Page 18 of Fall or Nothing

“Comforting.”

“I’ll have Trig show you the ropes.”

I glared at him. “The guy I just shoved into the wall? Is that a good idea?”

Ash laughed. “He’s harmless.”

“Debatable.”

“He enjoys getting a rise out of people.”

“Any advice on how best to deal with him?”

“Yeah. Don’t let him.”

The smellof horse manure would probably never leave my nostrils after today. The physical labor didn’t let up once, and here I thought I was a healthy, muscular guy, working out with my trainer occasionally. But my body ached more as the day wore on.

Didn’t help that Trig kept up a steady stream of commentary, most of it aimed directly at me.

“Careful there, pretty boy,” he smirked. He’d taken to calling me that at one point, leaning against a stall door at the quarantine stables. He hadn’t lifted a finger all day, only ordering me around. “You’re getting shit everywhere.”

“No kidding.” I struggled with clearing a particular stall. Whatever horse they had in here clearly suffered a case of the runs. Crap got all over my boots and me. I’d burnthese clothes later if I could, but dammit, they were my only set. I paused and flexed my fingers and hands.

He continued. “Those soft hands of yours are getting well-used today. Yeah, you didn’t think I could tell how you don’t exactly have working hands? What kind of cowboy does that make you?”

I didn’t respond or look at him. Just kept my head down. As much as I wanted to grab a handful of shit and wipe it across his smirking face, I knew exactly what he was doing. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

After lunch, Trig changed tactics. “Ash said you were in the reserves, huh?” he said out of nowhere as we moved through the quarantine barn chores.

I kept my eyes on the work. “That’s right.”

“Humph. Weekend warriors. No offense,” he added, in the tone of someone who intended every offense. “But you’re working with guys here who’ve done real combat deployments. You reserve guys basically went to summer camp a couple weekends a year and want the same credit for serving your country.”

The tool stilled in my hands.

“Must be nice,” he continued, “playing soldier on the weekends and then going back to your regular life on Monday.”

I set the pitchfork down slowly against the stall wall and turned to look at him for the first time in hours, arms folded across my chest.

“You done?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just saying what everyone thinks.”

“Right.” I picked the broom up and kept working, brushing some of the straw back in. Jaw tight, I ignoredhim as best I could, when every instinct was to start a fight with him. But Chris would no doubt hear of it and ship me back to New York.

Fuck. I sucked it up and kept working, counting dollars in my head as the only solace.

The day wore on, and I got lost in thoughts, roaming across my life, of all the stupid things I’d done, and the things I should have done. Regrets and sorrows, irritatingly, to my father, and the way I’d always disappointed him. His last wish for me in his will—to live like a working man for thirty days. Then where would that leave me?

A very pregnant mare named Sassy took a keen interest in me as I cleaned her paddock, the last one of the day if I counted right. She followed me around, blocking me, crowding me wherever I moved. At one point, she nibbled the back of my head as I mucked out her straw.

“What the hell?” I shifted a foot away. “This horse won’t leave me be.”

“You've got an admirer, pretty boy,” Trig snickered, leaning against the stall door, pitchfork resting lazily against his shoulder.

“Maybe she knows something good when she sees it. Don’t you, girl?” I patted her neck.

At least Trig laughed at that.