Chapter 2 Mud, Sweat, and Pride #2
While the rest of the ranch got moving, I spent the first hour checking schedules and organizing assignments.
Blackthorn wasn't a small operation.
There were horses to care for, cattle to monitor, equipment to maintain, and enough daily responsibilities to keep everyone busy from sunrise until sunset.
Adding Oliver to the equation felt like adding an extra problem.
A temporary one, hopefully.
When breakfast ended, I pointed him toward the livestock area and assigned one of the ranch hands to show him the basics.
I expected him to last twenty minutes.
Instead, he lasted all day.
Not gracefully.
Not successfully.
But he lasted.
Every time I looked in his direction, something had gone wrong.
The kid spilled feed.
Dropped buckets.
Got tangled in hoses.
Managed to confuse horses that had spent their entire lives around people.
At one point I watched him attempt to push a wheelbarrow across the yard.
The wheel hit a rut.
The entire load tipped over.
Oliver stared at the mess like he'd personally offended the universe.
I had to turn away before he saw the amusement on my face.
The situation wasn't funny.
Not exactly.
But there was something strangely entertaining about how spectacularly he struggled.
Most people who failed that often became angry.
Or defensive.
Oliver just looked embarrassed.
Then he cleaned up the mess and kept working.
That part caught my attention.
A few hours later I found him in one of the horse barns.
A mare named Daisy had decided she didn't like him.
Daisy occasionally made that decision about people.
Usually for good reasons.
Oliver was trying to brush her while maintaining a safe distance.
Unfortunately, horses didn't work that way.
You either earned their trust or you didn't.
The mare stepped sideways.
Oliver jumped.
Daisy looked offended.
I shook my head.
The kid looked like he was negotiating with a bomb.
One of the ranch hands laughed.
Oliver's ears turned bright red.
Still, he didn't walk away.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually Daisy allowed him to finish.
Poorly.
Awkwardly.
But successfully.
I found myself watching longer than necessary.
Then I got annoyed with myself and moved on.
The day continued.
The disasters continued with it.
By midafternoon I received reports that Oliver had nearly crashed a utility vehicle into a stack of feed bags.
I wasn't surprised.
A few minutes later I walked over to inspect the damage.
There wasn't any.
Just a visibly horrified college student standing beside the vehicle while one of my workers explained basic driving concepts.
Again.
Oliver looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
The strange thing was that he actually listened.
Most people his age hated looking incompetent.
Their pride got involved.
They argued.
Made excuses.
Blamed circumstances.
Oliver just nodded and paid attention.
That was unusual.
Not enough to change my opinion.
But unusual.
As the afternoon dragged on, the temperature climbed higher.
The heat settled over the ranch like a heavy blanket.
Even experienced workers slowed down.
Oliver looked exhausted.
Sweat soaked through his shirt.
Dust covered his jeans.
His hair stuck to his forehead.
The kid was clearly miserable.
Yet somehow he never complained.
That bothered me more than complaints would have.
People who complained were predictable.
You knew exactly where they stood.
People who stayed quiet were harder to figure out.
Around three o'clock, I stopped near a water station and found Oliver filling buckets.
His movements were slower than they had been that morning.
His shoulders sagged with fatigue.
The blisters on his hands were obvious.
When he lifted another bucket, he winced.
I noticed immediately.
He probably thought nobody saw.
I did.
"Hands hurt?"
His head snapped up.
For a second he looked surprised that I'd spoken to him.
"Little bit."
That answer earned a raised eyebrow.
"A little bit?"
He glanced down.
"Okay. A lot."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"Welcome to ranch work."
He huffed a tired laugh.
The sound surprised both of us.
Then I walked away before the conversation could become awkward.
The rest of the day passed without major incidents.
Minor disasters, sure.
But no major ones.
By sunset, everyone looked ready to go home.
Including me.
The workers finished their assignments and started heading toward the parking area.
Engines started.
Trucks pulled away.
The ranch gradually settled into evening.
I completed a final walk around the property, checking gates and equipment before calling it a day.
The sun had already disappeared below the horizon.
Long shadows stretched across the fields.
Most of the buildings sat quiet.
The workday was over.
Or it should have been.
As I passed one of the equipment sheds, movement caught my attention.
I stopped.
Frowned.
Looked again.
There, near a stack of supplies, stood Oliver.
Alone.
The kid was carrying empty buckets.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was trying not to draw attention to himself.
I checked my watch.
Everyone else had left nearly forty minutes ago.
What the hell was he still doing here?
Curiosity got the better of me.
I walked closer.
Oliver didn't notice me at first.
He was too focused on his task.
Eventually he turned around and froze.
His expression immediately shifted toward embarrassment.
Interesting.
"Why are you still here?"
For a second he seemed unsure how to answer.
Then he glanced toward the buckets.
"I didn't finish."
That wasn't what I asked.
"I know."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, understanding clicked into place.
The kid had stayed late to finish work he'd fallen behind on.
Work nobody expected him to finish.
Work that could have waited until tomorrow.
I looked around.
The yard was empty.
The ranch was quiet.
No audience.
No one to impress.
No one watching.
Yet he'd stayed anyway.
That changed things.
Not a lot.
But some.
Most people would've gone back to the bunkhouse.
Taken a shower.
Complained about their day.
Oliver was still working.
Because he didn't want to leave a job unfinished.
The realization settled somewhere in the back of my mind.
Unexpected.
Uncomfortable.
"Go eat dinner," I said.
His brow furrowed.
"But—"
"The buckets will survive until tomorrow."
He looked doubtful.
Then exhausted.
Then relieved.
The order won.
"Okay."
There was that word again.
Okay.
I watched him set down the last bucket.
When he straightened, his entire body seemed to ache.
The kid was running on pure stubbornness.
Nothing else explained it.
Not talent.
Not experience.
Certainly not common sense.
Just stubbornness.
As Oliver headed toward the bunkhouse, I remained where I was.
The evening breeze moved through the property.
Somewhere in the distance, a horse nickered softly.
I thought about the day.
About every mistake.
Every disaster.
Every reason the kid should have quit.
Then I thought about him staying late after everyone else had gone home.
Most people would've given up.
Oliver hadn't.
That didn't make him good at ranch work.
Hell, he was still terrible.
But maybe I'd misjudged one thing.
The kid wasn't weak.
Maybe he was stubborn.
Maybe he was foolish.
Maybe he was too determined for his own good.
But as I watched him disappear toward the bunkhouse, one thought kept returning.
Oliver Hayes might be more stubborn than smart.
And for the first time since he'd arrived, I wasn't entirely sure he'd quit.
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