Page 13 of Catching Sparks

I bristle. “I can handle tearing apart hay bales.”

“Right. We’ll have more for you soon, then, won’t we?”

“Guess so.”

His tongue darts out to wet his thinned lips as he scratches at the grey stubble on his jaw. “Best thing you can do for all of us is drop the attitude and earn your keep without complaint. You need somethin’ from us, we’re more than willin’ to give it. But if you continue scowling and grumblin’ at all of us, you’ll get a whole helping of fuckin’ nothin’.”

“I’ve hardly been here for one full day, and I’ve already gotten the third degree from both Steele men.”

“Better the two of us than my wife.”

The threat in those words is clear. I lift my chin and tighten my hold on the wooden handle of the pitchfork, pressing the prongs deeper into the thawing ground.

Garrison Beckett the CEO stares at the old rancher, refusing to quiver beneath his steel will.

“You’ll hardly know I’m here once I finish. I’m sure we can see these next few weeks through without problem.” It’s the closest thing to an olive branch that I’ll extend.

He nods, those gloved hands tapping at the thighs of his worn jeans before he spins and leaves the way we came. That same bulky black horse that stared me down yesterday morning is waiting beside the truck now, an unfamiliar man sitting on its back this time around.

The man jumps down when he spies Wade coming and extends him the reins. I turn away after Wade swings himself onto the horse’s back and extends a hand for the other guy, helping him back up.

Sunrise begins to peek along the horizon as I watch the back of the tractor get further and further down the field, hours’ worth of work waiting for me. If any of my employees could see me as I stab the pitchfork into the centre of the first hay bale, I’d never hear the end of it.

That’s the thought that has me tearing into the hay with a ferocity that I know I’ll feel the lingering ache in my muscles from tomorrow morning.

6

GARRISON

My forearms burn, itching deep beneath my inflamed skin. I tear the gloves from my hands and shove them into the pocket of my dusty jeans before beginning to scratch at my arms.

“You good?” Johnny, a ranch hand with dark hair in need of a cut, asks from beside me.

It took two hours of digging through hay bales to find another human among the cows. He was twisting the wire fence with a pair of plyers when he looked up and saw me storming toward him, dirty pitchfork in hand. One up-and-down glance at my shit- and mud-covered running shoes had him howling a laugh loud enough to send the cows scattering.

He introduced himself as Johnny shortly after, seeming to piece together quickly that I was not in the mood for his laughter and judgment. It wasn’t until he saw the colour of my forearms and throat that he offered to help me back to the guest house.

Apparently, I’m allergic to fucking hay. And I’ve just spent the past two hours rubbing it all over my skin.

“Other than the fact I feel like I’ve rubbed acid on my skin? I’m fan-fucking-tastic.” I seethe, keeping my pace quick through the pasture.

“Did Wade have you out here tearing apart bales?” he asks, quickening his steps to keep up with me.

“Obviously.”

A strained exhale escapes him, and I whip my head over to see him puffing out his cheeks, lips rolled to keep in a laugh.

“What?” I snap.

“We don’t tear hay by hand. Haven’t for a long time now. The tractors shred it and spread it throughout in the pasture on their own. Wade was just hazing you. He does it to all of us when we start here,” he explains, the words still strained, wheezed.

I freeze, slowly turning my head so I can meet Johnny’s waiting stare. There’s no hint of a lie in it, just a whole lot of fucking amusement.

He takes in my expression and sucks in a breath. “And you didn’t want to hear that, right? Honestly, I shouldn’t have even told you yet. Usually, we let the newbies do this for a solid two days before telling them.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes?” he offers, hands sliding into his pockets.

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