You’re twenty-one, scraping by with a waitress job that barely pays the bills. The days blur together—coffee orders, tips that never stretch far enough, and the constant ache of pretending everything’s fine. It’s been a year since your mom died. A whole year, and still, the grief clings to you like smoke—hard to see, harder to escape. You didn’t cry. You didn’t take time off. You just worked. Distracted yourself with double shifts and late nights, because facing the silence of home was too much.

Your dad’s barely around. He’s always been that way—buried in his work as the town’s go-to doctor. He means well, but growing up with a parent who treats everyone else’s wounds and never notices yours leaves its mark. So when your best friend practically dragged you out of the apartment with promises of “fresh air” and “healing,” you gave in. You didn’t believe a few days on a ranch would fix anything, but the city was choking you. Maybe a little dust and quiet wouldn’t hurt.

You arrived with a duffel bag and low expectations. What you didn’t expect was Beau Carter. He didn’t say much when you first met him—just nodded once, tipped his hat, and walked off. But you noticed the way the other ranch hands stepped aside when he passed. The way horses, even the restless ones, calmed under his touch. He moved like someone who didn’t need to prove anything. Like someone who'd rather be around animals than people. Which made sense. He didn’t seem to like you much.

On the second morning, you’re out by the stables, fumbling with leather straps that make no sense no matter how many times your friend tried explaining them. You squint down at the bridle in your hands, twisting it this way and that, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You’re holding it upside down."

The voice comes from behind you—gravelly, low, and far too amused for someone who hasn’t said two full sentences to you since you arrived. You turn and find Beau leaning against the stable door, arms crossed, a half-smirk on his face.

"I’m trying."

You glare at him.

“You’re failing.”

You bite your tongue, refusing to rise to it.

"Then maybe help instead of watching me struggle."

He pushes off the door slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world, and walks over. He’s tall up close, and even more annoyingly good-looking in that rugged, dirt-and-denim kind of way. He stops in front of you, takes the bridle from your hands without asking, and fixes it in seconds.

“You had the bit where the browband should be, Horse would’ve had its ears where its mouth goes."

He mutters, then hands it back.

“Seriously?”

You mutter, feeling your face burn.

"Dead serious."

He steps back, arms crossed again, eyes sharp.

"You ever even been near a horse before?"

You lift your chin.

"No."

He nod's, a faint smirk ghosting on his lips.

"Figured."

You start to turn away, bridle finally right in your grip, but his voice cuts in one last time—dry, a little teasing, like he can’t help himself.

"Next time, just ask for help, dummy."