Johnny rides up next to Sorrel and starts talking her ear off. That boy is a rambler, but maybe he can soften her up for me a little. Put in a few good words.
I keep catching myself watching them—trying to figure her out like a locked door. I don’t know if I should knock or kick it in. She has a wall up, that much I can tell. It feels as sharp as barbed wire. And part of me knows I should leave it alone. She made it clear this isn’t anything. I have to stop believing all the stories in my head that I call a love song. Real life doesn’t work like that.
The cattle are already moving. Black Angus cows and their calves are winding through the rolling hills. All around I can hear the sound of saddles squeaking, hooves on dirt, and the low bellow of a calf calling for its mama.
The sharp whistle from a ranch hand brings me out of my daze. Sorrel starts calling out directions to the hands. She breaks into a trot, her long braid swinging behind her as she rides, catching the sunshine. She’s so stunning. This isn’t some hobby for her. It blows my mind that this is her life. Hard-earned, gritty, and unshakably real. Talk about actually living.
I kick my horse into a trot and catch up with Johnny and Parker, who are trying their best not to look like a couple of city boys flopping around on the back of their horses. They’re definitely country boys, not cowboys. Grady trots up next to the rest of us. He looks like his ass feels the same way mine does. The saddle is riding him, and he’s hurting.
“Man, I don't know how the hell people do this for a living,” Grady says.
I smirk looking over at him. “Don’t worry. Your ass will have enough calluses by the end of the week.”
“I’d prefer my rear end to stay as soft as a baby’s bottom. The ladies like it better that way.”
“No girl cares about the way your ass feels, Grady,” Parker cuts in.
“How the hell would you know?”
“Your bunk’s under mine. I know exactly how many women you’ve brought on the bus.”
“The both of you have gotten more action from your left hands than any women,” says Johnny.
“Yeah, yeah, we all know you're the ladies’ man, Johnny, no need to brag,” Grady replies.
I just laugh and shake my head. Johnny has his shirt unbuttoned down to his belly button and jeans tucked into his boots. I have no idea how he pulls so many beautiful women. He is a ladies’ man no doubt.
I see him making eyes over at Sutton and I nudge Parker to give him a smack.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“Don’t look at Sorrel's sister that way. She's a married woman,” I tell him.
“Fine,” he sighs. “What else am I supposed to look at then?”
I gesture to the land around us, but my eye catches on Sorrel. It’s fucking impossible not to get lost in her beauty, but I force my gaze away and take in the scene before me.
The Saxxon Ranch stretches out in every direction like a picture on a postcard. It’s hard to believe places like this really exist when you’ve been living in a concrete jungle for so long.
The mountains loom in the distance, quiet sentinels keeping watch over the valley. Wildflowers dance in the breeze along the fence line, and the smell of damp earth and grass fills the air. This place isn’t just beautiful. It’s alive.
There’s something so freeing about it all. Out here, you can’t fake it. The land doesn’t care who you are or what stage you played on last. Either you ride or you don't. Either you work or you get out of the way. And I want to work. I want to be a part of this. If only for a little while—and maybe, just maybe, earn another look from the woman riding ahead of me like she owns the whole damn world.
11
SORREL
We direct our horses toward the watering trough for a quick drink. We’ve been riding for over an hour now and have only moved one herd to the south pasture. Two more to go, and these boys already look like they’re hurtin’. City slickers in cowboy boots—bless their hearts.
Denton comes trotting up on his horse besides mine, his hat pulled low and sweat trailing down his jawline. Still smiling, still trying.
“Careful,” I warn, nodding to his mare. “She’s a nasty one. Tried to take a chunk out of Duke last week. Keep her in check.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a crooked grin, tipping his hat as if he’s auditioning for a Marlboro ad. “So, on a scale of one to full-blown disaster, how’m I doin’?”
“You’re not dead. That’s a win,” I shrug. No need to boost his ego too much.
“That’s it?” he asks, mock offended. “Not even a half-smile for the guy risking heatstroke, chafing, and public humiliation for the full cowboy experience?”
