Page 8 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

After giving Artie a sugar cube, I opened his outer gate. He didn’t rush out, instead moseying like he had one speed, and that speed was low and slow.

“Enjoy yourself, old man. I won’t let them come bother you this morning.”

He turned his head just enough to acknowledge me with those warm, kind eyes of his and then kept meandering deeper into the pasture.

“Okay, a spoonful of sugar helps the impossible horses finally like each other,” I mumbled, heading once again back toward the gate between pastures, ready to cowgirl up and not be defeated by two stubborn horses.

A few minutes later, I was placing the treats in a line between the horses, creating a breadcrumb trail that would bring them closer together if they both followed it. Sassafras eagerly devoured her way along the path, but Mystery stubbornly refused to move, watching the mare with disdain, like she was the lesser creature and he couldn’t be bought. When Sassy was only three glorious feet away from Mystery, she seemed to register his nearness. Her head shot up, she peered at him incredulously, then she turned and trotted farther away, leaving the last few sweet cubes behind.

"What about music?" I mused aloud, exhaustion making me slightly delirious. "Isn't that what they do in movies? Set the mood?"

I jogged away from them, climbed over the fence, and went to my ancient truck parked nearby. Opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat, I pulled down the visor, so the keys dropped into my lap. I slotted in the correct, rusted key and turned it just enough to power the radio without starting the engine. After some fiddling with the dial, I found a suitable station. I cranked the volume as high as it would go, the tinny, crackling speakers straining to project the music across to the paddock.

Returning to the horses, I climbed onto the fence to perch and watch, feeling like my ass was pushing against pins and needles instead of a craggy, wooden length of wood. Why did I think some crappy music and sweets would win the day? No damn idea.

Mystery looking bored, Sassafras anxiously pacing the perimeter. The strains of a twangy country artist singing about love and loss seemed to have zero effect on either of them.

“You've got to be kidding me,” I groaned, sinking down onto the grass. The morning was nearly gone, along with another chance to save my ranch. “What's it going to take? Champagne? Candlelight? A written invitation?”

Mystery looked directly at me, his dark eyes seeming to say, "Nothing you do will make this happen." Then he deliberately turned away, gracefully lowering himself to the ground for a dust bath, rolling with pleasure in the dirt while completely ignoring both me and Sassafras.

Sassafras, apparently relieved by his disinterest, cautiously approached me. When she was near enough, she nuzzled my knee. I stroked her nose automatically, my mind racing through increasingly desperate scenarios. What if I footed the bill for insemination and it failed? Would we need to try hormone injections? A different stallion altogether? Selling both horses and using the money to buy time until I figured out another plan? I could pivot away from horse breeding. I had enough land to plant corn. Rip out all the chocolate sunflowers. Though, the idea of doing that made my heart hurt. The sunflowers were one of the reasons I fell in love with this janky property. They seemed happy to me, and they smelled divine.

Each option felt like admitting defeat, like proving Derek right. I wasn't cut out for this life. I couldn't even get two horses to do what should come naturally to them.

"We’ll try again later," I whispered, more to myself than to Sassafras, scratching behind her right ear. “Maybe you're just not morning people."

The mare lifted her face, pressing her soft nose against my cheek, and she snorted softly, as if acknowledging the absurdity of my hope. Behind us, the radio station switched to a commercial for bankruptcy attorneys.

The universe's sense of timing was as cruel as ever.

3

TAMMY

Don’t mind me. I’m just bleeding billion-dollar bills.

Many miserable hours later, I kicked off my dirt-caked boots on the front porch so as not to drag in filth and pushed into the house. The door slammed behind me as I stumbled toward the kitchen, exhaustion and defeat weighing me down like my belly was filled with rocks.

The kitchen had seen better days: discolored linoleum curling at the edges, cabinets with more chips than paint, and a refrigerator that hummed like it was on its last legs. Much like me, this room was running on fumes and sheer stubbornness.

I pulled Dr. Harmon's business card from beneath a horse-shaped magnet on the fridge, not that I needed it to remember the number, and beelined for the wall-mounted, rotary phone. The edges of the matte card were worn soft from previous contemplations of this very call. Oh, I’d made dozens of routine calls, but this one I'd avoided making until now, partly because of the cost, but mostly because it felt like truly admitting defeat. If Mystery and Sassafras couldn't produce a foal naturally, my careful calculations about recouping my investment went straight out the window. There’d be thousands more on the line.

Open another vein.

Bleed a billion-dollar bill or two.

The phone felt heavy in my hand, as if its spiraled cord weighed a ton and was trying to yank the receiver from my grip. I turned the dial, shoving my index finger into number holes one after another, letting the disc spin back into place. Rotary phones were wildly inefficient. I hadn’t even known how to use one when I first moved in. I’d had to google a tutorial.

Three rings, then a cheerful receptionist answered.

"Flint Hills Large Animal Practice, how can I help you?"

"Hey, Darlene, it's Tammy Tucker from Sunflower Hills. Is Dr. Harmon available?"

"Oh, Tammy! He's just finishing up some paperwork. Let me put you through."

I drummed my fingers on the countertop, eyes roving over the calendar hanging on the wall opposite me. June days were X-ed out leading to the thirtieth of the month, which was circled in aggressive red marker with "MORTGAGE" written in all caps. Beside it, in smaller writing: "miracle needed."