Chapter 5 Rope Lessons & Power Plays
Chapter five
Rope Lessons & Power Plays
Avery
If pride had a flavor, it would taste like dust and sweat, sunbaked dirt clinging to my boots, the sharp scent of hay in the air, and the distant sound of horses nickering in the corral.. And this morning, I’m full to the brim with both.
The sun is barely up when I find Cash in the tack shed, rolling rope between his calloused palms like it holds the answers to the universe. He doesn’t glance at me when I step inside, just keeps working like I’m not there. Which, honestly, only makes me want to pester him more.
“I want you to teach me,” I say, arms crossed, chin lifted.
His eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed. “Teach you what? How to not fall on your ass in the chicken yard?”
I force a smile. “No, I think I’ve got that part down. I’m talking about the real stuff. Running this place. Ranching.”
He scoffs, tossing the coiled rope onto a shelf. “Ranching isn’t something you pick up like a hobby, princess. It’s a way of life.”
“Well, lucky for me,” I say, stepping closer, “I’ve already got the life. Just need to learn the way.”
He gives me a long, heavy look, like he’s weighing whether or not it’s worth the energy to argue.
His stance shifts just slightly, the rope still in his hand twisting tighter, and my pulse stutters like it’s trying to anticipate his next move.
I meet his stare and don’t flinch. My heart’s hammering under my t-shirt, but I hold my ground.
“I’m not leaving,” I say, softer now. “You can either help me figure this out or watch me screw it up and burn the whole damn ranch down in the process.”
That gets a twitch from his mouth, could be a smirk, could be indigestion. Hard to say with Cash.
“Fine,” he mutters finally, pulling a pair of worn gloves from the bench. “But don’t come crying to me when you’ve got rope burn and manure in places you didn’t know existed.”
“Deal,” I say quickly, before he can change his mind. “Though, for the record, that’s not exactly a strong pitch for your mentorship skills.”
He tosses the gloves at me and I fumble to catch them, grinning despite myself. They’re too big and smell like leather and dust and something else entirely him. It’s ridiculous how fast my stomach flips.
“We’ll start with roping,” he says, already moving toward the corral. “And try not to let your ego get trampled.”
Outside, the air is cool, and the golden light slants over the fences like something out of a painting. I fall into step behind him, half grateful he’s not looking back, because I’m not sure what my face is doing.
What the heck, cowboy?
A week ago, I couldn’t stand the sight of him, thought he was a bitter relic of this dusty ranch, all sharp edges and judgment.
But now, standing out here in the early light with his scent still lingering on the gloves and the ghost of his almost-kiss brushing against my memory, something in me shifts.
I don’t know when it changed. Somewhere between the rope burns, the almost kiss, the dance, and the grudging glances, the man I dismissed as impossible started getting under my skin. And the worst part? I don’t hate it.
I shake it off, kind of, and lengthen my stride.
This isn’t just a lesson. It’s a step. A real one.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of something neither of us saw coming.
He shows me how to loop the rope, flick my wrist, shift my hips. It’s all rhythm and motion, a language I don’t speak yet, but his body does.
Every movement is fluid and sure, and I can’t help but watch the way his shoulders bunch beneath that faded t-shirt, the flex of his forearms as he tosses the lasso again and again.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at me, voice dripping with amusement, as if he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I snort. “Please. I’m just studying your technique.”
He turns, walking back toward me with a smirk that’s pure trouble. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
I roll my eyes, but the heat blooming in my cheeks gives me away. He hands me the rope, our fingers brushing, just a split-second of skin on skin, but it sparks through me like a live wire. My breath catches, and I glance up to find his eyes already on mine.
A thousand thoughts race through my head, does he want to kiss me again? Does he regret pulling away last night? My heart thuds against my ribs, loud and insistent, like it's hoping for a second chance he might not give..
“Try it,” he says, his voice lower now, rough around the edges.
I fumble through the motions, laugh nervously when the rope lands a good three feet short of the post. “Wow. So this is going well.”
“You’re stiff,” he says, stepping behind me. “Relax your shoulders. Here—”
His hands come to rest lightly on my waist, guiding me, and suddenly I forget how to breathe. He’s close. Too close. I can feel the heat of him, the strength in his grip, the scent of leather and cedar clinging to his skin. Every nerve in my body stands at attention.
“Like this,” he murmurs near my ear, adjusting the position of my arm.
His breath skates across my neck, warm and slow, and a shiver runs down my spine.
My knees nearly give out. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from leaning back into him, from pressing into the solid line of his chest just to feel something reckless.
“Better,” he says as I throw the rope again. It lands closer this time, and I whoop like I just won a trophy. “Beginner’s luck,” he mutters.
“Or excellent instruction,” I shoot back, turning my head, and nearly colliding with his mouth. We’re inches apart. His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up. The air between us shifts. Thickens.
Say something. Move. Do anything but melt.
But I don’t move. Neither does he.
Not until Emmy’s laughter echoes across the yard, breaking the moment like a splash of cold water. I step back, heart racing, hands still tingling from where he touched me.
Cash doesn’t say a word. His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s biting back something neither of us is ready to say. Then he grabs the rope and nods toward the next post.
“Let’s see if you can do it twice.”
Challenge accepted.
And this time, when I step up to throw the rope, I feel something different settle in my chest. Not just determination, but pride. The kind that isn’t borrowed from someone else’s approval. It’s mine. I earned it. One stubborn toss at a time.
But that look in his eyes? That tension curling low in my belly?
That’s not going away anytime soon.
Cash clearly doesn’t expect me to follow through. That much is obvious in the way he half-watches me as he pretends to adjust the saddle on a horse that already looks perfect. But I’m not just here to pose for a country music video. I pick up the rope again and face the post, jaw set, heart steady.
The first toss is bad, too low, too slow. I grind my teeth and reset.
“Don’t force it,” he mutters behind me, voice dry. “Let the rope do the work.”
I tune him out. Tune everything out. There’s only the target, the feel of the rope in my hand, the rhythm of breath in my lungs. I swing, release, and—
The rope sails perfectly through the air, looping around the post like I meant it all along.
Cash lets out a low whistle. “Huh.”
“You sound surprised,” I say, trying to keep my grin in check.
“Maybe I am.”
I keep going. Again. And again. Rope. Reset. Throw. Miss. Adjust. Throw. Land. Until sweat’s trickling down my back and my arms are sore. Cash leans against the fence, watching, silent now, brows drawn, lips tight.
“You done staring?” I call over, breathless.
His eyes flick to mine. “Not even close.”
The answer is so blunt, so unlike his usual gruff nonchalance, that it knocks something loose in my chest.
But I don’t let it stop me.
“I want to saddle a horse again next,” I say, peeling off the gloves. "It's been awhile."
He straightens, clearly surprised again. “That wasn’t enough for one day?”
“Nope.” I toss the gloves onto the post. “Unless you’re scared I’ll out-cowboy you.”
His mouth twitches. “I’d like to see you try.”
Challenge accepted, again.
And as I walk past him, chin high and heart hammering, I know I just earned a sliver of something from him. Maybe not respect yet. But something.
And I’m going to keep earning it, one rope loop, one dusty step, one slow-burn stare at a time.
By the time we break for water, my shirt’s stuck to my back and my hands are red beneath the gloves. Cash leans against the fence post, arms crossed, watching me like he’s still not sure if I’m a joke or a miracle.
“Not bad,” he says. “You lasted longer than I figured.”
I shoot him a look. “Is that your way of saying I impressed you?”
He shrugs. “I said ‘not bad. Let’s not get carried away.”
I walk over, chest still heaving, and grab my ice water from the fence.
My arms ache in a way that feels weirdly satisfying.
It’s not gym-sore. It’s earth-sore. Real.
And despite the heat, the grime, and the way Cash’s sarcasm chafes worse than my jeans, I feel good. Like maybe I belong here after all.
“I didn’t come out here to fail,” I say, setting my oversized bottle back on the post.
Cash raises an eyebrow. “Sure about that? Because this ranch isn’t exactly built for soft hands and city shoes.”
I step up to him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar across his chin I never noticed before. “You think I’m soft?”
His eyes narrow slightly, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something warmer. “I think you’re determined. Doesn’t mean you’re ready.”
“I don’t need to be ready.” My voice is steady. “I just need to be here. And try. Every day.”
He studies me like I’ve flipped a script he was too proud to admit he was writing. Something shifts in his jaw, then relaxes.
“You know what your dad used to say?” he asks, voice low. “That you could get to the top of any mountain as long as you stopped making excuses.”
I blink at him. “He said that to you?”
“He said a lot to me.” There’s weight in his tone. Bittersweet. “Once told me I had more grit in one finger than most men had in their whole damn body. Said that meant something, even if my old man didn’t think so.” “Most of the time, I listened.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. I want to ask more. About what my dad said. About what Cash remembers. But the look on his face says this conversation’s over, for now.
Instead, I say, “Well, good. Because I’ve got more than mountains to climb around here.”
He huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh. “Don’t expect me to carry you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I grin, then toss him the gloves. “What’s next, cowboy?”
Cash catches them, his eyes still locked on mine. “Next? We move hay bales.”
I groan. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he says. “Unless you want Emmy doing it for you.” he says, while tossing the gloves back at me.
That gets a laugh out of me. “Fine. Lead the way.”
As we walk toward the barn, side by side and still worlds apart, Emmy comes running up behind us shouting "I want to help," something softens in the air between us. The tension doesn’t disappear. It coils tighter.
But now, there’s something else too.
Respect.
And maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
The sun glares off the metal siding of the barn as we approach, and for a second, the brightness feels like stepping into a spotlight, like every vulnerability I've tried to bury is lit up and on display. Maybe that's what makes me trip.
Or maybe it's the weight of growing trust pressing heavy against the walls I've spent years building. and I blink against the sudden light. My boots catch on the uneven ground, just a little dip where the gravel's worn down, and before I can stop it, I stumble.
A strong hand shoots out, catching me by the arm and yanking me upright with surprising gentleness. Emmy giggles and runs off to find Harper.
Cash’s fingers tighten just for a second, steadying me, anchoring me. His brows lift. "You good?"
I nod, breath stuck somewhere between embarrassment and something that feels an awful lot like electricity. "Yep. Just testing your reflexes."
He doesn't smile, but something in his eyes flickers, amusement, or maybe that same spark that’s been hanging between us all morning.
"Try not to break your neck before lunch," he mutters, letting go.
But I catch the ghost of a smirk as he turns away.
And I swear, even my stumble feels like a small victory.