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As I worked, I thought about what kind of scientific advancement could possibly lower the fifty-pound daily poop output of a standard horse so that this job wasn’t such a bitch.
“Should keep you all in a pasture so you poop in the fucking grass,” I murmured to Victory as I moved to his stall. At this point, I was able to pull each horse out of the stall and attach them to a tie ring in the center aisle before mucking out their stall. Vic was an easygoing guy and clopped lazily forward, nudging my shoulder with his giant nose until he was tied securely to the ring. “No offense,” I added. “But you’d probably prefer that anyway, right?”
Jed’s voice hollered out of his nearby office. “If you want to be the one to round them up every morning in the pasture, feel free to turn them out, McQueen.”
I hadn’t thought my voice was loud enough to carry, but I was wrong. “Maybe I will,” I called back stubbornly.
The older man chuckled but didn’t say anything else. I heard the clicks of his hunt-and-peck typing as I moved around Victory to grab the rake again.
This kind of work wasn’t particularly mentally challenging, which left my mind free to churn over my confrontation with Boone. My head spun like I’d thrown frozen fruit in a blender and kicked it up to the highest setting. But instead of getting a nice daiquiri out of the mix, I was left with a chunky, half-frozen glop of resentment and anger.
I’d tried to help. What was Boone’s fucking problem? We needed ranch hands, and I’d found him a strong, willing, experienced ranch hand. He should have been grateful, not angry.
“Stupid fucking ungrateful jackass,” I muttered.
“That’s no way to talk to Arabella,” Mercy teased from over my shoulder. “Granted, she almost bit me in the ass yesterday, but she’s not ungrateful. Give her one of those mints Boone picked up in town, and you’ll see plenty of gratitude.”
“I haven’t returned to treat-giving after that first attempt,” I admitted begrudgingly. Duck may have been a little thing, but she had giant ivory teeth that scared the crap out of me.
Mercy laughed and reached over to ruffle my hair as if we weren’t close to the same age. “Start with Daffodil. She barely has any teeth left.”
I glanced over at the fat old rescue horse who preferred to live out her retirement under the box fan in a cushy stall instead of in a pasture. Her eyes were hidden behind a fly mask, and her whiskers twitched. “She’s hiding an evil underbelly,” I said. “Just look at her.”
The sound of a decidedly unladylike fart blasted across the space between me and the old mare, quickly followed by red-alert-level fumes.
“Abort! Abort!” Mercy teased before hauling his annoying ass out of the barn. I followed him out and dumped the last cartful of crap onto the appropriate pile before fetching the long thermometer to check the temperature of the compost. I couldn’t deny the excited little pulse I got when I realized it was ready to be turned. It meant I could drive the small tractor with the bucket attachment and use it to turn the pile.
“I’ll show Boone just how much shit I can stir,” I grumbled under my breath as I sauntered toward the machine shed. I was determined to prove to Boone that I wasn’t as useless as he apparently thought I was.
PeeWee turned his blasting music down and shot me a narrow-eyed glare when I entered the machine shed and asked if I could borrow the tractor, even though I’d done it once before already. “Where’s Harrison or Mercy?” he asked.
“Dunno. But I do know that Jed himself taught me how to do this the other day, so I feel pretty confident I know what I’m doing.”
He sighed and mumbled something before tossing me the keys and jerking his head to the far end of the shed. “Put it back the way you found it and make sure there’s no shit on it.”
I drove out of there on that thing like I was the second coming of farmer Christ.
The situation necessitated the proper selfies posted to Instagram, of course, but I made sure the tractor was stopped and in park before I made silly faces and posed behind the wheel. Just as I was sliding the phone back into my pocket, I saw Boone’s scowling face through a window in the kitchen. I put the tractor back into drive and sped off to the shit station at top speed. Whether or not I let out a loud whoop and threw both arms into the air with spirit fingers was nobody’s business but mine.
As soon as I began the methodical process of turning the compost, I heard Boone’s shouted call of my name.
