My Sweet Enemy Rancher

by Emma Sutton

  “Well,” he says, clearly mocking my use of the word. “Enjoy,” he says, his expression turning slightly more engaging as he half-bows in my direction, holding his arm out for the front door.

  Dramatic as always.

  “You know, you’re a big-talker.”

  Walker cocks another eyebrow at me as if he’s daring me to say more, and for some reason, I can’t help but feel an edge of desire at wanting to see him, wishing I knew him in a way that stood on its own as something more than just an arrogant cowboy.

  Though Mary Jo was my actual boss, over the past few years I’d learned that Walker had the ability to make some important decisions here at Lone Oak. And I try to do my part in making sure to mind him when I feel it’s necessary. But this morning’s twenty percent criticism had stricken me particularly hard as I find him up here wandering about this afternoon, making apparent small talk to MJ when he should be running cattle.

  “Why do you hate me?” Walker suddenly demands as he takes his hat off, runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and puts it back on.

  His question puts an irritated boulder down my stomach, and I suddenly feel sorry. Furrowing my brow, I open my mouth to speak, but the only thing that comes out is the sputtering sound of frustration.

  Without breaking face, Walker slides his knife into his back pocket and turns his back toward the fiery afternoon sun, waiting for my answer.

  “I don—”

  Before I can finish the words, his walkie talkie pushes a barrier of static between us.

  “Mason to Walker,” the Midwestern crackled voice demands. “Any update? Where you at?”

  Pulling the walkie talkie from where it’s holstered on his belt, Walker presses the PTT button, his eyes never leaving mine and making my knees go weak. “Still up here at the main house.”

  “Copy that. You have your meeting yet?”

  As if he’s been caught red-handed, Walker suddenly shifts, turning his back to me and takes a few steps toward the ATV. He lowers his voice. “I’ll fill you in when necessary.”

  Their interaction over the walkie talkie suddenly piques my curiosity. What particular meeting was he having with Mary Jo? Sure, I came down here to let MJ know that my letter had come, but surely there wasn’t anything too pressing going on right now.

  “Ten-four. We’ve got a bit of a hold-up down here and could use your assistance.”

  “You still at the barns?”

  “Headed for the fields. Dr. Daniels is here, and he’s asking you to sign off for him.”

  “Copy. On my way.” With that, Walker tucks the walkie talkie back into its holster and heads for his ATV without acknowledging me.

  “Hey,” I call after him when he throws his leg over the vehicle. “What was the meeting about?” I ask, closing our distance just a bit so as to not let MJ hear my inquisitive mind through the screen door.

  “That’s not really any of your business now, is it?”

  I roll my eyes and throw him a sour expression. “Right.”

  “That’s right, it’s private.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I jut out a hip. “But just like… twenty percent private, right?” My joke lands exactly where I intended it to, but before I can even apologize for making it, Walker’s lips split into a chuckling smile as he starts up the ATV, the engine kicking into gear.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a handful?”

  “Yeah,” I shout over the noise. “You did. Earlier,” I say, wanting to remind him of how rudely he apprehended me this morning back at the stables.

  “Well, good. Hattie Handful. Maybe I ought to start calling you that then. You think?”

  Hattie Handful?

  My face contorting into a scowl, I shake my head. “Definitely not—”

  “Got it. Bye, Handful.”

  Standing there, I watch as Walker tears away on the ATV and leaves me reeling in the searing sun. Sophie is hot on his heels as she turns into a brown streak of lightning paving her way across the grass.

  Grinning, I catch my breath from my courage of fighting back with my words, feeling some kind of a fidgety spark flooding my insides. Something I haven’t felt in my life in a ridiculously long time— maybe ever.

  Hattie Handful.

  For a second, I let myself wonder if it’s a nickname my family would’ve called me. Would my parents have figured out just how much of a handful I am? Because I’ve never really had a nickname before. Dumb as it is, this one feels special for some reason.

  As I continue watching Walker disappear toward the west side of the ranch in the distance, I get another urge of valor that courses through me and itches my soul. Pulling the letter from my back pocket, I slide it out of the envelope and open on the tri-fold. I read it with bated breath.

  “Dear Ms. Locherman,

  It is with a troubled heart that I let you know your birth mother is choosing not to seek contact of any form with you at this time. I sincerely apologize. I have sent all the information I’ve gathered to your registered email.

  Please let me know if you have any further concerns or questions.

  Take care,

  Detective Lansing”

  My hands go cold in the prickly June heat, and I instantly shove the letter back into its envelope as if my force will stave off the hurt. Pushing it back into my pocket, I bite my bottom lip that wavers with agitation. I fight off the tears that threaten to spill out of my eyes as I suddenly feel split in two again. Like a piece of my heart will never be healed in a way I’ve so desperately yearned.

  But here we are.

  Turning to head back inside to let Mary Jo know that I can’t talk this afternoon before I’m able to process all this, I come to a halt when I find her standing there on the other side of the screen door, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  For a second, I wonder if she’s witnessed the entire thing with Walker play out like it did. But her grin grows wider as she dries her hands on a kitchen towel until she discerns my upset pout.

  Shaking my head so she understands that I can’t talk about the painful results, I brush a few tears from my cheek.

  Stepping out onto the front porch, she waves me up. “Oh, honey. Come here, Hattie,” she coos wanting to shelter me from my own current misery of the outside world.

  Chapter Four

  Walker

  “Morning, Handful. I’ve been waiting for you,” I smirk as Hattie rounds the corner of the overgrown brush along the gravel road on foot.

  She and Eliza must have rolled straight out of their beds and to the stable this morning. They both look like they’re moving slow as molasses on a winter morn.

  “Hey, Eliza,” I say with a tip of my hat.

  “Good morning,” Eliza says, shooting me a smile.

  Running a hand down one of her two dark braids, Hattie shakes her head as if to tell me to hush. Her face looks swollen, a little red around the cheeks, but maybe she always takes that appearance before dawn. I have no way of knowing since I don’t usually make my rounds until at least 8 a.m.

  “Rough morning then? Want me to run and get you two a coffee?”

  Eliza veers off down another aisle of the stable with a polite shake of her head.

  With a roll of her eyes, Hattie grabs one of the short ropes from the tack room wall as I follow behind her, having already set my own coffee cup down on the step of my four-wheeler.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” she grumbles. Her words sound stiff, almost wounded as she pushes past me in the tack room door frame, barely grazing my shoulder. She heads to where Eliza now waits for her in the grass to discuss the game plan.

  “Well, I should hope not. I didn’t come out here to supervise. I came to help fix the problem.”

  “There’s no problem,” Hattie snaps, slicing the dark air with her short lead.

  Eliza yawns and blinks at me like she’s clueless as to what I’m saying so early in the day.

  “If I may, due to your estimate yesterday, I’d say there’s
about a four percent correction we can make.”

  Instantly biting my tongue, I realize correction might have been the wrong word. Maybe improvement is more fitting for the situation at hand. But before I can go back on the term, Hattie’s eyebrows lift in defiance.

  “Four percent? Seriously?”

  I run my tongue along my teeth, not sure what’s got her so up in arms. “Every percent makes a difference.”

  “Sure,” she says with a shake of her head. “Whatever you say.” She heads straight for the pasture gate, acres and acres of grassland laid out in front of her. “What’s your solution then, cowboy?”

  Eliza smacks her fingers to her mouth to stifle a giggle as she turns her back to us, obviously not wanting to get in the middle of the collapse of our conversation that’s already plummeting.

  Taking the name in stride, I walk the fifteen yards to where Hattie stands at the mouth of the closed gate, the sound of a far-off horse whinnying in the distant fields catching my attention.

  With the fact that Hattie somehow looks rougher than normal this morning looming, I decide I don’t want to test her patience today. “I just figured we might be able to come up with a solution together,” I say lowering my voice as I watch the unlit silhouette of her clench her fists.

  It’s mostly dark outside, the morning sky muted a deep azure this early on, but I can tell she’s wearing jeans and a purple short-sleeve T-shirt right now. I can also tell she’s not in the mood to joke around. “Do you mind walking me through your process?”

  With the rope still in her fist, Hattie flings open the lock on the gate and leisurely walks it wide, the damp metal creaking out into the foggy summer morning. Dust puffs up under her booted footsteps until she stops and stands still.

  To ease the tension, I take a few steps past her and lean over the fence. I throw my gaze to the horses that appear as black dots on the faraway horizon in this low of light. “I don’t mean any harm. I just want to help,” I say to her over my shoulder so Eliza can’t hear.

  Turning, Hattie gradually works her way over to my side. With an exhale, she rests her arms on the fence and kicks a boot up on the lowest railing. She points to the fields out in the range where the whole team of horses is currently posted. “We herd them from Field B to the pasture,” she motions. “Once we’ve got them here, we take the ropes and lead them into the stable.”

  “One-by-one?”

  She nods. “It’s quicker when all of our wranglers are working. They weren’t all here yesterday when you showed up, but it was excused.” The way she says that with a side-eye and a bitter tone makes me feel like I’m treading too harshly on her territory. But especially with MJ’s bomb now hovering right in front of me, I need to do my part and make sure we tighten chores up around here. Efficiency is key.

  The distance she’s telling me they have to lead each horse is astronomical— a good sixty to seventy yards depending on how far away the horses graze in wait.

  “When you capture the horses,” I ask, “what if you’re able to get them two at a time to walk ‘em in? Is that possible?”

  Hattie shrugs, obviously not fond of the idea.

  “That wouldn’t work,” Eliza says, speaking up, now clearly listening in on our conversation again. “I mean, I don’t think it would.”

  I pull my hat down further over my eyes in what’s become a bad habit I’ve practiced over the years. “And why’s that?” I ask, turning to her.

  Hattie shifts back to face the stable. “Because when you have nine or ten wranglers with two horses each, walking them up and down the aisles of that stable becomes one enormous traffic jam. The aisles are just too narrow.”

  Her concern makes sense, and as much as I hate to admit it, she’s probably right. Seeing as I can’t exactly widen the aisles and hiring someone on to do just that would take more than I’m able to spend right now, there might not be a better option. But looking back at the dirt path and the surrounding grassy area from the stable to the pasture fence where we currently stand, I’m suddenly slapped with an idea. “What if we rope this part off and keep the gate closed? Could all the horses be contained in this area while you secure them in their stalls?”

  Hattie and Eliza both survey my talking point, taking in the space and visually maneuvering the imaginary horses like chess pieces to see if they’d fit at once. Eliza points and whispers something to Hattie who then nods.

  “Even if we had to expand it out and close it off,” I say, pointing further over into the grass right by the stable.”

  “Installing a fence?” Eliza asks.

  “No,” Hattie speaks up. “That won’t work. We can’t have a permanent fence here. We dump the waste on this side with the trucks. It’s wider over here. We’d still have to be able to get through.”

  “Alright.” Closing my eyes, I study the walls of the tack room, everything I’d seen minutes earlier when I followed Hattie in there. “What if it’s not permanent? What if we could work it out to be temporary, using it only when needed?”

  Hattie turns to me, her eyes scrunched as if she doesn’t understand.

  “Hold that thought,” I say, jogging back into the tack room of the stable. I scan the tools on the walls again, my eyes landing on a large reem of unspun rope. Grabbing it, I haul it out to the open pathway where Hattie and Eliza still stand watching me.

  The rope is heavy and my biceps burn from not having lifted this much in a while— even at the on-site gym here. But finding one of the free ends, I tie it to the yellow guard post in front of the stable door using a Clove Hitch knot. Pulling it tight, I string the rope along, creating a floating barrier. As I reach the fence to the pasture, I bow it outward, creating more space to illustrate how it might be a possibility to fit all sixty horses with ease.

  Reaching the end of the rope before I hit the fence, I hold it up myself, putting most of my weight on it so it hangs taut. “Then we do another one that way,” I shout, pointing to the opposite side of the open path. “So you’ve got your two ropes tied from the gate to the stable door. Like a horse funnel,” I grin.

  Hattie and Eliza both study the space I’ve roped off and try to envision it, obviously commiserating over the possibility of change.

  “It could help keep the horses closer to prevent you from having to walk as far just to lead them in. See what I mean there?”

  Hattie crosses her arms over her chest, her tucked-in T-shirt pulling from the top of her jeans. “I mean, yeah. That could maybe work.”

  Eliza nods in agreement and studies Hattie’s face. “That might actually be helpful, wouldn’t it?”

  Feeling a wave of relief, I smile. “See? I have a good idea once in a great while.” I drop the line and dust my hands off on my pants.

  Immediately bursting my bubble, Hattie presses her fingertips to her lips. “We obviously don’t have enough rope here for that though. Is that an added expense or—”

  “Now don’t you go worrying yourself about the rope, Handful.”

  Her eyes shooting wide, Eliza giggles and turns to head back for the stable. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna start rounding them up with the four-wheeler,” she sings, disappearing into the wing where the ATVs are kept.

  Turning a stern gaze to me, Hattie chews on the corner of her mouth. With that settled, she still seems off. Like there’s something gripping her differently today.

  Furrowing my brow and showing her that I’m being earnest, I turn toward her. Even as I say the words, they make my heart pick up pace. “Hey, you alright this morning?”

  Hattie blinks hard and presses her lips into a straight line as if she’s got her own secret stirring up her emotions. Shaking her head, she cuts her eyes to the earth. “You really think this will improve our time that much?”

  I nod. “I’m hoping we can get it down to twenty percent.”

  “You and that twenty percent,” she scoffs, a small smile threatening her beautiful but downturned mouth.

  Her independence and ci
vil disregard for me is refreshing if not extraordinary. It’s not every day I find a rival out here on the ranch that’s as stunningly gorgeous as she is in a pair of Levis and a dusty shirt. I know it shouldn’t work like this, but the truth that she makes it known she hates taking orders from someone like me just fuels my fire for her, if I’m honest.

  In fact, ever since I was teamed up with her at the snow cone shack for one of our kiddie events back on the farm last spring, I’ve realized just how good of a person she is when it comes to everyone else but me. She’s fierce and fun and, sometimes when I let myself think about her, I find myself wondering what it would be like to know her true colors of beauty and circumstance.

  Despite the heft of the twenty percent I’ve just thrown on her shoulders, she’s one of the hardest workers on this ranch, and I can’t help but be drawn to that. As I push the thoughts of her from my mind, I try to force the wild beating of my heart to subside.

  Suddenly, Eliza shoots out of the stable, the roar of the four-wheeler buzzing past us as she tears off into the empty pasture heading for the horses.

  “Why are you so worried about this anyway?” Hattie asks, brushing a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. “I mean, besides efficiency or whatever.”

  The light of day starts seeping into the atmosphere, painting everything with a shade of lilac.

  Taking in a deep breath, I get a whiff of hay, dirt, and manure from downwind somewhere. Exhaling, I decide to open up as best I can right now without putting MJ or the future of the ranch on the line. “Because if twenty percent isn’t doable, there’s a very real possibility I could lose my job out here. And I know this position wouldn’t be hard to fill, but I’ll be darned if anyone’s getting it by default,” I say with a soft smirk, hoping she catches the joke.

  I don’t want to tell her that all of our jobs are on the line, but my answer seems to satisfy her enough for now.

  “Well,” she breathes, clasping her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry then. Fingers crossed this’ll work.”