Chapter 7
The sun isn’t even fully up, and I’m already hauling buckets of water to the troughs. Two at a time, one in each hand, water sloshing over the rims and soaking my boots. I don’t care.
Everything looks different this morning. The sky is bigger. The air tastes cleaner. Even the stalls smell good, which is insane because it’s horse shit and hay.
The horses crowd in when I fill the trough, bumping their heads against my arms. I scratch behind Haywire’s ear, and he leans into it, this big-ass horse that used to bolt if you looked at him wrong. “Yeah, buddy,” I murmur. “I know. Things are looking up, huh?”
I top off the last trough, wipe my hands on my jeans, and head to the chicken coop. Eggs go into the basket, warm and brown. By the time I walk back to the main house, the sun is up over the pasture. Wade’s on the porch, coffee mug in hand, watching me approach.
“Justin.”
“Morning, sir.”
He takes a sip of coffee, eyes narrowed against the light. “Come here.”
My chest tightens.
I climb the porch steps, the basket of eggs suddenly heavier in my hands.
Wade doesn’t look at me. He looks past me, at the barns, the pastures. He’s wearing the same worn-out hat and a flannel that’s seen better days. His thick mustache bristles when he speaks.
“You seem awful cheerful this mornin’.”
“I… slept well, sir.”
“Is that right?” He turns those dark brown eyes on me. “Well. I’m glad to hear it. Thought you might have a headache after all the excitement last night.”
He knows.
I can feel the sweat prickling my hairline. My mind races, replaying every detail. The bar, the fight, the mess we made of the bunkhouse. Did he hear? Did Malik talk? No. He wouldn’t. Rex might have, but why would he? And Sam… Sam has too much to lose.
“It was a late night, that’s all.”
“It was.” He sets his mug down on the railing with a solid thud. I can see the calluses on his big hands, the dirt ground into every crease. “You’re doin’ good work, Justin. I want to be clear about that. You’re learnin’ fast. You pull your weight.”
“Thank you, sir.” My heart is hammering. This feels like a preamble. The quiet before the guillotine drops.
“But this ain’t just about work. A ranch is a small place.
Everything’s connected.” He gestures with his chin toward the bunkhouse.
“What happens in there affects everything out here. A crew’s gotta trust each other.
Gotta be able to count on each other.” He points toward the east pasture.
“A man gets hurt, a steer gets loose in a storm, you don’t have time for grudges or secrets.
You move as one or you don’t move at all. ”
I have absolutely no clue where he’s going with this, but I’m starting to feel less like I’m about to be sent packing and more like I’m in the middle of some kind of test.
“This ain’t my first rodeo, Justin. I get it.”
I swallow. What exactly does he get? The tension? The fight? Or what happened after? My pulse starts climbing again.
“Sir, I?—”
“I ain’t finished.” He doesn’t raise his voice.
Wade never does. “Only thing I care about is that my crew works together. Eats together. Looks out for each other. Dinner’s the one time I get all of you in one place, facin’ each other like men.
That matters to me.” Those dark eyes settle on me.
“Tonight, you’re on dinner. I want it done right. ”
I stare at him. Of all the things I expected—getting thrown off the ranch, a lecture about discretion, a threat to ship me back to my father—this wasn’t on the list. “Me? But Sam usually?—”
“I know what Sam usually does. Tonight it’s you.” He picks up his mug and drains the last of it. “I trust you to see it’s handled. Kitchen’s yours. Serve us a good meal. Understood?”
“Understood, sir,” I manage.
“Good.” He taps the porch railing once with his knuckle. “Now take them eggs inside before the sun cooks ‘em for you.”
I head in, gripping the basket tighter than I need to. In the kitchen, I set it on the counter and lean against the sink. What the hell did he mean by all that?
Wade’s words stick with me all day. While I’m moving cattle to the south pasture, while I’m mending the fence line, while I’m stacking hay bales in the barn.
This ain’t my first rodeo, Justin.
I still don’t know what he meant. It could’ve been a warning, but it didn’t sound like one.
And then the dinner thing. Looking out for each other.
Eating together. He wants me to cook. To gather them around his table, the one place that’s sacred to him.
Why me? Wade doesn’t change routines without a reason. It feels like a test.
In the late afternoon, I head to the pantry.
Beans. Rice. More beans. A sad bag of flour.
This is what we’ve been eating every night since I got here.
Bland beans, dry chicken, a wilted salad if someone remembered to grab lettuce in town.
Nobody complains because nobody cares. You work fourteen hours in the sun, you’ll eat anything.
But Wade didn’t tell me to throw beans on the table. He said, “Serve us a good meal.”
I dig deeper. A bag of onions, a few wrinkled carrots, a head of garlic that’s starting to sprout.
In the freezer, there’s a stack of vacuum-sealed beef steaks, thick and marbled.
Wade’s good stuff, the kind he saves for important guests or a big cattle sale.
Using them for a regular dinner feels like a risk.
Then again, if this really is a test, serving beans would fail it before we even sat down.
I pull out enough for all six of us and let them thaw in the sink.
While they do, I chop the onions, my eyes watering, and get everything else lined up on the counter.
I’m no chef. My culinary experience tops out at microwave burritos and the occasional box of mac and cheese.
But I watched my mom cook enough to know the basics.
Onions first. Low heat. Let them go soft before you add anything else.
By the time the steaks have loosened up, the kitchen is already warm from the stove.
I season them with salt and pepper and throw them in the cast-iron skillet.
The fat pops and sizzles and the smell fills the whole house.
The carrots and garlic go in next. A splash of Worcestershire sauce from the back of the fridge.
A pinch of dried oregano. Then cumin. Chili powder.
I’m a mad scientist with a wooden spoon, throwing things together, tasting as I go.
This is going to be the best damn meal any of them have eaten on this ranch. I want to prove something, though I’m not sure what. That I’m grateful. That I’m useful. That I belong here.
I’m still glowing from last night. The memory sits warm in my chest, making me feel ten feet tall.
All those years of trying to make myself invisible feel like a life I borrowed from someone else.
Last night showed me what’s possible when I stop hiding.
When I ask for what I want, I might just get it.
The guys start coming in from the fields. I hear the clomp of boots on the porch, the groan of the screen door, the thud of gear hitting the floor. Voices and laughter. Flynn. Sam. Malik. Rex.
My crew.
Tonight, I’m feeding them.