s about proving I belong here. Even if the chickens disagree.
After lunch, when my muscles are officially protesting every step, I peek into the house to find Harper knee-deep in bleach and elbow grease.
She's got a bandana tied around her head, a spray bottle in one hand and a scrub brush in the other, muttering something about "dust older than sin" as she attacks a shelf.
Emmy is helping, sort of, mostly by singing made-up songs while polishing the wooden banister with one of Harper’s old T-shirts.
Harper shoots me a look and waves me off.
“Go breathe some fresh air, I’ve got this war zone handled.
Besides, I have to get back on my computer soon to get some work done. "
So I sneak away with Emmy and a worn plaid blanket Harper found tucked in the back of a linen closet. We decided to let Harper catch up on work. We spread it under the shade of a gnarled oak tree near the pasture fence. Emmy lies flat on her back, giggling at the shapes the clouds make.
“That one’s a dinosaur,” she declares. “Or maybe a bunny. A dino-bunny.”
I smile, brushing a curl off her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, her denim overalls smudged with dirt, and she looks like she belongs here more than I ever did.
The horses graze nearby, their ears flicking lazily. One of them, a coppery mare with a white blaze, wanders close, sniffing curiously. Emmy gasps and holds out her hand like I taught her, slow and careful.
“She’s so pretty,” Emmy whispers. "What’s her name, Mommy?"
“Sugar,” I say, reading the faint scrawl on her halter. I run a palm down the mare’s neck, feeling the solid warmth and quiet breath of her. “Looks like Sugar approves of you.”
Emmy’s face lights up like Christmas. "Can I feed her a carrot?"
I pull one from the tote bag beside us, I'd brought snacks, and thank God, Emmy hadn't devoured them all yet, and hand it to her. "Remember what I showed you, fingers flat like a plate."
She nods seriously, biting her bottom lip as she holds the carrot out. Sugar lips it from her hand with surprising gentleness, her velvety nose brushing Emmy’s palm.
Emmy gasps. "It tickled!"
I chuckle. "That means she likes you."
"Can we keep her?"
I laugh. “She already lives here, sweetie.”
She nods solemnly, reaching out to gently stroke Sugar’s soft muzzle. “Then we’ll keep each other.”
Something squeezes in my chest. That small, innocent sentence lodges itself right beneath my ribs.
For the next hour, we sit like that, her leaning against me, babbling about horses and burrito-stick adventures, while I pet Sugar and soak in the peace of it. I tell her stories about when I was a little girl on this land, the few good memories I have of my dad before things got complicated.
Like the time he lifted me onto the back of a pony and let me ride in lazy circles, his hands steadying me.
Emmy listens wide-eyed, one hand still tangled in Sugar’s mane, and asks if Grandpa liked horses too.
I hesitate, then nod. "He loved them," I say softly.
"Even if he didn't always know how to show it. "
The warmth of the sun, the distant whinny of another horse, the scratch of dry grass beneath our blanket.
Another horse sounds off a whinny and Emmy looks at me with her questioning eyes asking "why do they make that sound?
" So, I explain, " the horses talk to each other that way, it usually means they are happy, they have another whinny for when they are in danger.
" She is satisfied with that answer and goes on about talking horses.
This all begins to feel like something real.
It all begins to feel like something we could have. Something we could love.
Not just survive here. Maybe… thrive.
I watch Emmy stretch out, her eyes fluttering closed in a lazy blink.
And I think, for the first time since I arrived, that maybe this isn’t the worst place to be.
After Emmy and I finish our lunch break, I head back to work. Back at the barn, I find Cash tightening the screws on the hayloft ladder. His brow lifts slightly when he sees me walking in with Sugar calmly trailing behind, Emmy skipping beside me.
"Didn’t think you’d last past lunch," he mutters, turning back to his task.
"Sorry to disappoint," I shoot back, trying to ignore the subtle spark of satisfaction that flickers in my chest.
Then I see it, a busted section of fencing near the west paddock. It’s sagging, the posts barely clinging to the wire, a storm’s handiwork no doubt. Cash is clearly heading there next, gloves in hand.
"I’ll do it," I say, before I can think better of it.
He turns, brows raised. "You don't know how to patch fence?"
"Used to help my dad when I was a kid," I lie, sort of. I watched him do it at least. Once.
I grab a pair of gloves, a hammer, and the roll of fencing wire. Cash watches, silent but skeptical, as I head to the broken section.
The first few attempts are... wobbly. But I figure it out. I stabilize the post, brace it with a rock like I remember seeing, and pull the wire taut with everything I’ve got. Sweat trickles down my spine, dust clings to my skin, and I mutter a steady string of choice words under my breath.
It fights me, but I get it done. And as I stand there, sweat dripping from my brow and muscles trembling, something shifts inside me. It’s not just about proving Cash wrong anymore, it’s about proving something to myself. That I’m capable.
That I can handle this life, even if it terrifies me. I look at the fence and realize this moment, his tiny victory over wood and wire, is the first time I’ve felt grounded in weeks. I built that. Me. It may not be perfect, but it’s holding. And so am I.
When I step back, the section holds, straight and sturdy.
Cash walks over, expression unreadable. He nudges the post with his boot. It doesn’t budge.
He looks at me for a long beat, then offers a single nod. "Not bad."
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve heard all day.
"Thanks," I say, trying not to beam.
He doesn’t smile, but there’s something softer in his eyes. Something curious. And maybe a little impressed.
As he turns back toward the barn, I hear him mutter, just barely audible over the wind, "Maybe you’re not completely hopeless after all."
I grin, brushing dirt off my jeans. Damn right I’m not.
Just watch me!