Page 16 of The Cowboy and the Stray

"Nope." I held up my hands, palms out. "But I'm a quick learner."

His mouth twitched. "Okay. But you gotta do what I say."

"You're the boss," I agreed. I’d taken orders from worse.

And that's how I found myself ankle-deep in horse shit and hay, clumsily wielding a pitchfork while Noah demonstrated the finer points of mucking. The barn smelled of manure and sweat, tinged with the dusty sweetness of oats.

Five minutes in and my arms already ached. Fantastic. I was about to be outperformed by a third grader.

"No, like this. Scoop under." Noah jabbed his pitchfork expertly into the soiled hay, hoisting a dripping pile into another wheelbarrow. He made it look effortless.

I attempted to mimic him and nearly face-planted into the stall wall. The pitchfork handle jittered out of my grip, clattering against the boards. My ribs protested in agony, but I wasn’t about to give in to the soreness from the wreck.

"Dang it." No, this warranted a stronger word. "Damn!"

Noah snickered. "You don't swear much, do you?"

"I've always preferred not to." I retrieved the pitchfork and squared my shoulders. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to it though, working around here." If things kept going like this, by noon, I'd be fluent in ranch profanity.

We fell into a rhythm, Noah moving with practiced efficiency, me stumbling along behind. Mucking stalls was a young person's game, and my back was all too quick to remind me that even in my mid-twenties, I wasn't as young as I used to be. An hour in, my head had started to pound, a deep, dull throbbing behind my right eye.

"Be right back," I told Noah, propping the pitchfork against the stall door.

I'd spotted a small office at the back of the barn when Noah had quickly shown me around, and made my way toward it now, step by creaking step. The door groaned on rusty hinges as I nudged it open.

Dust motes swirled in the milky light spilling from the single dirt-crusted window. A huge, heavy oak desk sat along one wall, its surface cluttered with dog-eared receipts, empty coffee mugs, and orphaned bolts and screws. A pegboard on the opposite wall was full of tools, most of them likely older than I was.

I rummaged around until I found what I was looking for—a battered plastic first aid kit, shoved onto a shelf between coils of twine. Inside was a jumble of bandage scraps, antibiotic ointment tubes squeezed to death, and a nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen. Jackpot. Thank you, crusty barn gods.

I shook out three tablets and swallowed them dry. Blech. After a moment's hesitation, I pocketed the rest of the bottle. Waste not, want not. Clearly, nobody here had used it in a while, based on the layer of dust that had been on top of the box. It’s not stealing if you’re in pain and it’s been abandoned. That’s the rule.

"Tess?" Noah's voice carried across the barn. "You coming?"

"Yeah, be right there!" I called back. I rejoined Noah in the stalls and scooped up the pitchfork and got back to work, my movements a little less jerky this time. Noah gave me an approving nod.

"So," I started, hoping to steer the conversation away from my amateur mucking skills. "Tell me about your horse. Every kid on a ranch has a horse, right?" At least, all the books I'd ever read made it seem that way.

That was all the prompting Noah needed. As we worked, he chattered away, his reserve falling by the wayside. I learned that his horse Quill had come to him untrained and skittish, but that Noah had gentled him with time and endless patience—and a lot of help from his Uncle Calder and Reid. Then he informed me that Quill loved to roll in the mud right after a bath, undoing all Noah's hard work. That he had a spot on his right flank that made his lips twitch if you scratched it just right.

"What about your friends?" I asked as we moved on to the next stall. "You get along with the other kids around here?"

Noah shook his head, suddenly fascinated by a knot in the stall door. "There aren't any. Not really." He glanced up at me, something fierce and defensive in his expression. "But I've got Reid. He's my best friend."

I bit back a smile. I had a feeling Reid might dispute that assessment, but I wasn't about to harsh Noah's buzz. "Yeah? What's he like?"

And Noah was off again, words spilling out of him like he'd been saving them up. How Reid always made time for him, even when he was busy. How they went fishing sometimes, just the two of them.

I let him ramble on, making agreeing noises at the right moments. The kind of uncomplicated bond between two guys he was describing was foreign to me. No fists. No fake smiles. No one taking advantage. As a kid, I'd been scared of the boys in the group homes, with their restless anger and rough jokes that had always seemed to be at my expense. I'd kept my head down, tried to fade into the peeling wallpaper, and counted the days until my mom would resurface to rescue me. She always did eventually, at least until she didn’t...

Those group home stints had been brief but indelible, the smell of industrial cleaner and old sneakers forever seared into my brain. I could still hear the nighttime whimpers from the bunk below mine, the bark of the house mother ordering us to pipe down. Could still taste the gluey oatmeal, the watery apple juice. Could still feel the way being invisible hurt less than being seen.

I'd existed in those places, a small, wary ghost, but I'd never belonged. Never connected. Not like Noah with Reid.

"Horses are easier," Noah said abruptly, breaking into my thoughts.

A little shiver rolled through me. It was easy to forget how perceptive kids could be. How much they picked up on. "There's something to be said for honesty," I agreed.

We finished out the day in companionable quiet, interrupted only by Noah's occasional instructions. My shoulders burned and my legs trembled, not to mention my ribs, but there was satisfaction too, in the orderly rows of clean stalls, the earthy smells of hay and horse, the bone-deep fatigue of real work. It hurt, but it was the kind of pain that came from doing something right. Something honest.