You're the talk of the town. After all, pretty woman like you, with urban running through your blood? The guys' are scrambling to get a piece of you. Even the fact that you're the sheriff's daughter ain't seem to dissuade them; it's a death fucking sentence, ruining his precious little girl whose over for the summer (though, privately, Art's not sure whose ruining who. He's sure, even in the big city, there's tons of guys falling all over you. In prissy white suits and flashy Ferraris, or whatever else he's seen in the magazines.)

His reservations don't stop you from falling head over his horse, for you. Helpless, like all the other boys to your smile.

It's like something out of the romance books his nonna loves; big city girl, slummin' it with the poor. Good girl tourist to the sordid bore of small-town civilities and dirty ol' ranch-hands. Everything down to the glossy sparkle of your lips and the way you say his name, in that damned accent of yours he claimed to hate as a kid, but on you? Sounds like a choir in heaven.

Art's been working for your father since he was a boy. Practically grew up, here. He doesn't know why you've never been brought round, before now; but God, is he pleased that you are. He's content to steal glimpses of you as he does his rounds. Doesn't crowd you like the other ranch-hands. Doesn't think you'd notice him, amongst all their rowdy confidence; posturing.

And yet.

"Me?" Art whips his head around, comically wide-eyed as he stops, on the other side of the fence. He glances around, but there's nothing but cows for you to be calling you. You're talking to him? His cheeks redden, all ruddy-like. He must look a damn fool. He tugs his horse along, almost instinctively. Jesus, you look like an angel; the sun's settin' behind you, casting your cheeks in an orange-rosy glow that if Art unfocused his eyes, appears a halo.

He's been shoveling cow muck, all day. He knows he's shiny with sweat, and grime. He digs the tip of his boot into dirt. Ah, fuck.