Page 8 of Slow Burn

“Oh?” I try to keep my tone measured, flat, unrevealing.

“She lost her job in the city,” he says, turning to head back into the barn.

Last I’d heard Lyla was getting her MBA and working for some fancy business consulting firm. It had taken me by surprise, honestly. Lyla never seemed the type for board rooms and a big corner office. The girl couldn’t even wear a bra a day in her life, I can’t imagine her wearing a stuffy pant suit.

I follow him to grab a lead rope and bring Willow inside to tack her up. I keep my attention focussed on the bit I slip into Willow's mouth, adjusting the bridle around her ears.

“I thought maybe she could help you out here,” Austin hedges.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Shovelling horse shit?” He says with a laugh, and then his voice trails off and turns serious. “Or consulting.”

I let out a scoff. “Ranching isn’t like the businesses Lyla is used to. Besides, what would Lyla know that I don’t. This–” I gesture around me, and out the barn door to the vast expanse beyond “—is my life.”

“She knows plenty,” he argues. “She did spend the majority of her life in Sage Valley. And ranching may be a lifestyle, but it’s still a business like any other.”

I contemplate Austin’s suggestion in silence as I tighten the cinch securing Willow’s saddle in place. I yank on it once, and wait for a minute or two until Willow relaxes. She always puffs her belly out so the girth is looser, and I know to tighten it one more time when she’s not expecting it.

“I can’t pay her, you know that.”

“Pay her later, once the ranch starts turning a profit again,” Austin explains. “Just think about it.”

I respond with a grunt and a nod, but I don’t have to think about it.

There are many reasons not to have Lyla come and work on the ranch, and Austin seems to have a solution for all of them. The only problem he won’t be able to fix, is that having Lyla working here is going to be torturous for me.

I turn and lead Willow out the barn before I have a chance to say anything damning, and mount her, throwing a leg over her hind end and seating myself in the saddle.

“Hey, just a heads up,” Austin calls after me. “She’s coming by the house later, I already told her she could talk to Wade about it.”

Of fucking course he did.

Austin has a habit of going over my head to my dad if he thinks it’s in the best interest of the ranch. He knows how to sway him, because my dad is so riddled with guilt over how he’s run the ranch into the ground, and for generally being a shit parent all our lives. He’ll do anything if there’s a chance it’ll help me out.

But I don’t need his help, I never have.

I throw a middle finger up over my shoulder, and click my tongue to get Willow moving.

A gentle nudge is all she needs and she’s trotting through the tall grass. I give her another squeeze with my thighs to get her up to a lope, because I know what she really wants is to run. Another one gets her to a gallop and I feel the transition as all four of her feet lift off the ground.

The cool morning breeze blows through the waves sticking out from under my cowboy hat, the sun warming my face. This is the part of ranching that I love–feeling like one with the land and the sky, soaring through the fields on horseback as the rising sun paints everything in a wash of purple and pink.

We run until it feels like we might reach the base of the jagged Rocky Mountains that jut up from the horizon, looming over the rolling hills and fields of Wild Sage. We run until Willow is out of breath, and then I turn her around, and steer her back toward the house.

My burdens feel lighter out here, almost non-existent. But the closer we get to the main house, the more they begin to weigh on me again.

One, because going back will mean I have to make a decision about whether or not I’ll be hiring Lyla for the summer. And two, because as I slow Willow down to a steady walk, I notice things I didn’t before.

The new grass shoots that sprouted in the fields a few weeks ago have brown tips. The earth beneath them has cracks running through the top layer of parched soil. All signs that this summer is going to be record-breaking dry.

We no sooner turn around, and my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Tate’s name on my screen.

Tate Caldwell is a good decade older than me, and I’m still not sure how he ended up in Sage Valley. He didn’t grow up ranching like I did, some mysterious past led him here instead.

All I know is he owns the property next to ours, and even though it’s acres away, we’re constantly in contact. Well, Tate is constantly in contact with me, because of my fucking cows and my broke ass fences. I already know that’s why he’s calling.

“Yeah,” I say after hitting the green button to accept the call.