Page 16 of Tame Me Daddy

I nodded, examining the toy. It was nothing special—just a mass-produced metal car, the kind you'd get in a dollar store. But something about it called to me. The way it had been abandoned, forgotten, left to be buried in mud. Yet here it was, still intact, waiting to be found.

"You gonna keep it?" Maya asked, something knowing in her eyes that made me wonder if I was being as subtle as I thought.

"Maybe," I said, trying to sound casual. "It seems like a waste to leave it here." Before I could second-guess myself, I slipped the toy car into my pocket. The small weight of it felt oddly comforting.

As we walked back toward the cattle pens, I was conscious of the toy car in my pocket, a small secret nestled against my hip. It was silly, this attachment to a forgotten child's toy, but it felt like a tiny act of self-acceptance—acknowledging the part of me that was drawn to such things, even if I couldn't fully embrace it yet.

"Thanks," I said suddenly.

Maya glanced at me, eyebrows raised. "For what?"

"For being nice. For not asking too many questions." I hesitated. "For making this place feel a little less foreign."

Maya bumped her shoulder against mine gently. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Friends. The word settled warmly in my chest.

*

The afternoon passed in a blur of more vaccinations, each one slightly less disastrous than the last. By late afternoon, I had developed a tentative confidence with the smaller calves, though the adult cattle still intimidated me with their massive bulk and indifferent eyes. When Ryder finally reassigned me to help stack hay bales in the main barn, I felt a pathetic rush of relief. At least hay wouldn't step on my feet or try to knock me over—though by hour two, as sweat plastered my shirt to my back and splinters worked their way under my skin despite the gloves, I wasn't so sure which job was worse.

The main barn was an enormous structure, weathered on the outside but immaculately maintained within. The hay needed stacking in the loft, which meant climbing a wooden ladder while trying not to sneeze from the dust and pollen that hung in the air like invisible confetti. The two ranch hands I'd been paired with—older men who introduced themselves simply as Pete and Jim—worked with machine-like efficiency, barely speaking except to direct me where to place each bale.

"Higher," Pete would grunt.

"Left corner needs more," Jim would add.

I found myself missing Maya's cheerful chatter, but there was something meditative about the repetitive physical labor. Lift, climb, stack, repeat. The work was straightforward compared to wrestling cattle, and I found an odd comfort in the simplicity of the task. The barn smelled of sweet hay, leather, and the earthy scent of animals—not unpleasant, just different and strange.

By the time Pete and Jim headed off for their next assignment, leaving me to finish the last stack alone, my arms trembled with exhaustion, but I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I'd survived my first day so far without any major disasters. Sure, I'd fallen on my ass so many times it felt like I’d had a spanking, but no one had fired me yet.

I was alone in the hayloft, arranging the last stack, when I heard voices below. Peering over the edge, I spotted Grant in conversation with an older ranch hand I recognized from dinner the previous night. The older man's face was deeply lined, his white hair thinning, but he carried himself with the straight-backed dignity of someone who'd spent a lifetime doing physical work with pride.

From my elevated position, I could observe without being seen, and something about Grant's stance—relaxed yet authoritative—held my attention. His hat was off, revealing dark hair slightly damp from sweat. He held a clipboard but wasn't looking at it, his focus entirely on the older man's words.

"The Anderson property is overpriced," Grant was saying, his deep voice resonating in the barn's acoustics. "They're asking thirty percent above market value because they know we want to expand the north pasture."

"What if we wait them out?" the older man suggested, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. "Winter's coming. They might be more motivated to sell after the first frost."

Grant considered this, running a hand through his dark hair. The gesture felt oddly vulnerable, at odds with his usual composed demeanor. It was like glimpsing a private side of him—the man beneath the boss.

"Maybe. I don't like playing hardball with neighbors, but business is business," he said. He tapped the clipboard with a pen, frowning slightly. "Their water rights are what we really need. That eastern creek access would save us a fortune on irrigation for the new fields."

Their conversation continued—something about property lines and county regulations that I only half followed. What captured my attention was Grant himself—the subtle shift in his body language when he moved from discussion to decision, the quiet authority in his voice when he settled on a course of action.

"We'll give them until October," he finally said. "Then I'll make another offer." The tone of his voice made it clear the matter was settled, at least for now.

There was something comforting about his certainty, his clear boundaries and expectations.

The men moved toward the barn door, their conversation fading. I sat back on my heels among the hay bales, processing what I had witnessed and my reaction to it. I was attracted to Grant—physically, yes, but it was more than that. It was the way he carried his authority like a second skin, never needing to raise his voice or make threats to be respected. It was dangerous, this pull toward his authority. Dangerous because it brushed too close to the part of myself I was desperate to suppress.

I finished stacking the hay, then climbed down from the loft, brushing straw from my clothes. As I reached the barn floor, I noticed something I had missed before—a small office built into the corner of the barn, its door ajar. A slice of late afternoon sun cut through the opening, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden beam.

Curious, I approached. I told myself I was just checking to see if anyone was there, if I should report that I'd finished the hay stacking. But the truth was simpler and more embarrassing—I wanted to know more about Grant Warwick, and this private space promised insights.

The office was neat but lived-in: a desk with organized paperwork, a worn leather chair with a jacket draped over the back, a bookshelf filled with volumes on ranch management and animal husbandry. A lamp with a green glass shade cast a warm glow over the workspace. It was clearly Grant's domain—everything about it spoke of practical efficiency with unexpected touches of comfort.

I hesitated in the doorway, knowing I shouldn't enter without invitation, but drawn in despite myself. The deskwas immaculate except for a few personal items: a framed photograph of an older couple I assumed were Grant's parents standing before a younger version of the ranch house, a polished stone paperweight streaked with blue and white minerals, and—oddly enough—a collection of wooden toy animals.

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