Page 29 of The Runaway and the Rugged (Dusty Meadows #1)

GARTH

D ammit.

I owed my daughter ten dollars. The girl loved to make bets and this morning before I took off, she made the bet that Emelia would step in a pile of horse crap within seconds of walkin’ into the stall.

I, of course, thought otherwise, assuming that’d be the first thing she’d look out for.

But in her attempt to prove to me that she knew what she was doing, she landed boot-first in manure.

Let me clarify, a brand-new boot.

If I wasn’t so amused by the situation, I would have been annoyed. I would have called it an early day and went back home, but since it was Emelia, the city girl who claimed she didn’t know how to use a shovel, I wanted to stick around and find out what else she “couldn’t do.”

And now after a fresh hosing down of her boot, we were back in Ella’s stall, this time more cautious of where she was stepping than before.

“All right, before you decide to steal both the shovel and pitchfork from me, let me give you a little breakdown on what we’re doin, yeah?” I announced, struggling to stop my eyes from mingling down her body that was wrapped in denim and every cowboy's kryptonite, their hat.

Well, my ball cap, but it felt just the same and it looked damn good on her head too.

Her cheeks flushed, but she nodded.

“Good,” I shot her a subtle grin, “so we typically like to clean the stalls at least once a day, sometimes twice, dependin’ on the horse. It’s more time-consumin’ than anything.”

I picked up the pitchfork.

“I’m sure this part speaks for itself. Scoop the manure, all the mess, and toss it in the wheel barrel. Once you’re finished with all that, we add some fresh bedding and disinfect the stall.”

“You do this every day?” she asked in astonishment. “Clean each one of their stalls?”

It was more than evident she hadn’t seen work like this a day in her life, and this was barely a fraction of the duties we had on the ranch. I could only imagine her reaction to the other tasks I’d eventually show her.

“Every day, Outlaw,” I confirmed. “Then every couple weeks we do a deep clean.”

She nodded again, clearly overwhelmed.

“Think it’s somethin’ you can handle?”

Hands falling into the curve of her hips, she threw me a look.

“I can handle anything.”

“That so?”

She shifted the ball cap on her head, pulling my attention to the thick, messy braid resting over her shoulder. Lookin’ too damn tempting, enough to wrap my fingers around it and pull.

“Yes, I may not look like I can,” she grunted before shifting herself forward to grab the shovel, but not before tripping over a thick pile of straw. Luckily, she was able to catch herself before she made contact with the ground, but that didn’t stop me from reaching out to steady her.

If I have a nickel for every damn time I’ve seen this woman nearly bust her ass from tripping, I’d already have a wallet full of cash.

“Christ, Outlaw, you sure you’re cut out for this?

First, it was your boot, next, it might be your face if you’re not careful,” I teased, knowing full well that I was digging my way beneath her skin and causing all sorts of trouble.

I couldn’t help it, though. She was revealing my playful side, the part of me I thought was dead and gone for anyone else besides Grace.

And here she was, this clumsy, stunner of a woman, breaking down some of my walls with little to no effort.

Without even knowing it.

“I trip sometimes, sue me.” She shrugged me off with a face the shade of a tomato. “I don’t think that it should be an indicator of whether or not I’m cut out for this.”

A bark of a laugh escaped from my chest, liking the feisty side she was showing me.

“Bein’ clumsy is a hazard around here, so try your best to stay on two feet, yeah?” I meant it as more of a warning than a tease. The last thing I wanted was for her to get hurt, and there was a mile-long list of ways that could happen here.

“I’m not clumsy.” She sounded offended. “I’m just slightly… uncoordinated.”

Uncoordinated.

I quietly scoffed, and not just at the casual term of clumsy she called herself, but at the fact she was holding the shovel all wrong. I thought about correcting her, but decided against it, just to see how “experienced” she was.

“See, watch, for the rest of the time we're working today, I won’t trip. I’ll be steady on my feet like a cat.” She shot me a devilish smile while lifting the shovel high and digging it into the bedding.

Amused, I leaned my side into the wall of the stall and observed her closely.

She sent me another wide, “I told you so” grin. “Told you I’m cut out for…” She went to lift the shovel, but her movements hesitated as she seemed to struggle to pick it up. Arms quivering, muscles straining, she ultimately dropped it back down on a gasp.

“Cut out for what, Outlaw?” I asked, when instantly her gaze went dark and collided with mine.

Instead of responding, she took the moment to roll each one of her sleeves up to her elbows and with a deep, resounding breath, she attempted to lift it again.

This time, I was surprised to see that she managed to hoist it off the ground.

Was she wobblin’ all around with puffed-out cheeks?

Hell yeah. But was she giving it her all and doin’ it? Fuck yeah.

She swung herself around until the top of her shovel was over the wheelbarrow and with the swift turn of her wrist, she dumped the waste inside.

If she were anyone else, it would have been comical.

But fuck was I proud of her. For someone who never set foot on a ranch, let alone a horse stable, I was half expecting a scene out of America's Funniest Home Videos . Yeah, she might not be your typical ranch hand, certainly didn’t fit the stereotype, but she was trying and I had to give her credit for that.

“Good job, Outlaw,” I applauded, and although she didn’t seem too impressed with herself, I was.

Her face was a shade of bright red as she glanced in my direction, searching for any sign of dishonesty.

“I mean it,” I added truthfully. “Wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

It was barely noticeable, and if I weren’t watching her with the intensity of a hawk, I may have missed the way her eyes glimmered with pride. It was intoxicating, in a way that made me want to keep her workin’ hard just so I could praise her again.

“Thanks,” she whispered as a ghost of a smile appeared on her mouth. “I guess we all have to start somewhere.”

She was right, we all do, but I had a strong feeling even if she couldn’t get the waste into the barrel I would have commended her anyway for trying. To see a smile, to make her feel worthy and reassure her that there was nothing wrong with who she was.

Because there wasn’t.

She may have been a city girl, with little to no experience gettin’ her hands dirty, who was essentially startin’ her life all over, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t toughen up and change for the better.

I could see the determination in her movements as she went back to shoveling.

She wasn’t quitting when things got tough and I could tell it was a battle to scoop the soiled mixture of straw and gravel.

And for the next hour, that’s what she did. No complaining, no stopping, no tripping over her own feet, she bit the damn bullet and cleaned the stall. Not much longer after, I joined in, and side by side we scooped up shit together.

What a sight.

We cleared the stall in record time, and with one last scoop, Emelia stumbled out of the stable and tiredly fell onto her ass.

“Holy…” She stopped to take a breath. “Shit.”

Barely breakin’ I sweat, I chuckled, following after her.

“One stall done, six more to go.” I came up beside where she sat, then without a second thought, took the spot next to her.

Sitting out here was just about as bad as sittin’ in a stall, but I didn’t seem to care at that moment.

Emelia didn’t care, but most likely due to the fact she had no clue manure could make its way out onto this floor too.

It was good for her. What she didn’t know wouldn't hurt her.

“You’re joking right?” She turned her head, and as if caught off guard that I had sat down beside her, she jumped back slightly like she’d seen a ghost. Fuck , I didn’t realize how close we were.

I could make out everything. The way her braid was gradually coming undone, or how the edge of her shirt's collar was slipping loose, showing off a sliver of her damp, creamy skin.

She looked good after a little hard work. Flushed, sweaty, breathless. Wonder what she’d look like at the end of a long day. Fuckin’ irresistible, that’s what.

“Normally, no.” I laughed, pulling my gaze away from her tempting face and focusing on Charlie, Greta’s horse. “But I don’t want to overwork you just yet.”

A mixture between a sigh and a scoff filled the air.

“I’m sure I have it in me to do one more,” she offered, catching me off guard even more than she already had. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m some fragile woman who can’t handle a little hard work. I’m sure you don’t treat Beau or your brother the same way, do you?”

Griffin or Beau would be on their fourth stall by this time in the day, but that was because they’ve done it too many times to count. Emelia, on the other hand, had never even used a shovel, or so she claimed, and she wonders why I don’t treat her like the other ranch hands?

“No one’s callin’ you fragile, Outlaw. Certainly not me. I respect you. I respect that you can hold your own, but Beau and Griff? They’ve been in this world, doin’ this type of work, a lot longer than you think, and I treat them accordingly.”

“You think that I hold my own?” she questioned, her starry gaze heavy on my profile.

“Knew it from the second I met you.”

A soft, dazed laugh broke from her lips.