17. Olivia #2
“This is some turnout, Liv!” he shouts over the noise.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
To them, I’m still that girl who thinks she could change the world. The Bougie Cowgirl, they called me. Back then, it felt like a slap, but now it’s a challenge, a dare to do things my own way. I stand at the center of it all, juggling hope and ambition like two live wires in my hands.
I make my way through clusters of volunteers, some faces familiar, others not. They’ve come despite their doubts, despite the whispers. A few old-timers gather around the coffee station. I catch snippets of their conversation, bits of local gossip spiced with a few jabs at my expense.
“So how much do you think this will set her back?” one says.
Another, with a quick glance my way, grins. “More than she plans, I’d reckon.”
I saunter over, arms crossed. “I hear talk of donations, boys. Your generous spirits never fail to amaze me.”
They chuckle, shaking their heads. One raises his paper cup in a salute. “You’ve got your daddy’s stubbornness, I’ll give you that.”
Ace’s voice cuts through the buzz. He stands atop a pickup. “Alright, folks! We’ve got a full day ahead. Paint crews by the barn, tool teams on the east side. Let’s show Olivia how it’s done in Lawson Ridge!”
The call to action ripples through the crowd, and I join him, taking the spot right next to the tailgate.
“Not wasting any time, are you?” I ask, watching him jump down to join me.
“Not with this many hands.”
Together, we run down the plan, passing groups of people who have begun to scatter toward their tasks.
It’s real. It’s happening. I know the odds, but I also know myself.
This has to work. Failure isn’t an option.
I won’t let it be. As I stand beside Ace, facing a sea of volunteers and the old barn.
This isn’t just about saving a piece of property.
It’s about staking a claim. A claim on my family’s legacy, on my own ambition, on the heart of Lawson Ridge.
“Let’s get to work!” I yell, and their cheers carry the day into motion.
Work like this is a dance. We circle each other, synchronized and precise, even when we pretend not to be.
Ace shifts the ladder into place, and I catch the furrowed intent in his brow, the determination in his hands.
Mine are already wet with paint, but I don’t mind the mess.
We share this stubborn streak, wanting the work to be perfect.
Ace takes the tools from Mabel, her voice and steps steady.
“Pass me the drill,” he says. “Be sure to secure that beam,” she replies.
Her soft drawl weaves through our clatter and footsteps.
“Watch that loose board,” I say, a little too quick, watching him sidestep my warning with ease.
“Seen worse,” he replies, his drawl lazy, his grin anything but.
I paint the long strokes, the steady ones, imagining what the old barn might have looked like when it was fresh and new. Layers of memory under each coat, traces of everyone who touched this place.
Ace moves in close, inspecting the beam, his hands working steady and sure. He doesn’t have to say much for me to know he wants this to work just as much as I do.
Mabel hops down from the truck with surprising agility, her arms full of supplies.
“How’s the north wall? Still holding up?”
His confidence shows in the slight tilt of his head, the assuredness in his tone. “Like it was built yesterday.”
“And who’s the one that built it, hmmm?”
Ace chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up a screwdriver. “Can’t blame me for trying to be better than you, Mabel.”
I watch their easy banter. It’s not just a barn. It’s a future, a statement. Every piece of wood and nail and paint holds my dreams and fears together. I look at Ace, wanting to ask if he’s in this for real or just in it for me, but I swallow the question and the uncertainty with it.
The barn is massive, bigger than I remember, its creaks and groans settling into my bones.
Every imperfection stands out to me, daring me to fix it.
The hours slip by, the angle of the sun telling time more honestly than any watch.
I can’t keep track, don’t want to. I lose myself in the work, in the rhythm of brush and saw and hammer.
It’s progress, not quite finished, but enough to start feeling like maybe—just maybe—it might all work out.
Ace leans close, inspecting a section we’ve just finished.
“Think we did alright,” he says, more to himself than to me.
“Let’s not count on luck just yet.”
Neighbors trickle in from the work area, sweat-damp shirts, and paint-flecked hands. Serena beams at me. She dashes off to join a group of women discussing the best way to can peaches. I glance around, searching for Ace without wanting to be obvious about it. He’s at the edge of the clearing.
He’s watching me as I approach, and for once, neither of us breaks eye contact.
“It’s not over yet,” I say, not sure if he hears me over the noise.
But the look he gives me tells me he hears more than I intend. “Wouldn’t want it to be,” he says, the hint of a smile catching the light, holding it for just a moment before it slips away.