The words land clean.
My jaw tightens. Not because they’re cruel—but because they’re close enough to the truth to sting.
She’s determined—stubborn in a way that doesn’t back down. Still out of her depth, though—and whether she knows it or not is its own kind of danger.
She exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face. “Look, I don’t want to spend the next six months fighting you,” she says. “Let me shadow you during your routine. I’ll learn how things actually work, and I promise I’ll be a valuable asset.”
Every instinct in me wants to tell her to stick to ledgers and spreadsheets. But as much as I hate it, she’s right—if she’s here, she needs to see the work firsthand.
I roll my eyes. “All right. Let’s go.”
She puts the documents away and follows me out. The sun’s already creeping higher, and I’m behind schedule now. Sleep never really caught up with me last night, and it shows. Irritation simmers, tight and familiar, but I force it down. This won’t be an everyday thing.
We head into the pasture, cattle grazing lazily as I hold the gate open and latch it behind us. I walk the line, petting each cow as we pass, grounding myself in the routine.
“What are their typical patterns?” she asks.
I glance at her, skeptical. “It’s a pipeline. The more even we keep it, the better it is for them—and for us.”
She hums, nodding as she reaches out and brushes a cow’s flank. A genuine smile flickers across her face. Probably the first real one I’ve seen all morning.
“And the water maintenance? Is it low or—”
“It’s even,” I cut in. “Everything is even.”
She stops walking. “Seriously? What the hell is your problem?” She throws her hands out. “I’m showing interest in what you do, and I get my head chewed off. If I breathe wrong, I’m worried I’ll get ripped apart. What can I do without you being an ass to me?”
“An ass?”
“A straight-up donkey,” she says, smirking.
I scoff despite myself. “All right,” I say. “Do you even know why I use the pipeline method?”
“Because of several factors,” she says. “First, your water lines don’t extend to the full capacity of the land. It’s an odd setup—but it’s what you’re working with.”
I follow her finger across the pasture and narrow my eyes. My jaw tightens. She’s right. That alone unsettles me more than I care to admit.
“Second,” she continues, “we’re in a heat wave. There’s a conservation order in place. Even though letting the grass drink would help reduce fire risk, you’re boxed in.”
She pauses, then adds quietly, “Honestly? Your cows are the only thing keeping this land from becoming a tinderbox if the worst-case scenario hits.”
The words land heavier than I expect. Not because they’re dramatic—but because they’re precise. She’s reading the land the way Uncle Sam used to, seeing problems before they caught fire.
Truth is, I’m impressed.
I don’t let it show.
“Sounds like you know your stuff after all,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and steps around me. “Where are you going?” I call after her. “We’re not done with chores.”
She turns, walking backward. “I’ll shadow Hank. At least I know I’m wanted somewhere.”
Then she turns and stalks off.
I shake my head and get back to work.
I’m not letting her ruin the rest of my day.
