Page 26 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

"Fine, I'll feed and water them."

"You should have been out here at five then," Boone said.

Vivi blinked at him, momentarily stunned. Her brain short-circuited, visions of murder flashing behind her eyes. She loved animals, truly—but in that moment she wanted to un-man Boone with the rusty pliers hanging from his tool belt. Slowly—while smiling.

"I was three minutes late," she said flatly, squinting at him, sun in her eyes, mud on her jeans, and zero patience left in her soul. "I just didn't realize hell's orientation started immediately after."

Boone's mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile—a rarity for the devil. "Welcome to ranch life, Boots."

She glared at him, every stubborn inch of her rejecting his orders. If looks could castrate, he'd be two octaves higher by now.

"Complaining already? I mean, we've only been at this five minutes."

Vivi wiped her hands on her jeans, trying to keep her glare sharp and her pride intact. "Five minutes? Feels more like five hours of manual labor in a sauna made of hay and despair."

"You'll survive. Follow me."

She followed reluctantly, boots sinking into soft dirt, trying not to stumble as he moved with the effortless ease of a man who'd grown up running barefooted in gravel. He tossed her a shovel. She nearly dropped it from the sheer weight, but by the grace of God she held on.

“Now get shoveling. Oh, and word to the wise? Fill the barrow halfway before you move it. Don't try to take it all at once."

"Why? Because I'm a girl?"

His eyes cut to her. "Because it weighs more than you do."

"I'll take it under consideration," Vivi muttered under her breath.

She started shoveling. The wood handle was rough against her soft hands. With every scoop she could feel the splinters digging into her skin, forming blisters and scrapes. The longer she shoveled, the worse the pain became until she was certain losing a hand would hurt less. But she'd rather die than admit failure, so she went on until that damn barrow was nearly full.

With a smug smile she tossed the shovel aside and gripped the handles, glaring at the massive mound of manure waiting to be hauled.

She glanced over to find Boone watching intently, like she was some exotic animal performing tricks in a circus. Heat crept up her neck, and she tried to focus on the wheelbarrow instead of the way his gaze made her pulse skip.

Don't get flustered in front of the one person you want to impress.

The thought caught her off guard. She wasn't looking to impress anyone but herself. So, then why did it matter so much that she didn't embarrass herself in front of him?

Pride. That was all it boiled down to. Silly pride.

Boone's gaze didn't waver. He just steadily watched her, arms folded across that massive, I-lift-horses-for-fun chest.

"Careful, Boots."

Two words. That was all. But the way he said it—low and gravely, like a smoldering cowboy—made her grip the handles tighter just to prove a point.

She heaved.

Nothing.

She heaved again but the barrow barely moved.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, like he was mad at her.

“Nope. I've got this," she said, her breath hitching with effort. Her arms shook, her boots slipped slightly in the muck, and before she could right herself, the wheelbarrow tipped⁠—

Launching her sideways. Arms windmilling, she landed with a splat—right into a steaming pile of horse manure.

For a moment Vivi just froze, stunned. Then the smell hit her like a freight train. It was like rotting decay.