Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. These people were crazy.
The entire time Jed explained what he wanted me to do, I had to picture Oscar’s smug face in my mind to keep myself from throwing down my pitchfork, saying, “Thanks, but no, thanks,” and bolting to the airport for the first flight back to New York. I refused to give Oscar the satisfaction of knowing I failed.
It only took me three minutes of shoveling to realize “mucking stalls” was a fancy way of saying “covering oneself in horseshit.” I knew better than to complain to any of the other shit-covered cowboys though. And besides, I told myself, I could be a hard worker if I wanted to be.
After about ten minutes, I realized I didn’t really want to be, but I soldiered on for another hour and a half before finally remembering that even the lowest-paid hourly workers got a break now and then.
“Excuse me, sir?” I said to Jed. “Where can I grab an iced coffee real quick? This would go a lot faster if I could caffeinate.”
He lifted an overgrown eyebrow at me. “Would it though? Would it, really?”
I laughed at his unexpected Thor reference. “I promise. And I would be forever in your debt.”
He released a reluctant smile and tilted his head in the direction of an open door at the end of the row of horse stalls. “Coffee machine’s in the break room. Grab you a granola bar from the bowl while you’re at it.”
I pressed my filthy, blistering hands together in a prayer gesture and bowed to him before bolting to the promised land. Unfortunately, the coffee there was hardly a Starbucks iced latte. But it was caffeine, and that was what I needed. I doctored a cup as quickly as I could and scarfed down two granola bars before reporting back to my duty station.
When I returned, I noticed a well-worn pair of work gloves propped next to the pitchfork I’d been using. That was an unexpected blessing of gigantic proportions. I’d spent half my work time earlier mentally flipping through hand treatment ideas to make up for the disastrous effects of this manual labor.
Once the gloves were on and I felt fully awake, I began singing to keep myself company. I started with the classics like Elsa’s “Let It Go” and Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” which I’d decided was going to be my mantra for all things ranch-based. Then, I moved on to altered versions of road trip songs. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” became “Gurl Just Wants To Be Done” and “Love Shack” became “Poop Shack” after Jed yelled for me to stop calling it a shit shack.
By the time the sun began to set, I thought I might have finally understood the expression “rode hard and put away wet.” I had aches in body parts I hadn’t even known I possessed, and the amount of exhaustion I felt was akin to the nights I’d definitely been rode hard.
Also, I was in desperate need of a shower. Even if it was in a communal bathroom. I was already making my way out of the barn toward the bunkhouse and mentally slathering myself with La Mer when I heard the clang of a metal triangle and someone shouting that it was time for lunch.
My steps faltered. Lunch? But… but… I glanced toward the horizon, expecting to see the sun sinking below the mountains in the distance. Nope. My shoulders fell when I realized I’d been fooled by the sun going temporarily behind a cloud.
It wasn’t sunset. It was only midday.
I whimpered as I dragged my feet across the dirt drive toward the kitchen entrance to the farmhouse. My hands hung numbly from my arms, and my thighs trembled like a nice ass after it had been slapped.
“Please, lord,” I begged under my breath. “Please let there be a nap time after lunch.”
“No such luck, my friend.” One of the cowboys slapped me hard on the back, shooting me forward into the back of another. “Woah, woah, there, Tinkerbell. Almost keeled right over. You feeling okay?”
I glared over at the man I thought might be named PeeWee. “Tinkerbell? What, you think everyone in this place needs an embarrassing nickname?”
Two of the other guys laughed and shoved each other. “Shit, yeah. And as long as you’re gonna muck out stalls with one foot pointed in the air behind you, yours is gonna be Tinkerbell.”
Harrison, the heretofore sexy one, chuckled at his friend’s comment. I shot him the bird, which only made him laugh and reach out to ruffle my hair like a kid. “Now, don’t be sore. You kicked ass out there this morning. Everyone’s mighty impressed with you, Tinkerbell. It was like you waved a magic wand and cleared all the shit from the stalls.”