“Tell me that wasn’t—”
“Should’ve warned you about the mine field out here.” Malachi wiped a hand over the lower portion of his face, but crinkly lines around his eyes gave away his mirth. “Better watch your step.”
“Mines?” Henry squeaked.
Miriam rolled her eyes. “A little poop on your boots isn’t going to hurt you.”
Donald’s nose wrinkled, but a second later he dismounted and walked over to Henry, nudging him so he had to take a sidestep to keep his balance.
“What are you doing?”
Donald grimaced as he planted his boot in the middle of the steaming brown pile. He lifted his head to stare at Tonya with a half triumphant, half challenging expression.
An unladylike snort escaped from the back of my throat. “Men are idiots.”
Malachi slanted a look over at me. “Don’t lump us all together like that. Some of us have the good sense to know that we’ll step in enough poo in a lifetime without going looking for it.”
If Mr. Whalen was hoping this trip would make us grow, then Donald had enough fertilizer under him to sprout like a blooming daisy. And if teamwork had been his motivation, then the daggers Tonya and Donald were shooting at each other would puncture that aspiration in a heartbeat.
Bad, bad, Bad News Bears.I shook my head and turned Domino around. I only had five more days to soak up the breadth of this place and let it seep into my marrow. My coworkers’ grievances would be waiting back inside the four walls of the office.
A few minutes later, Malachi gave the word to head back, and those who’d taken the opportunity to stretch their legs remounted. By the muffled laughter, I assumed the spectacle was campfire-retelling worthy, but I kept my gaze toward the horizon, tracing the rise and fall of the foothill’s lines.
Too soon the silhouettes of outbuildings cropped up on the open land. Malachi led us toward the corral and ended our first trail ride on his property. According to the schedule, our real work would begin in the morning.
Groans drifted over the backs of the horses as boots hit dirt.
Were we really that pathetic?
I sighed and kicked my feet out the stirrups, swinging my right leg over the cantle of the saddle before sliding to the ground. The soles of my boots hit the earth in a jarring thud, sending a painful vibration up my legs and spine. I bit back a moan. Jiminy Cricket that hurt.
Domino arched his neck toward me, and I stroked the white diamond along his forehead. “Thanks for keeping up your end of the bargain, boy.” Gathering the reins, I took a step toward the stalls.
My knees refused to straighten all the way, and the gap between my thighs would’ve made a super model jealous. I took another step forward and choked on a laugh/cry combination. The simple act of walking increased in difficulty when it felt like trying to maneuver with a maxi pad the size of a mattress stuffed between my legs.
Finally, I made it to the barn. Malachi emerged from one of the stalls, stopping Miriam with a hand to her arm. “Can you take care of our guests and the horses by yourself? I’m going to check on that new calf.”
My legs and backside screamed for me to find somewhere to sit. Preferably a cloud-like pillow that would cradle me in a feathery embrace, but really, any cushion would do. My mouth, however, had a different idea. “Can I come?”
Malachi stalled, caught between what I assumed to be duty and good manners.
Something more than the cuteness of the baby calf made me press. “I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”
He looked away and pulled at his ear, mumbling a “not possible.” Taking a deep breath, he met my eyes and nodded. “Let’s go.”
8
Malachi
Whatever the opposite of making a sow’s ear into a silk purse was, well, the description would fit Jocelyn Dormus like a pair of tailor-made gloves.
The willowy woman tramped along beside me, an air of elegance and sophistication to her that trail dust-covered jeans and a tied-off plaid shirt couldn’t hide. I could easily picture her rubbing elbows with wealthy influencers of society, eating over-priced but under-portioned appetizers in a glitzy restaurant while engaged in conversation with a gentleman in an expensive designer tuxedo.
Not a ranch owner who only wore Wranglers and Carhartts…even to church.
I glanced over at her even as I told myself to stay distant.
There was something about her. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. No, she didn’t quite fit in here—no matter how hard she’d tried. Didn’t fit into the clothes that, while looking good on her, didn’t seem to be who she was. But she didn’tnotfit either. Only someone with a heart attuned to the country could look out over the openness of the range like she had. As if a part of her had recognized the land and could feel the pulse of it.
