Chapter Three. Winnie

There are two types of people in this world: the ones that think "barn" is the best smell ever invented, and those who are wrong. Joanna Gaines could bottle this up, combine it with beeswax, drop it in a refurbished tin can, and make the Target crowd go spare. It's that good. And it doesn't change! English style, western style, north or south, mountains or plains, a stable is a stable is a stable, and it always smells like coming home. Getting your shit together. Finding your center.

As I said, two types. Some people aren't horse people. They don't get it. Couldn't possibly. They've never experienced the feeling of strolling down the center aisle just after sunrise. The soft nickering of horses, the swish-flick of their tails against solid wood, the creak as they shift, their soft noses pressing their greeting. The air is heavy and wet with the scent of freshly mown grasses, worn leather, rich manure, and decades of dust, swirling and settling in the beams of dawn. The clinking of bridles dancing in the powerful breeze of a massive fan. The scuff of work boots on packed dirt and concrete. The warm and weirdly gooey feel of slobbery lips lapping up carrots and sugar cubes.

I digress. It's just… it's my favorite place.

Which is why I wasn't thrilled to hear he'll be here today, invading my sanctuary. Sure, he's the boss's kid and has every right. One might even argue it's his duty to be here cleaning stalls and leading trail rides and exercising the stock, except in the eighteen months I've been working here, I've only ever seen Case Benton Michaels the Third in the stables twice. First, when he was looking for the specific medicine ball he prefers to use for his balance training. Second, on the day of Walker Gibson's funeral.

Neither time did he notice me. Which was perfectly fine. I have enough on my plate. I don't need to add "babysitting the arrogant rich kid" to the stack.

That is, until approximately twenty minutes ago when I was sucker punched with the realization of why the famous Case Michaels is being forced to slum it today.

He's… not doing great. According to the rumors, he climbed up on the Richardsons' corn silo drunk last night. He could have died. Sure, Case rides bulls, which is about as reckless as you can get, but despite his many, many faults, Case is known around the rodeo circuit for his measured brand of reckless. His singular focus on riding is one of the things that makes him stand out. In the chute, he's all business.

He and Walker Gibson were like two sides of the same champion-worthy coin. They balanced each other perfectly. Walker was hilarious and easy and up for anything, while Case was earthbound. He kept Walker grounded and as safe as he could.

More than once, I saw Walker step up to the chute without his vest or his helmet or, ew, his mouth guard while Case ran after him. I wonder if it had to do something with the fact Walker was terminal and Case was in denial.

People like Case Michaels and Walker Gibson were born for rodeo. Grit in their bones, bravery oozing from their pores.

People like me, too. Not that I would ever say that out loud and not that I could ever in a million years act on the impulse. But deep down inside, I know it's true. Queen Mab confirms it. Camilla, my mentor and the stable manager here at the ranch, only purchased Mab six months ago, rescuing her from an auction where she was sickly thin and dull-coated. Camilla said she saw a special fire in Mab's eyes that begged and pleaded for wide-open spaces.

It's what Camilla said she saw in my eyes the first time we met.

And when Mab and I gallop out of the stables, we find our freedom together. No responsibilities, expectations, or restrictions. Just endless blue skies. The Michaels ranch spans thousands of rolling acres, and Mab and I have covered them all.

Regardless of my earlier slip of sympathy toward the boss's kid, it's not until I'm bringing Queen Mab back from her (our) workout that I remember the rodeo boy is even around. Still cleaning stalls from the look of it.

In my defense, riding Queen Mab is akin to a religious experience and often has the promising effect of completely emptying my brain of any and all bullshit.

Mab hesitates at the entry to the stables where the ground transitions from a fine gravel to concrete. It's one of her weird quirks. She can take it at a bit of a trot, but when it comes to a slow stroll after a hard workout, she does this little stutter step, and I need to coax her through with a click of my tongue and a gentle hand to her shoulder.

I have no idea why she is the way she is, but it doesn't bother me much. Mab runs like the wind, has the most stunning form of any horse I've ever laid eyes on, can turn on a dime, and seemed plenty put off by Case Michaels.

That makes two of us.

I recall the way he leaned in, all slick, holding out his hand to introduce himself as if I didn't already know his name. Even now, I flare my nostrils and lead Mab past him to her stall (which I note is spotless, but seriously, that's the least the idiot could do; I'm not about to give the dude props for doing his job).

"Does the Queen approve of her quarters?" Case croons over the wall that separates Mab's stall from a tall, dark, and handsome Thoroughbred named Jose Swervo. I wipe the scowl from my face as he pops his through the bars.

He is not cute. Not even with flushed cheeks setting his blue eyes to sparkling. Not even with straw dust in his hair making him look like a little kid.

Mab, the traitor, nuzzles him through the iron bars. He chuckles low, and I ignore the way it makes the little hairs on my arms stand straight.

"Okay, okay, I thought you might be into Honeycrisp. You minx." He pulls a handful of apple slices from his shirt pocket and holds them out in his flat palm.

Mab gobbles them up, giving his fingers a couple of licks for good measure, then allows Case to stroke her soft nose. She looks every inch the royal. He laughs again, and his dimple pops. Damn.

"Apologies, Your Majesty. I came unprepared earlier."

Mab shifts her weight, and I realize I've been standing behind her inside the stall like this is the first time I've ever been around a horse in my life and I'm hoping to get kicked in the gut. I shake myself and ease out the door, sliding it shut behind me with a quiet thud. The Michaels ranch has been around for generations, but the newly renovated stables are straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Dark hardwood, clean matte-black hardware, skylights brightening the center aisle. No expense spared. Room and board is at a premium, which translates into me working my ass off so none of the clientele question the exorbitant fees.

But it's an incredible opportunity to work and train under Camilla Gutiérrez. Worth putting up with a world of grief, which is why I studiously ignore the ongoing lovefest between Mab and Case and instead reach for a pair of quarter horse siblings, Reba and Dolly, waiting in the next stalls for their scheduled trail ride in less than an hour. I make a mental note to grab Jose Swervo from the corral. I'm not leading this one, but Camilla had a dentist appointment in Amarillo this morning, so I told her I'd get everything arranged ahead of time. And leading trail rides is usually part of my job—a part I love, even—but I need to pick up my sister, Garrett, at her "kid geniuses who build robots" workshop soon.

(Because smart kids don't just like to learn Monday through Friday; they want to go to school all the days to do all the learning all the time for all the money.)

I've picked up an extra ride tomorrow to make up the difference, which'll suck because it's Sunday and that's my only day off, but oh, well. It's an investment. Garrett can buy me a nice car when she's working for NASA someday, or when she figures out a cure for climate change.

"You wrappin' up already?"

I crane my neck over the sway in Dolly's back where I've just tightened the cinch to sturdy her saddle.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I've been here since before sunrise. So ‘already' is a bit of a stretch."

He's undeterred by my sass. "I was thinking maybe if you're about to be off the clock, we could take a ride around. I'll show you some of the ranch."

Hidden behind Dolly, I mouth What the…? to myself, because this guy cannot be serious.

Unbelievably, he's still going. "I'm sure you've seen some of it, but we own pretty much everything your eyes can see, looking in every direction."

I bite back a snort and arch my eyebrows. "Is that right, Simba? Everything the light touches is your kingdom?"

Case blinks but recovers quickly, his full lips quirking despite the pink creeping up his ears. "Ha. Okay, hakuna matata, very funny."

Not cute, not cute, not cute.

I wrap myself in sarcasm, tugging it up around my ears and over my heart. "As much as I'd love to see pride lands à la Michaels, I have plans. I'd take a rain check, but we both know that won't happen."

His expression falters. "Did I do something to offend you? Is it because I was late this morning? I'm sorry if—"

If only. Basically everything about this guy and his money and his career and his attractive-despite-being-hungover appearance offends me. But even I can concede that's not his fault. Not all of it, anyway.

I slide a bridle over Dolly's long nose, coaxing the cold metal bit between her teeth and securing the buckle. "Listen. I have real obligations after work and also, I'm just not interested. So thanks, but no thanks." I busy myself with the reins, and eventually, I hear his steps walk away. Pressing my lips together so I don't call after him and apologize for being so blunt, I grab Reba's saddle and repeat the familiar steps to get her ready for her rider.

The truth is, I'm pretty sure before today, Case didn't even know I existed. And while I don't care about that, I'm also not a masochist. There's no frigging way I'm gonna join him for some dreamy horseback tour of his land. That offer reeks of rich-boy playbook.

Not that I could, anyway. I have shit to do. Real-life shit like making sure there's food in the fridge and the electric bill is paid on time. Things I doubt Case Michaels has considered even once in his life. I bet his fridge is perpetually stocked with his favorite snacks. And ice cream. The expensive kind. Like those little pints of Ben and Jerry's.

"All set, Winnie?" I'm startled out of my daydreaming by Camilla. She's in her customary trail riding gear: black felt cowboy hat, heavy pueblo jacket over jeans, and worn boots. She holds out a steaming cardboard cup.

I accept the drink and inhale the hot cocoa scent into my lungs. "Yum. Thank you. I needed this."

"Rough day already? I was hoping a nice long ride on Mab might've done the trick."

"Good point. Almost forgot. Mab was glorious this morning. Hold on." I raise a calloused finger and close my eyes. "Let me just go back to that for a sec." I nod, a smile spreading across my lips. "There it is. All better."

Camilla narrows her artfully lined blue eyes but decides not to question further. Wouldn't be anything new, anyway. Mab is a gift, but some things are just hard to shake loose, and abject poverty is one of those things.

I sip my cocoa gratefully, then duck into the tack room for my backpack and keys. On my way out, I raise my cup in a salute. "Thanks again, Camilla. I need to dash. Last time, Garrett was waiting out front, tapping her foot all dramatically."

What I don't say is last time I got a flat tire on my way to pick up my little sister. I was forced to change it out myself before limping along on the spare for an entire nerve-racking week until I could afford the patch. Why is it when you don't have a lot of money, everything costs more money?

I make a loop around my car like I have every time since then, checking for nails or miscellaneous ranch debris. Once I'm sure it's clear, I toss my backpack in the passenger seat and am on my way with a roar of my muffler. I check my rearview mirror and think I catch Case's gaze following me out. But it's probably just the dust cloud.