Page 6 of Lassoed Love

It’d been a relentless day on the farm today—I am fucking knackered. I’d spent most of my day mowing all the fields closest to our property, which weren’t even half of the acres that cover our property. You’d need a whole week to properly mow that shit.

The sheep had been wrangled, with the help of Buddy, moving them with practised efficiency into their enclosed pen for the night.

The rest of the animals had been tended to with meticulous care—my silent companions in this rustic symphony. Honestly, they’re the lifeblood of this place, their well-being non-negotiable. Each stallion, mare, and sheep holds a special place in the rhythm ofthis farm.

As I walk towards our barn, I look to my right, to where my John Deere has been parked for the evening. Its hum has become a constant companion, echoing in my ears long after the engine is silenced. The satisfaction of a well-groomed property, however, is tempered by the persistent ache in my muscles. Fuck, I need a massageanda long bath.

This shit doesn’t get easier no matter how much experience you have, believe me. Exhaustion starts to settle in, but the day’s work is not yet complete. Trotting along behind me is my favourite girl, Duchess—my prized mare.

“Duchess, c’mon girl,” I call, a soft whistle escaping my lips. She ambles in, her movements slow and hesitant.She has been acting off for the past few days.The fatigue in her gait mirrors my own, and I can't shake the feeling that something's not right. Her usual enthusiasm for the nightly treat is replaced by a subdued reluctance.

“Easy, girl,” I murmur, guiding her into the stable with a gentle pat on her back.

The barn door creaks shut behind her, and a sense of foreboding settles over me. As I secure the latch, I can't help but wonder what's been bothering her. Horses, like people, have their moods, but Duchess’s recent demeanour is a cause for concern.

Reaching for an apple from the hessian bag hanging off the stable door, I offer it to her. She sniffs, but refuses to take a bite.

“C’mon, girl, you barely ate anything today,” I murmur, my brow furrowing.

She whinnies softly and shuffles back, avoiding the treat. Frustration wells up in me as I drop the apple back into the bag. Leaving the barn, I pull the door closed, my mind still on Duchess. Our farmhouse—a converted barn with thick stone walls and oak beams—looms ahead. A beacon of relaxation after a long day spent under the relentless Aussie sun.

As I walk up the cobblestone path towards the house, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. Trent Oldman’s name flickers on the screen as I pull it out—What the fuck?A blast from the past. Haven’t heard from the bloke in months… I raise an eyebrow, contemplating why he'd choose this ungodly hour to shoot me a message.

I unlock the message, my fingers moving across the screen.

the message simply reads.

Curiosity piqued, I find myself at a loss. This town’s not exactly a bustling metropolis—surprises are a rare commodity here.Well, this should be interesting.

I quickly type out a reply to Trent.

Seconds feel like hours as I wait for his response. When it finally comes, my pulse quickens.

My heart skips a beat. Isla Thompson. The nameechoes in my head, as my mind races with questions and emotions I thought I had long since locked away. What does this mean? Why is she back?

I remember back to high school, when I was infatuated—woah, relax, getting ahead of yourself there, Xav. Let’s say, moreinterestedin her. She’d had a distinct flair, never quite fitting the mould of Springbrook High School’s rep. Regrettably, I never got the chance to know her better, or to apologise for the way I, but mostly my mates, had treated her.

I had heard she’d left this town to study in the city, from a few friends back in the day, but since then, not a thought of her had crossed my mind. Now, one simple text has changed that.

I don’t bother to reply. I slip my phone back into my pocket, my mind consumed with thoughts of Isla Thompson and the curiosity of what she’s like now, after all these years.

This town just got a whole lot more interesting.

3

What Good Can Drinkin’ Do - Carolyn Wonderland

The morning sun pierces through my bedroom window, illuminating the aftermath of last night’s shenanigans at The Loose Lasso. Lying sprawled on my stomach, face down in my pillow, I slowly lift my head, groaning at the unwelcome brightness. Battling a hangover—a testament to one too many whiskey shots—I reluctantly open my eyes.

The room spins as I sit up abruptly, a wave of nausea threatening to stage a revolt. Stumbling towards the bathroom, I clutch my mouth, and with an unpleasant lurch, I find myself hunched over the toilet—regretting every decision that led to last night. Trying to recall how many drinks I had, after the three, no wait,maybe fourshots, I fail miserably. The only bits I can remember are Trent pissing me off, dancing with the girls, and then everything else is blank.

Each retch echoes in the small bathroom, a cacophony of remorse.Why did I let the girls talk me into drinking so much?As the waves of nausea subside, I flush the toilet, the gurgling water a half-hearted attempt to erase any evidence from the night before. Collapsing back against the cool tiles, I release a tired sigh, the throbbing headachedoing nothing to alleviate the situation.

Standing up slowly, I make my way to the basin, splashing cold water on my face, and brush my teeth to rid my mouth of the lingering taste of various alcohols. Snatching a makeup wipe from the cabinet underneath, I scrub my face vigorously of all the leftover makeup still clinging to my skin.

Tossing the used wipe into the bin, I return to my room to check the time on my phone. 9:43 am.

The realisation hits me like a punch in the gut—I was supposed to be at the clinic by 8:30 am. “Fuck,” I curse, leaping towards my tallboy, frantically rummaging through the drawers for my work clothes.

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