Page 22 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

It was more like the scent that wafts off melted wires and circuits. It smelled like the HVAC when the entire electrical panel melted.

My feet turned me back around and carried me forward before my brain had fully processed the decision to move. Each step took me closer to the wreckage, to the overwhelming smell of scorched wiring, to whatever the hell had happened to my supply barn while I'd been sleeping off cheap whiskey and despair.

Halfway to what used to be the barn door, my foot kicked a solid object. I looked down to see the pitchfork I'd left leaning against the barn earlier. Without hesitation, I bent to grab it, my fingers closing around the wooden handle with grim determination. I could use it to move debris out of the way, try to find the source of the smoke so I could douse the flames… the flames I couldn’t see yet.

As I stepped over the threshold into the ruined building, the pole light became a spotlight.

It landed on the metal object I’d seen from the house.

The glowing wrapped around the curved body of what I could only describe as a… freaking UFO. I held the pitchfork higher, brandishing the tines in the direction of the vessel. I pushed the tool closer, letting the sharp tips scratch the craft. It was real. That nails-on-chalkboard sound wasn’t from my imagination.

“Hello?” I called, my voice embarrassingly thin and wavering. "Is someone in there? Are you hurt?"

What the hell was I doing? I was a broke horse breeder with a pitchfork, not some action hero equipped to deal with whatever... this was. The sensible part of my brain—the part that hadn't been completely overwhelmed by shock—screamed at me to back away, to go call for help, to not become the stupid character in a horror movie who investigates the strange noise alone.

I closed my eyes, telling myself that this was all a fantasy. I was going to open my eyes, and there’d be no alien ship. My barn would be standing per usual, albeit tilted, and I needed to lay off the liquor for a few days. Maybe abstain from drinking completely. I was losing everything tangible, so I should safeguard my damn sanity at all costs.

My heartbeat slowed when I parted my lashes. I laughed, an abrupt sound full of relief.

“Drunk. I must be totally, skunk drunk.” The laughter built, but so too did overwhelming sadness. I was losing my mind. I really was. “The barn finally gave up. Can’t even blame it.” My entire body shook as I laugh-cried. I wiped tears away, refusing to let the joy completely give way to grief.

Dropping the pitchfork, I walked out of the wreckage. I needed to sleep off the lingering buzz. Tomorrow, I’d deal with the supply barn issue. Wasn’t sure how, since everything took money and I had precious little of that these days. But I’d figure it out. I wasn’t a quitter with a pretty face who was only good for being arm candy.

Candy. I wanted something sweet. Or salty.

I pressed one hand to my grumbling stomach. I’d hoover a frozen burrito before crashing. That should give me indigestion and bad dreams, but I was pretty used to both of those things now.

When I woke up, blinding light streaming through the raggedy curtains I’d forgotten to close, I remembered the weird ass dream.

The booming crash. The busted barn. The scared horses. The UFO.

“Luckily, I imagined it all. Wonder if aliens actually perform butt probes?” Sitting up, I swung my legs off the bed and rolled my shoulders. My stomach hurt, my head ached, and my mouth tasted terrible, like refried beans and picante sauce.

I rubbed my eyes, still disoriented, and fought against the dawn’s invasive brightness. Lately, I felt like I was holding onto a buoy in choppy water. I always thought drinking my sorrows away would help, but it never did. Now it felt like the damn buoy had capsized and I was left treading water, sinking despite my best efforts as I gasped for air.

At least the barn was fine.

At least I didn’t have aliens in my backyard.

At least… at least… at least.

“Maybe I had that dream because aliens are easier to believe in than my ability to run this place,” I murmured to myself, as my feet hit the cold floor.

I pushed myself up and headed for the bathroom, each step reverberating through my skull. The vanity mirror reflected my new normal face. Puffy eye bags, messy hair, chapped skin desperate for lotion. One good thing about looking so raggedy was aliens probably wouldn’t abduct me. I looked like a shit specimen.

Splashing cold water on my face, hoping the icy wetness could wash away the remnants of whiskey and self-loathing, I blinked several times before glancing back at my reflection. I looked the same just… wetter. The existential dread sprouting inside me was chillier than the water, but I was used to that feeling. I’d been fighting long enough that I knew, beyond a doubt, that putting on my game face was more about how I felt on the inside versus my outer package. This stupid flesh and meat suit was only the shell. I had to keep myself steady at the core, not the surface.

Why was that far harder than slapping on some makeup to look presentable?

As I brushed my teeth, the dream rushed back into my brain in vivid detail—the sound of the explosive crash, the downed barn, the weird ass spaceship. A soft chuckle escaped my lips while I rinsed my mouth. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.

I padded into the bedroom, opening the small closet with its half broken bi-folding doors, and pulled out a button up shirt. I was still wearing jeans; guess I’d been too liquor buzzed to take them off last night.

Mostly dressed, I made my way to the kitchen, giving myself a few good shakes along the way to get myself in the zone.

Today, I’d make sure my future looked bright. Mystery and Sassy would cooperate even if it killed me.

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