Page 19 of Tame Me Daddy

Maya glanced at me, hesitation clear in her eyes. "What about Cherry? She's still learning."

Ryder dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. "She can manage here. Just the yearlings left to move. Simple enough."

My stomach tightened. The yearlings weren't the docile calves I'd been practicing with. They were larger, more unpredictable—adolescents in cattle terms.

"I don't know if—" I started.

"You'll be fine," Ryder cut me off. "Just move them from this pen to the one next door. Twenty yards, tops."

Maya gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You can do this," she said quietly. "Just remember what we practiced. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Before I could protest further, they were both walking away—Maya with hurried steps toward the north pasture, and Ryder toward the main barn. I was left alone with the yearlings, their bulky forms shifting restlessly in the adjacent pen.

I took a deep breath, remembering Grant's advice from my first day: "Half of handling cattle is believing you can." I straightened my shoulders and approached the gate. They were just bigger calves, I told myself. The same principles applied.

"I can do this," I whispered, fingers gripping the latch. "It's just moving them twenty yards to the next pen. Simple enough."

But as I swung the gate open and stepped inside, every yearling turned to stare at me with what felt like judgment in their dark eyes. My new boots suddenly felt heavy on my feet, and my confidence wavered like a candle flame in the wind.

Fake it till you make it, I told myself, gripping the rope in sweaty palms. Heat pressed down as I positioned myself behind the small herd, remembering how Maya had demonstrated herding techniques. Simple enough—just guide them through the gate twenty yards away. I took a deep breath and raised my arms to begin.

The yearlings shifted, their muscular bodies bunching and releasing as they sensed my presence. They were nothing like the calves—these were gangly yet powerful, unpredictable in their movements. I clapped my hands softly and stepped forward, attempting to project authority I didn't feel.

"Hup! Let's go," I called, mimicking Maya's tone. For a moment, it seemed to work. Two yearlings nearest the gate began to move in the right direction, their hooves kicking up small clouds of dust.

Then I saw him—a red-brown yearling with a white blaze down his face. He turned to look at me, and I swear there was defiance in his eyes. Instead of following the others, he lowered his head slightly and stared me down.

"No, no," I said, waving my arms. "That way." I pointed toward the gate.

The yearling snorted, then abruptly charged—not at me, but in the complete opposite direction. His sudden movement setoff a chain reaction. The other yearlings, startled by their companion's decisive action, scattered. Within seconds, my carefully planned herding attempt disintegrated into chaos.

"Stop!" I yelled, my voice rising in panic.

The animals ignored me, moving as a frightened, disorganized unit. They rushed toward the far side of the pen, where a section of fencing I hadn't noticed was showing signs of weakness—boards weathered and nails working loose from years of similar impacts.

I ran toward them, waving my arms frantically. "No! Back this way!"

The fence never stood a chance. The combined weight of three yearlings hitting it simultaneously tore the weakened boards from their posts. The gap they created became an escape route for the entire group, who flooded through it like water breaching a dam.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I watched them scatter across the open field beyond the pen. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not on my first solo task.

I scrambled through the broken fence, tearing my jeans on a splintered board but barely noticing the sting. The yearlings were spreading out, some trotting with purpose toward the distant tree line, others stopping to graze on the open grass as if they were on a leisurely afternoon stroll.

"Hey! Come back!" I shouted, running after the closest group. My new boots, still stiff and unbroken, rubbed painfully against my ankles as I ran. "Please come back!"

My voice cracked on the last word, slipping into a higher pitch that sounded childish even to my own ears. The yearlings flicked their ears but continued their determined march away from me.

I felt hot tears pricking at my eyes as I ran awkwardly across the uneven ground. My lungs burned with exertion and panic. This was a disaster—a complete and utter failure that I had no ideahow to fix. I could already imagine Ryder's disgusted expression, Maya's disappointment that her teaching had been wasted, and worst of all, Grant's stern disappointment. I'd been at the ranch for only three days, and I'd already proven myself incompetent.

One of the yearlings stopped to look back at me, and for a moment I thought I might have a chance to regain control. I approached slowly, arm outstretched, making soothing noises that came out more like whimpers.

"Good boy," I whispered. "Please stay still."

The yearling watched me curiously until I was just a few steps away. Then, as if deciding this game was boring, he tossed his head and trotted away to join his companions heading toward the creek.

"No, no, no!" I cried, my voice now unmistakably childish in its desperation. I stumbled after them, my coordination failing as stress took over. My foot caught in a depression in the ground, and I pitched forward, barely catching myself with my hands.

The impact jarred through my wrists and up my arms. I knelt there for a moment, dirty palms stinging, watching helplessly as the last of the yearlings disappeared into the tree line that bordered the creek.

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