Yeah.
I’m ready.
Morning settles over the ranch in a pale gold haze when I step into the stables, pitchfork already in hand. The air smells like hay, manure, sawdust, and that familiar musk of horse hide warmed by the rising sun.
I’m halfway through mucking out the first stall when boots crunch behind me, followed by the soft pop of a Thermos cap.
“Thought you’d be out here,” Seth says, offering the steaming cup like it’s a peace treaty.
I take it, the coffee hot enough to sting my palm through the metal. “Thanks. The others awake?”
He shakes his head, hair ruffled from sleep. “Tex went into town for feed, and Joey’s with Jasper.”
I snort. “Jasper? That kid shows up one hour a day and still complains about his back.”
“He’s seventeen,” Seth reminds me, leaning against the stall door. “Rough work isn’t exactly in his blood.”
Jasper Hayes—our so-called farmhand, even though we do ninety percent of the labor—has been helping out since last summer. Tall, skinny, looks like a breeze might knock him over, wears his hat too big for his head.
He means well, but the kid loses focus the second his phone buzzes.
“Joey babies him,” I mutter, sipping the coffee. It’s perfect—strong, with a hint of vanilla. “We really need a better hand.”
“We don’t need anything except maybe a day off,” Seth says, nudging my shoulder. “We do most of the work ourselves anyway.”
I grunt because he’s right, and because this part, this mucking of stalls, hauling feed and setting fresh bedding never ends. But there’s comfort in it too. It’s routine. It’s ours.
He grabs a second pitchfork and steps into the stall beside me. We fall into rhythm without speaking, the scrape of metal against dirt filling the barn. My muscles burn with each lift, each toss, each shovel-full of soiled hay. Sweat prickles down my spine even though the morning’s still cool.
After a while Seth asks, “You’re really serious about proposing?”
I don’t look up. “Yeah.”
He pauses just long enough for me to feel it before he asks, “Like… soon?”
“I’ve got the ring,” I say, tapping my pocket. The metal inside warms against my thigh, like it knew we were talking about it. “I’ll talk to her.”
When he smiles, it’s soft. Proud. “You’re gonna make her happy, you know.”
Something eases under my ribs. “I hope so.”
We keep working until conversation dies off naturally. Hours drag, long and bone-tiring, but good.
We haul water buckets, sweep the wide aisle, curry the horses until their coats gleam. We mend a loose latch, fix a bent nail, double-check the feed bins, and stack hay bales in the loft.
Dust clings to my flannel, sweat darkens my collar, my hands ache around the pitchfork handle.
By afternoon, we’re both covered in sweat, hay, and the occasional horsehair stuck to our forearms. My back screams for mercy. My legs feel like someone filled them with gravel.
Worth it. Always worth it.
Seth leans his arms over the top rail of a stall, breath coming slow. “Hey. You think about signing up for the rodeo this year?”
I groan. “Don’t you start.”
“I’m serious. They’re bringing back team events. Thought it might be good for you.”
“For me?” I grunt. “Last time I got on a bronc, I almost broke my damn hip. You forget that?”
