Billie and I fall side-by-side onto the couch in the stable lounge. We let our eyes flutter shut while more coffee brews.
I’m so tired that I feel like I’m drunk. The kind of tired that pushes you past exhaustion right into giddiness. I need to sleep, but I can’t. We’ve got a beautiful new filly on the farm that Billie delivered last night after Stefan called me away on the emergency.
Flora had a healthy, uneventful delivery and gave birth to a perfect doppelgänger filly. Dark bay with long eyelashes.
Seeing a happy, healthy foal was the lift my heart needed after leaving Dalca’s farm this morning. Losing a foal is never easy, but seeing how hard he was taking it made it even worse. I’m well aware I’m not a comforting person. I’m not a hold-your-hair-back-while-you-barf kind of friend. I didn’t get the nursing gene. But I do know how to make myself useful, and sometimes that’s an okay way to comfort a person, too.
“Thanks for taking over with Flora,” I mutter quietly.
“Hey, no worries. It was kind of fun. It also never fails to kill any inkling I might feel about wanting to have a baby.”
I snort.
“Seriously, Mira. Something that big coming out of something that small is terrifying.”
“Vaginas are very elastic. You’d bounce back.”
Billie groans. “Ugh. Why is everything so literal with you? You’re like Amelia Bedelia.”
“I loved those books,” I chuckle.
“Speaking of idiot savants, how was Dalca the Dick? He sure kept you there long enough.”
“His foal died,” I say bluntly. Sometimes Billie needs to be sobered up a bit.
“Well, shit. Now I feel like the dick.”
I peek over at her and see her amber eyes shrink-wrapped in a layer of wetness. That loss hits a little too close for her with DD’s orphan baby lying in a stall by himself not a hundred yards away. “You should. Red bag delivery. It was a tough night.”
She grunts and blinks rapidly. “Did the mare make it?”
“Yes . . .” I say, trailing off suggestively.
Billie turns her head and hits me with wide eyes. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Are you being intentionally dense because of the person we’re talking about, or are you just so tired that you’re not firing on all cylinders?”
Billie is whip-smart. To pretend the first place her mind went wasn’t our orphan colt would be ridiculous. Just ten minutes down the road is a mare with no foal whose milk is in full swing.
The math is pretty simple.
She blinks and nibbles at her lip. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m just super tired?”
I huff out a laugh and shake my head as I get up to walk toward the coffee machine. “Better fix your attitude, Billie. Dalca the Dick just became your best shot at saving that colt.”
I pull up to Cascade Acres with two coffees in tow. I basically am coffee now. My blood is straight-up caffeinated, and I need it to make it through the rest of this day. Not only am I physically tired, but I’m emotionally exhausted. Vaughn, one of the owners of the ranch, told me to close the on-site clinic and get some sleep. It still means I’m on call for emergencies, but at least I’m not dozing in the new state-of-the-art facility while I pretend to work. I don’t even think I could safely treat a horse right now if I wanted to.
That’s the side of this gig that people seem to forget about. Some days, you feel sad right down to your toes. It’s hard to shake.
But at least there’s coffee.
Sweet, sweet bribe coffee. Because somehow, I’m the one who must waltz out here and convince Stefan Dalca to let us borrow his mare for the orphaned foal. Probably because I’m the only one who is on reasonably good footing with the man. I tried to convince Hank, the sweet older barn manager, to do it. But he just laughed good-naturedly at me and said he’s too old for the drama we “kids” are into.
A comment I resent. I avoid drama at all costs. Good thing Hank is so damn loveable, or I’d have pressed harder. Violet offered to go, but the scowl Cole gave me—like he might skin me if I sent her over here—had me turning her down. That motherfucker is scary when he wants to be. And Billie and Vaughn? That wasn’t even on the table. They both hate Stefan, which is why this situation is going to require some finesse.
So, I gave in and opted to take one for the team.
I walk in through the big, sliding barn door and peer around. Usually, Gold Rush Ranch bustles with staff at this time of day, but this farm is pretty quiet. It’s a much smaller operation. I still kind of assumed there’d be people working.
“Stefan?” I call out into the echoey alleyway.
I stop and wait for a response but hear nothing, so I keep walking toward the tractor with a trailer full of soiled wood shavings attached at the end of the barn. As I pass by the dark-stained wood Dutch doors on the stall fronts, I see the odd shovel-full of waste flying out of one of the last stalls into the trailer—clearly someone is mucking stalls out down here. I’ll get them to point me in the right direction.
Except when I peer down into the box stall, I don’t see the staff member I was expecting to find. I see Stefan Dalca, wearing fitted black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a dark scowl on his face. AirPods are in his ears, and he obviously has no clue I’m here. So, I watch him for a minute.
Dark blond hair and golden skin gives him a glow. Long limbs, corded with muscle, move with a confidence most men try to fake. But on him it looks natural. There’s something alluring about his slightly dangerous vibe and the mysterious accent.
Everyone else sees Stefan all polished in an expensive suit at the track and thinks that’s his go-to look, but they miss the version of him doing the dirty work at his farm. Stefan tossing hay bales off a truck in a fitted T-shirt and jeans is a memory I have stocked away for rainy days. The way his arms rippled and sweat slid over his temples. Away from the public eye, this man is a farm boy, with glowing skin from days spent working in the sun.
“Are you having a stroke, Doctor Thorne?”
My head snaps up, surprised by the sound of his voice. His smug veneer has slid back in place perfectly. This is the version of Stefan I’m accustomed to. Quick-witted and sarcastic. Frankly, it’s easier to take than Sad Stefan. That was really doing a number on me.
I smile, though. Because I absolutely got caught creeping. Something has inexplicably drawn me to the way this man looks. “No. But I think I might have fallen asleep.”
He leans against the pitchfork in his hand, matching the way I’m leaning against the stall door, head tilting like he’s assessing me. Stefan Dalca is a bright man; you can tell by the way his green eyes spark when he talks. Nothing short with this one, as my Nana would say.
“What can I help you with?” He looks like some sort of farmer porn leaning on that pitchfork.
“Where is all your staff?” I gesture down the barn alleyway with one coffee cup.
“I sent them home. Needed to be alone.”
“So. You’re . . . mucking all these stalls by yourself?”
“Well done, Watson.”
“Dick,” I murmur, chuckling as I hand him the extra coffee.
“For me?” He reaches out for it slowly, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Yup.”
“Is it poisoned?” His green eyes go bright as they dance with dry humor.
And I find myself laughing and joking back, like a total traitor. Like when he asks me out and I brush him off with a stupid giggle. “Nope. Just black. Like your soul.”
His eyes drop as a wry twist takes over his mouth. I expected him to laugh at that, but it almost looks as if my words carried some weight. A heavy silence fills the stall, and I work to come up with something that might salvage this conversation. I can’t afford to blow this. I really need his help. That foal really needs his help.
“You, uh, want some help?” I gesture down at the pitchfork.
His brows pinch together. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m a good person,” I say brightly.
“Because you feel bad for me after last night?”
“Nope.” I pop the p, trying to sound extra convincing.
His head tilts in an almost feline way, like he’s got me totally figured out. “Because you want something from me?”
I sigh, frustrated with his ability to see right through my ruse. “Listen. Do you want the help or not?”
“Pitchforks are hanging by the feed room down the alleyway.” His chin juts out in that direction. “You can take the other side.” And then he gets back to sifting through the wood shavings and flipping the dirty ones skillfully into the trailer.
Saying nothing further, I grab the pitchfork and get to work. I grew up on a farm. My parents are blueberry farmers, but we still had some livestock. Chickens and goats, that kind of thing. So scooping shit isn’t exactly new to me. I go inward and get lost in the repetitive nature of the job. The scrape, the shake, the toss. It’s almost therapeutic. And I’m so tired that I’m pretty sure my brain departs altogether, letting my body and muscle memory take over entirely.
Stefan and I work silently and efficiently. I’d be lying if I said I’m not surprised by his work ethic. He always looks so polished and prissy, like a total square, when I see him. Expensive suit, perfectly coiffed hair, absolutely in control always. So, these last twenty-four hours have been a surprise. My forehead wrinkles under the pressure of trying to reconcile the two different versions of this man. He’s a walking, talking contradiction, and I can’t help letting my mind wander to the golden manual labor version of him.
This version is what I like in a man, and it’s tripping me out. Thinking of Stefan Dalca as anything other than our competitor, and a dick in general, feels traitorous. If my friends could read my mind, they’d read me the riot act.
Especially when he hops up onto the tractor, turns the key, and lets his tongue slide out over his bottom lip as the machine roars to life beneath him. He drives it casually, inching forward down the alleyway so that the trailer lines up with where we’re working next. His corded forearm ripples where it’s slung casually over the wide steering wheel.
And I blame everything that I’m noticing about Stefan Dalca on the delirious level of exhaustion I’m experiencing today. With all my faculties about me, there’d be no way I would check him out.
His gaze moves over to me, and I drop my head quickly, raking through perfectly clean shavings like I missed something. Hoping upon hope that he didn’t notice me staring at him. Again.
We finish the barn, fill the hay nets, and lead all his horses back in from their time outside. We don’t talk, we just do. He must be almost as tired as I am, and I figure I’m gaining some good karma points for helping him today.
I think? Probably not any good karma points with Billie. But whatever. She doesn’t need to know what it took to soften the man up. She’ll just be happy when she gets what she wants.
The metallic clang of the last stalls being latched echoes through the barn, and he finally turns to regard me. A light layer of dust from the shavings coats his dark gold hair.
My fingers itch to brush it off for him.
“Now are you going to tell me what it is you want?”
I brush the shavings off my fleece coat instead, mulling over the best way to respond to him. It strikes me that playing dumb with Stefan won’t be a winning strategy. So, I smirk at him. “Yes.”
He chuckles and stares up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “You must want it pretty bad to have spent the last few hours doing physical labor with me.”
I wave him off. “I can handle physical labor. I need your help though.”
He leans back against the stall and quirks an eyebrow, urging me on.
I take a deep breath and open my eyes wide. It sounds bad, but I’ve learned a few tricks throughout the years for bringing men around to my way of thinking. A well-placed doe-eyed look has brought many a gruff old horse breeder around to splurging on a lifesaving procedure. Does that make me a bad person? I’m not sure, but I’m willing to toe that line to save lives. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just me doing my job to the best of my abilities.
Stefan snorts, hitting me with a smirk of his own. “Don’t use that look on me, Mira. Just spit it out.”
For crying out loud. This guy really is the worst. “Fine. I have a foal that needs a nurse mare. Without one, he won’t survive.”
He just stares, green eyes pinning me in place.
“And you have one . . .”
“Who does the foal belong to?” His voice is calm, measured. He shows no signs of surprise.
Might as well just spit it out. “Gold Rush Ranch.”
His lips roll together in thought, and I run my sweaty palms down over my jeans. He’d been a good enough guy to turf Patrick Cassell the very day I told him about what the jockey did to Violet. He marched straight back to the barn and fired the weasel on the spot. Pulled him from the race they were heading into and ate the entry fee with no questions asked.
Hopefully, he’ll be good enough to do this too.
“Okay.” His reply is simple. So simple that it almost confuses me.
“Really? Just . . . okay?”
His responding grin is wolfish. Boyishly charming. And the dark smudges beneath his eyes do nothing to detract from how handsome he is.
“Yes.” He pauses. “Well, I have a couple of conditions.”
Yup. There it is. Wiley bastard.
I roll my eyes. I can’t help myself. And I flick my hand, motioning for him to spit it out.
“One, I want to keep them here on my farm.”
Good god. That’s going to be a hard sell. “It makes more sense to have them at Gold Rush with the clinic on site.”
Stefan waves me off. “It’s a five-minute drive. You’ll be fine.”
My teeth grind at his dismissal, but I tamp my agitation down and focus on how badly that foal needs a mom. “Fine,” I grit out.
“And two.” The man looks downright gleeful. “You let me take you on a date.”
Motherfucker.
He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Actually, three dates.”
Mother. Fucker.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper-shout at him, watching his eyes flashing with something I don’t recognize. I think he secretly gets off on agitating people, self-serving prick that he is. “You’re really going to make that running joke part of this deal?”
His lips tip up. “That’s rich coming from the woman who brought me a coffee, spent hours helping me, and tried to hit me with her best damsel-in-distress face to get what she wants.”
I shake my head at him with wide eyes and fists propped on my hips. “I can’t believe how thoroughly you outmaneuvered me. You’re willing to use a dying foal to corner me into this? Man, I feel like I just got schooled.”
“You did.” He smiles smugly, looking altogether too pleased with himself. He knows I won’t be able to say no. Not only because I want to save that foal, but because I won’t let my friend down.
“Why three dates?”
“Because it’s more than one.”
My foot taps. “Why not two?
“Because it’s less than three?” He says it like a question.
“Okay, then why not five?”
“Are you asking for more, Dr. Thorne?” The smile he hits me with now is downright devastating.
“So, basically you’ve taken your running request and added two punishment dates?” My voice is incredulous.
“They won’t be a punishment for me.” He grins, and I almost want to slap it off his smug face. I wish I didn’t want to save this horse so desperately, or I would. I also wish I didn’t admire his tenacity. I definitely wish my stomach wasn’t fluttering over why Stefan Dalca wants to take me on a date so badly.
I am a smart girl who is about to do something very stupid.
“Fine. But they will not take place in Ruby Creek, they will be platonic, and you can’t tell anyone.” I turn and head toward the door before he can respond, looking forward to escaping to the safety of my truck.
“Whatever you say,” he replies smoothly. “I just can’t fall in love with you, right?”
I chuckle as I twist the doorknob to leave. “Oh, Stefan. I think you already are.”
I smile into the crisp afternoon air at the sound of his laughter behind me. I may be stuck with the guy, but I don’t have to make it easy for him.
Can’t let him win every round.
