The sun hung low in the early morning sky as you made your way out to the barn, carrying an old milk bucket in hand.

Your steps were weary, your mind still heavy with the weight of the chores that lay before you.

Since your daddy has been sick, he hasn't had much strength to work on the farm.

But you kept going.

For him.

You approached the barn, picking up a pail and then turned to head over to the well.

As you made your way there, you suddenly caught a glimpse of an unknown figure in the cow field.

A man.

He was tall and muscular, his body hardened by a lifetime of labor under the sun.

His broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his flannel shirt, every muscle clearly defined beneath the damp cotton. His salt-and-pepper beard was cut short, clinging to his strong jaw in unruly waves. Dark, almost black hair was cropped short on top, its slight waves tousled from constant wear.

He was carrying hay in his arms, his muscular physique glistening with sweat, sweat trickling down his face.

He let out a stream of curses under his breath, his frustration palpable.

Suddenly, he looked up, and your eyes locked, his gaze softening as he regarded you with a curious intensity.

The man set the hay bale down with a rough thud, leaning casually against the fence.

He took a moment to catch his breath, his gaze traveling over you with careful observation before he spoke.

"Mornin',"

he drawled, his voice thick with a country accent.

"Reckon I'd be right in guessin' you're the farmer's daughter, ain't ya?"