Wearing This Manure
Dawson
Iwas up before the sun, boots on the packed-dirt floors of the main stables, pitchfork in hand.
The horses had already started kicking up a fuss, high-strung, sensitive creatures that could sense the mood of a man from a mile off, and mine was scattered enough to have them all side-eyeing me as I mucked out the stalls.
I worked fast, pushing through the brain fog and the aftertaste of a night that had knocked all sense from my head, trying not to think about Sadie still tucked between tangled sheets in the cabin a couple hundred yards away.
I’d peeled myself out of bed before four a.m., slipped from her arms before she could even roll over.
I’d told myself it was decency, but the truth was, I couldn’t face the sunrise without first coming home, washing her scent off my skin, and pretending I was the kind of man who still had control over his own story.
I couldn’t face her waking up and seeing any regret in her eyes.
The morning chores went by in a blur of muscle memory.
I filled the troughs, hauled feed, and did my best to keep busy so I wouldn’t have to replay her voice in my head, soft and low in the dark, telling me things that made my heart stutter like a green colt.
I was halfway through the second stall when Damon’s shadow fell across the doorway, blocking out the sharp light that had finally broken through the fog.
“You look like shit, bro,” he declared, arms folded, all faux concern and barely contained glee. “Late night?”
I stabbed the pitchfork into the straw and kept moving. “Chores don’t do themselves.”
Damon stepped inside, baseball cap tipped back just enough to show he was in full detective mode. “Word is you didn’t make it home last night.”
I gave him nothing. I’d had years of practice hiding my hand. When you grew up helping to raise three brothers who were constantly getting into bullshit and never got caught, it became second nature. “I went home after the bar.”
Damon snorted. “Did you stay there?”
I didn’t respond.
He leaned against the stall door, boots up on the lowest rail, scanning me with that lazy, shit-eating grin that made me want to knock his teeth out some days. “Because I have it on good authority that your truck was still missing in action at one a.m. Could’ve sworn you left the bar by midnight.”
I didn’t bother looking up. “You spying on me now?”
“Nope. That’s Mom’s job, apparently.”
He paused for dramatic effect, waiting for a reaction, refusing to give me the satisfaction of moving the conversation along until I admitted something.
“Just say what you want to say,” I growled, tossing a fresh bale of hay into the next stall with more force than necessary.
Damon gave me the look, the one that said he knew he was about to win, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.
“Mom spied with her little eye you driving up to Sadie’s cabin after midnight.
Said you parked behind her place and didn’t come out until the wee hours of the mornin’,” he ended the sentence with a really bad Irish accent.
I set down the pitchfork slowly, the clang echoing in the vaulted space, and finally met his eyes. “So Mom is actually spying on me and then reporting to you?”
“She was out with the dogs. You know how she gets when she’s restless, roaming the property, keeping tabs on all her little ducklings.
” He ignored my accusation of collusion and was practically vibrating with the thrill of having caught me red-handed, but for once, I was too tired to rise to the bait.
I didn’t say anything else, and Damon let a beat drag so hard it could’ve pulled the oxygen out of the barn.
The horses caught our energy shift, ears flicked, tails twitching, eyes rolling white, picking up whatever tension I was broadcasting.
Damon was relentless, but he was also my brother, and all Lockharts had the same fatal flaw: he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Sooooo,” Damon stretched the word out, peering down the row of stalls like he was searching for inspiration. “You gonna tell me what happened with Sadie, or do I have to continue collecting evidence to present to you before you’ll come clean?”
I wiped the sweat from my brow with the hem of my shirt and kept my hands busy, but we both knew he’d already done the math. “Nothing happened,” I lied.
He shot me a look that was pure bullshit detector.
“Nothing? You mean to tell me you spent all night with Sadie, alone, and nothing happened?” His voice rang off the rafters, high and needling, the same tone he used when we were kids and he caught me sneaking an extra cinnamon roll from the kitchen.
I ignored him, tossing flakes of alfalfa into the hay racks with more force than was strictly necessary. The horses didn’t care, they just started eating faster, heads down, grateful for the distraction. I wished I could shovel my feelings down the same way.
“Mom’s gonna be so disappointed. I think she was looking up open dates to host her next son’s wedding at the ranch.”
I grabbed the wheelbarrow and maneuvered it down the aisle, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. He didn’t. I should have known better.
He jogged a few steps to keep up, boots thudding in the packed dirt. “So, what’s the plan, big brother? You gonna pine for Sadie from afar for the next decade, or are you finally gonna grow a pair and tell her that you’re still in love with her?”
I did that already. Sort of. Last night.
“Drop it, Damon.”
He put up both hands in mock surrender, but his mouth was still running. “I’m just saying, if you don’t, someone else will. You’re not the only guy in town who’s noticed she’s back, you know.”
The burn in my chest flared, but I buried it.
He wasn’t wrong. Hell, even my so-called “best friend” was halfway in love with her.
He’d texted to let me know he asked her out, he wanted me to hear it from him.
And if he didn’t have any loyalty, what would stop the rest of the town who had always wanted a shot at Sadie Shepard?
I kept my head down and kept moving, but Damon followed me all the way to the manure pile, leaning against the post like he was settling in for a long campfire story.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked but didn’t wait for a response. “You want everyone to think you’re this stoic cowboy, but underneath all that brooding, you, my big brother, are a hopeless romantic.”
“Keep pushing,” I warned, “and you’ll end up wearing this manure.”
He grinned, the kind of grin that made strangers trust him and women fall in love with him, as he lifted his hands in mock-surrender. “Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just here for the show.”
It was pointless to argue. He’d already decided on his version of the story, and nothing short of a signed affidavit from Sadie herself was going to change his mind.
Not to mention, he was right on all counts, so it really was useless to try and defend.
I dumped the wheelbarrow, wiped my hands on my jeans, and tried to walk past him, but he stepped in front of me, blocking the exit.
“Just talk to her, tell her how you feel,” he encouraged, tone suddenly serious. “Before it’s too late.”
That was fucking ominous.
Damon’s words hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
The third Lockhart in the lineup didn’t get serious that often, but when he did, I paid attention.
The truth was, I’d told Sadie how I felt right before we jumped back into bed, and I was scared that was a mistake.
I worried I’d rushed things with her. But if I let myself think about it, obsess over it, I’d come undone in ways I couldn’t afford.
Not with the whole damn town watching me like I was a prize bull about to get gelded.
I grabbed the wheelbarrow again and was about to tell my brother to kindly fuck off, when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside the barn. Damon’s head shot up, and not for the first time this morning, he looked utterly amused.
“Well, would you looky there.” He nodded toward the entrance to the stable. “Somebody’s got a visitor.”
When I glanced over my shoulder, a gleam of silver caught the corner of my eye as a low-slung Porsche Cayenne rolled to a stop beside the barn.
The engine purred for a second, then shut off, and the silence that followed was so complete I could hear the horses chewing.
I knew exactly who was behind the wheel.
“Oh, shit,” Damon whispered, then slapped me on the back so hard I nearly lost my footing. “Good luck, lover boy.”
He was already halfway out of the stables, flipping his baseball cap around and whistling like he hadn’t just spent ten minutes roasting me over an open fire before I even set down the wheelbarrow.
I wiped my hands and squared my shoulders as the driver’s door opened, and a pair of bare, toned legs swung out first, followed by the rest of Dr. Angela Chang in matching yoga biker shorts and sports bra with a Prada windbreaker that probably cost more than my first truck.
She wore oversized sunglasses that hid half her face, but her mouth was set in a line that meant business.
She walked toward me with the determined stride of someone who’d never been told no in her life, holding a tray of what looked suspiciously like artisanal coffee in one hand and a bakery bag with a Cupid’s Cup logo in the other.
The sun caught the highlights of auburn in her brunette hair as she crossed the barnyard, her Jimmy Choo tennis shoes leaving perfect little half-moons in the dew.
“Morning, Dawson,” she called, her voice bright and echoing off the corrugated metal walls.
“Morning,” I replied, trying to sound normal. My brain was still stuck on the sight of her, unexpected, so early, and bringing snacks, which was not part of our usual routine.
The first time she’d been to the ranch was the wedding. She’d never once stopped by unannounced. And she’d never, in all the time we’d seen each other, brought me any sort of gift, food, or otherwise.