Brookes: I’m more into bluegrass and old outlaw country. Music with real storytelling. Fits the long days out on the ranch.
Another afternoon, while I was waiting for a farrier to finish trimming hooves, Mason asked:
Mason: Did you grow up around animals, or did you decide to become a vet later?
Me: Both, I guess. My grandparents had a small farm. I was always following my grandpa around, helping with the horses and goats. But veterinary school was my choice. I liked the idea of being useful to the animals when they couldn’t speak for themselves.
And my mom approved. I don’t tell them that part.
Brookes: That’s a good reason. Respect that.
Mason: So you’re used to the big outdoors. We mightmake a cowgirl out of you, yet.
They kept the questions gentle, as if slowly peeling back layers.
Brookes: Sunrises or sunsets?
Me: Sunsets, definitely. There’s something peaceful about watching the day end. Like the world is exhaling. You?
Mason: Sunrises. Nothing beats that quiet moment right before the whole ranch wakes up. Feels like the day is full of possibilities.
Brookes: I’m with you on sunsets, Janey. Especially after a hard day. Feels like permission to slow down.
Later that same night, when I was finally home and exhausted, Brookes sent another.
Brookes: What do you do to unwind after a long day?
Me: Honestly? I make a cup of chamomile tea, put on some quiet music, and read. Sometimes I bake if I have the energy… nothing fancy, just cookies or bread. It helps me get out of my head. What about you two?
Mason: Cold beer on the porch, usually. Sometimes I tinker with old engines in the barn if my hands need something to do.
Brookes: I like sitting out by the creek when the weather’s decent. Listening to the water. Clears my mind. You any good at baking?
Me: I’m decent. My cinnamon rolls are pretty popular when I bring them to parties.
Mason: Cinnamon rolls? Now you’re trying to torture us.
The conversations feel easy. Natural. They ask questions like they actually want the answers, rather than making small talk before steering things back to that night in the barn.
They share pieces of themselves, too: stories about growing up on the family ranch, the trouble they used to get into as kids, how they ended up running their own spread together after their father passed. Little details that make them feel less like the larger-than-life cowboys who had wrecked me so thoroughly, and more like real men.
By the end of the week, I realize I’m checking my phone compulsively, waiting for that familiar buzz like an addict seeking a fix.
And the scariest part is how much I’m starting to enjoy this softer version of them, because the more I let them in with these small, everyday truths, the harder it becomes to convince myself that our night together was a fling.
Mason and Brookes aren’t rushing me.
They’re courting me slowly, in their own gruff, cowboy way.
And I’m not sure how much longer my defenses can hold.
***
Thursday afternoon, I’m parked at a cattle ranch, waiting for the owner to bring out a limping steer.
Brookes: You working today?
Me: Yeah. Out at the Miller place. One of their steers has a bad hoof.
