Chapter 11
“This is bullshit,” Vivi said, hands on her hips as she stared out at the endless stretch of Montana morning.
The sun was barely up, but the ranch was already alive—horses snorting in the corral, a rooster screaming bloody murder somewhere near the barn.
The smell of hay and manure clung to the air, and Vivi realized just how deeply, spectacularly out of her depth she was.
City girls didn't do barns—they brunched.
And yet there she was, fueled by caffeine and a rapidly unraveling plan, wondering if it was too early in the day to start crying.
"Technically speaking, it's horse shit," Boone said tonelessly.
"You want me to carry hot, steaming horse shit?"
"Not carry it, rake it in that wheelbarrow over yonder.
" He pointed to the supersized wheelbarrow that came up to her hip.
It wasn't the kind she used in her garden, nor the kind one could buy at a hardware store.
It was a contraption from hell. She doubted she could push it empty, let alone filled with shit.
"Is this some kind of hazing?"
"It's called working the ranch. When one has horses, one makes sure those horses are taken care of. That entails feeding, watering, exercising, and cleaning up after them. Next come the cows and the chickens."
"I can exercise the horses."
"You ever run a herd of quarter horses?” His frown was sharp, like he was daring her to argue.
"In third grade, I went to a petting zoo with Lena Gust and there was a horse there. Pancake. We got to pet him. Does that count?"
"What do you think?"
"Fine, I'll feed and water them."
"You should have been out here at five then," Boone said.
Vivi blinked at him, momentarily stunned. Her brain short-circuited, visions of murder flashing behind her eyes. She loved animals, truly—but in that moment she wanted to un-man Boone with the rusty pliers hanging from his tool belt. Slowly—while smiling.
"I was three minutes late," she said flatly, squinting at him, sun in her eyes, mud on her jeans, and zero patience left in her soul. "I just didn't realize hell's orientation started immediately after."
Boone's mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile—a rarity for the devil. "Welcome to ranch life, Boots."
She glared at him, every stubborn inch of her rejecting his orders. If looks could castrate, he'd be two octaves higher by now.
"Complaining already? I mean, we've only been at this five minutes."
Vivi wiped her hands on her jeans, trying to keep her glare sharp and her pride intact. "Five minutes? Feels more like five hours of manual labor in a sauna made of hay and despair."
"You'll survive. Follow me."
She followed reluctantly, boots sinking into soft dirt, trying not to stumble as he moved with the effortless ease of a man who'd grown up running barefooted in gravel. He tossed her a shovel. She nearly dropped it from the sheer weight, but by the grace of God she held on.
“Now get shoveling. Oh, and word to the wise? Fill the barrow halfway before you move it. Don't try to take it all at once."
"Why? Because I'm a girl?"
His eyes cut to her. "Because it weighs more than you do."
"I'll take it under consideration," Vivi muttered under her breath.
She started shoveling. The wood handle was rough against her soft hands.
With every scoop she could feel the splinters digging into her skin, forming blisters and scrapes.
The longer she shoveled, the worse the pain became until she was certain losing a hand would hurt less.
But she'd rather die than admit failure, so she went on until that damn barrow was nearly full.
With a smug smile she tossed the shovel aside and gripped the handles, glaring at the massive mound of manure waiting to be hauled.
She glanced over to find Boone watching intently, like she was some exotic animal performing tricks in a circus. Heat crept up her neck, and she tried to focus on the wheelbarrow instead of the way his gaze made her pulse skip.
Don't get flustered in front of the one person you want to impress.
The thought caught her off guard. She wasn't looking to impress anyone but herself. So, then why did it matter so much that she didn't embarrass herself in front of him?
Pride. That was all it boiled down to. Silly pride.
Boone's gaze didn't waver. He just steadily watched her, arms folded across that massive, I-lift-horses-for-fun chest.
"Careful, Boots."
Two words. That was all. But the way he said it—low and gravely, like a smoldering cowboy—made her grip the handles tighter just to prove a point.
She heaved.
Nothing.
She heaved again but the barrow barely moved.
“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, like he was mad at her.
“Nope. I've got this," she said, her breath hitching with effort. Her arms shook, her boots slipped slightly in the muck, and before she could right herself, the wheelbarrow tipped—
Launching her sideways. Arms windmilling, she landed with a splat—right into a steaming pile of horse manure.
For a moment Vivi just froze, stunned. Then the smell hit her like a freight train. It was like rotting decay.
Boone's laughter rang out, echoing through the barn. He crouched beside her, still grinning like the world had just gifted him the best show of his life. "You okay there, Boots?"
Vivi wiped manure from her cheek, glaring daggers at him.
"'Define 'okay?' Because right now I'm covered in horse excrement and very close to throwing this cursed wheelbarrow at you."
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Impressively stubborn for someone who smells like a barnyard cocktail."
Vivi gritted her teeth as Boone crouched in front of her, holding out his hands. “Time to get you off the ground before the horses start thinking you’re lunch.”
“I don't need your help," she muttered, even as she grabbed his hands because balance wasn't on her side today.
He tugged her upright with one easy pull, steadying her as her boots slipped in the muck. His hand shot to her elbow before she could go down again.
"Careful," he said, his body so close that her chest fluttered like an idiot.
"Now you tell me to be careful? Where was this gentleman when he was banging pots with spoons outside my room?"
"He was feeding the horses by himself," he said, completely unbothered.
The corners of her mouth pressed into a hard line, fists itching to punch something—or someone. She shoved the wheelbarrow forward, muttering under her breath, "First impression: epic fail."
"Your first impression was about your sex life," he said, a rare smile breaking through. "Orgasms, specifically. Made quite the impact."
Vivi blinked at him. "Screw you."
He released her elbow but didn't move far. That's when she felt his gaze drop to her hands. Her palms stung with red and raw blisters that were already forming from gripping the shovel.
Something shifted in his face. Not soft, exactly—Boone didn't do soft—but the humor drained out of it and what replaced it was quieter and laser focused.
His jaw tightened once. "Next time wear gloves."
Without another word, his hands went to her hips and he moved her gently aside, like she was something worth being careful with. He took the handles and wheeled the manure out of the barn, leaving her standing there speechless.
There was something about his grumpy, possessive protectiveness that made her chest squeeze.
A tear silently spilled and caught on her lash. She wiped angrily at it, smearing horse shit on her cheek. She didn't care.
She wasn't sure why she was crying. Was it from the anger of embarrassing herself—again? Or could it really be as ridiculous as a grumpy cowboy offloading her shit for her? Maybe a little of both? She didn't want to dig too deep into it. What she did want was a shower.
Vivi walked toward the ranch, taking the long way to get her emotions in check. Opening the back door, she shucked off her boots, smearing filth all over the rug, then padded down the hallway.
When she got to the master bath, those stuck tears fell one by one in rapid succession.
Because on the bathroom counter was a box of Band-Aids and enough first-aid paraphernalia to bandage an army.
More than enough to bandage her pride—and something warmer.
Then she walked further into the bathroom, and those shivers turned into quivers.
Because not only had Boone taken over her chores, he'd somehow beat her to the bathroom and drawn her a bath.
A thick steam curled through the room, fogging the mirrors and making every surface glisten.
Vivi's body ached, her city-soft muscles screaming mutiny, so she stripped off her wet clothes, groaning as she stepped out of her jeans and pulled her top over her head, leaving her in nothing but red lace and blistered hands.
Unannounced, Boone quietly appeared in the doorway, his expression gruff, like a storm just outside the glass. He still quiet and still, his hazel eyes turning a light green.
She should protest or cover herself, but she just stood there, vulnerable and completely exposed. And, surprisingly, not the least bit embarrassed.
He didn't look away or pretend he hadn't seen her.
He just stood in the doorway, taking her in with a slow, steady gaze that made her feel like a decision he was making rather than a mistake he was stumbling into.
His eyes darkened in a way that made her pulse spike.
He wasn't looking at her like a stranger.
"Vivi," he said low and rough. That was it. Just her name.
He stepped into the room, and his warmth reached her before he did.
His hands found her arms, and she was reminded again of how strong he was, but it was the power he carried in the smallest gestures that got to her.
Every part of him—the broad shoulders, the rugged line of his jaw, the steady relentless quiet of his eyes—pulled at something deep inside.
Hell if she was able to look away. Nope, she just stood there, watching him watch her.
There was a magnetism to him that made her want to lean in and let herself fall.
Her fingers itched to touch him, but she stayed still and let the moment stretch.
And in that charged, intimate silence, she realized something she hadn't allowed herself to admit before: Boone didn't just make her heart race, he made it ache.
He stepped forward, sliding his hands under her arms and lifting her with easy strength, setting her on the counter like she weighed nothing.
The heat of him pressed close, his arm brushing hers, and she caught the faint scent of him—woodsmoke, leather, and the unspoken warning that he’d keep her safe even if she didn’t want him to.
He stayed close, hips aligned with hers, and the world seemed to shrink to the curve of his shoulders, the scruff of his beard, the rugged angles of his face softened only by the intensity in his eyes.
Every movement was careful and precise—his gruffness tempered with that underlying, almost scolding protectiveness.
His hand curved around her jaw, tilting her face up until she had nowhere to look but at him.
"Let me take care of you." Not a question and yet not quite a command either. It was something in between that left no room for argument.
Words escaped her entirely, so she just nodded—because holy hot cowboy, Batman.
His hands were gentle, wiping the grime and sweat from her palms, thumbs brushing over the tender skin with a care that didn't match the rest of him—the size of him, the hardness of him, the way he filled the room with no effort at all.
Heart thundering, she swallowed hard, completely aware of the press of his body, the way he watched her while he wrapped her hands like she was the only thing in the space worth looking at.
His expression was serious and grumpy, with a streak of ‘I will not let you get hurt on my watch ever again’. It was a look that made her ovaries clench with a hot, aching awareness of just how much she wanted him—how much she needed him.
Every rough edge of him—the calloused hands, the stubbled face, the raw, unspoken desire—pulled at her in ways she hadn’t expected.
She wanted to tell him, but his eyes met hers, and something in them stopped the words before they formed. Because they both knew where those words led and neither of them was ready for that road.
Not yet.