Page 14 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

“Late?" she repeated doggedly, prying open one eye and blinking at the clock on the nightstand.

"It’s five thirty-two, to be exact," he said, smacking the pot again for emphasis.

She flung a pillow at him. "Are you insane?"

He caught it midair with infuriating ease. "Probably. But you’re late. You’ve got about ten minutes before I come back in here with the garden hose.”

Vivi glared. If looks could kill, Boone would've been fertilizer by now. "You're an asshole."

He tipped his hat, unbothered. "And you're a heavy sleeper."

Then he was gone, boots thudding down the hall, leaving Vivi seething in a tangle of sheets and indignation.

She groaned, rubbing sleep from her eyes. This was her life now. Waking up to a cowboy alarm clock who thought stainless steel percussion was a reasonable method of communication.

Vivi marched across the pasture, chest high, boots stomping through the grass like she belonged there. She was determined to prove she was ready to take on the day like a professional ranch hand and not some pampered girl who thought ranch life meant Instagramming sunsets and sipping lattes while wearing a sequined cowgirl hat.

Boone had about four thousand chores for her that she had no inkling how to do. A list, he'd oh-so-helpfully tacked to her door after he'd slammed it on his way out, written in what might as well have been ancient cowboy hieroglyphics.

Feed the yearlings.

Check the south fence.

Muck the stalls.

What even was a yearling? She'd Googled it and immediately regretted it. Since she wasn't good with small children she didn't have high hopes for baby cows.

She crouched down, smoothing the grass with a flourish, ready to show off her natural rancher instincts. Maybe she'd even talk to the calves like some Disney princess with a gift for animal communication. What she hadn't counted on was a tiny bundle of energy with hooves and ears—the youngest calf in the herd—deciding that her perfectly timed display of ranch prowess was the ideal cue to test her reflexes.

Vivi barely had time to say “Oh shit,” before the little troublemaker made a break for freedom, darting toward the creek like it was daring her to keep up. No bigger than a large dog, it somehow wriggled under a gap in the fence she was supposed to patch.

She crawled under the fence, the wire plucking a tuft of hair out of her head. Then her body rigid with restraint, she adjusted her stance, took a deep breath, and readied herself to rescue the little creature without falling flat on her face.

"Come on, little guy," she called softly, trying to coax the calf toward her with a gentle sway of her arms.

She crouched, thinking if she got low it might trust her. Instead, the calf gave a nervous moo and darted further down the fence line. The closer she got, the closer it edged toward the river—until its little front hooves made contact with the water.

Vivi chased after it, imagining herself as some heroic ranch heroine, when the ground beneath her boot betrayed her. She slipped on the slick mud near the shoreline, flailed like a giraffe on roller skates, and with a helpless yelp went ass-first into the freezing creek.

Cold slammed into her like a live wire, stealing her breath and making her teeth chatter. She flapped her arms, trying to grab something—anything—while the calf waded further into water's edge, completely unconcerned with her predicament.

Vivi tried to strategize. Maybe if she stayed calm she could talk the calf back toward shore. She shoved herself to standing, her hands sinking into the mud. She could feel it squish between her fingers and under her nails.

When she found sure footing, she cooed, "Easy, buddy, there’s no need to panic. Just come over here and we can be friends."

The calf ignored her entirely and, with a sudden bound, it waded deeper into the creek, ears flicking like it had decided on challenging her authority.

Vivi's heart sank. Not only was she wet and freezing, but she was also failing to control the livestock. She tried inching forward, thinking she could corner it near a shallow spot, but every move seemed to make it scoot just out of reach. The mud sucked at her boots and the water rose uncomfortably high on her legs, soaking her jeans and chilling her to the bone.

Moo. Moo.

"Come here, little fella." But the little fella walked further into the creek until the water was at its chest.

Vivi lunged again, trying to coax the calf back toward the shallows—her boots sinking even further into the soft mud, the suction so complete that when she pulled her foot up, her boot stayed put, leaving her standing in nothing but a wet sock.

“Shit,” she mumbled.

She squinted at the water and realized, too late, that it was rushing faster than she'd noticed, swirling around the calf's legs in a thin, urgent current.