Page 20 of Tame Me Daddy

By the time I reached the edge of the trees, all twelve yearlings had vanished among the trunks and underbrush. I could hear them though—the soft lowing of cattle, the crack of branches, the splash of water. Some had found the creek and were drinking contentedly. Others were grazing on the lush grass along the banks, seeming to enjoy their unexpected freedom.

I stood frozen, unsure what to do next. My hands trembled as I pushed sweat-dampened hair from my face. The rational part of my mind knew I should go back to the ranch house and get help, but shame kept me rooted to the spot. How could I face anyone after this? Ryder had given me one simple task, and I'd failed spectacularly.

Grant's voice echoed in my memory: "Half of handling cattle is believing you can." Well, I'd proven that the other half was actually knowing what you were doing—something I clearly didn't.

A sob escaped me, and I stumbled to a large rock at the edge of the trees. I sank down onto it, wrapping my arms around my knees and drawing them tight to my chest. The position was instinctive—making myself smaller, protective.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I whispered, rocking slightly.

I felt it happening but couldn't stop it—the slow slide into my little headspace, my mind's default coping mechanism when overwhelmed. My breathing changed, becoming more rapid and shallow. My thoughts simplified, focusing on immediate comfort rather than solutions. I wanted Hoppy. I wanted to hide under blankets. I wanted someone to tell me everything would be okay.

But I was alone on a rock in a strange place, surrounded by evidence of my failure, with no comfort in sight. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I continued to rock, a childish self-soothing motion I couldn't control.

"What am I going to do?" I whispered, my voice small and frightened.

For a wild, desperate moment, I considered running away. I could go back to the bunkhouse, grab my few possessions—Hoppy, my little tokens, my clothes—and disappear before anyone discovered what I'd done. But where would I go? And besides, running away felt like something a child would do, not an adult trying to build a life for herself.

The distant sound of hoofbeats broke through my spiral of panic. My head snapped up, eyes wide with fear. Someone was coming. I hastily wiped at my tears with dirt-smudged hands, probably making more of a mess of my face. I tried to compose myself, to push back the little girl who wanted to hide and cry, but it was too late.

The hoofbeats grew louder, then slowed as horse and rider emerged from the trees to my right. I didn't need to look up to know who it was—the commanding presence was unmistakable even from the corner of my eye.

Grant Warwick sat atop his chestnut quarter horse, taking in the scene with calm assessment—the scattered yearlings drinking and grazing by the creek, the broken fence visible in the distance, and me, small and defeated, perched on a rock with tear-stained cheeks and dirt-smudged clothes.

I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. My shame was a physical thing, heavy on my shoulders, burning in my chest. I stared at my boots instead—those new boots that had given me such confidence this morning, now scuffed and dusty from my futile chase.

"Cherry." His voice was neither angry nor gentle, just steady.

I managed a slight nod, still not looking up. What could I possibly say? Sorry seemed pathetically inadequate for the mess I'd created.

Grant dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud, and I flinched at the sound. He tied his horse to a nearby branch, movements efficient and purposeful. Then he walked toward me, each step measured and deliberate.

He stopped a few feet away, and I felt his eyes on me—taking in my huddled position, my red-rimmed eyes, my trembling hands. In that moment, I felt completely exposed. Not just as an incompetent ranch hand, but as something more vulnerable—the little girl I tried so hard to hide.

I raised my eyes slowly, terrified of what I might see in his face. Contempt? Anger? Disappointment? Whatever awaited me, I knew I deserved it all.

*

I sat rigid in the leather chair across from Grant's massive oak desk, my hands twisted into a sweaty knot in my lap. The clock on the wall ticked so loud it felt deliberate, marking each second of my humiliation with mechanical precision. After efficiently rounding up the yearlings—a task that had taken him barely ten minutes—Grant had told me to meet him at the main house. I'd changed my torn jeans and washed the dirt from my face, but no amount of scrubbing could clean away my failure.

The walk from the creek back to the ranch house had felt like a death march. Each step had been heavy with dread, my mind racing through the different ways Grant might fire me. Would he be kind about it? Angry? Would he call me incompetent to my face? I'd imagined every possibility except the one where I kept my job.

Grant's office was both intimidating and oddly comfortable. Large windows cast afternoon light across the hardwood floors, offering views of the sprawling ranch lands beyond. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with agricultural texts, western literature, and leather-bound journals that looked like they contained generations of ranch history. Family photographs in simple frames dotted the shelves—serious-faced men and women with Grant's same steady eyes and strong jaw. Ranch memorabilia hung on the remaining walls: antique tools, horseshoes, a pair of worn spurs that must have belonged to someone important.

I felt Grant's eyes on me like a physical weight. He sat behind his desk, hands folded in front of him, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. Not anger—at least not the hot, quick anger I'd expected. His face held something more measured, more thoughtful.

"Do you understand the seriousness of what happened today?" he asked finally, his voice calm but firm.

I nodded without looking up. The pattern of the wood grain on his desk suddenly seemed fascinating—safer than meeting his eyes.

"Yes, sir," I whispered. "I lost control of the yearlings. They could have been hurt or gotten lost."

The words sounded pathetic even to my own ears. Hurt or lost—I'd risked thousands of dollars worth of livestock because I couldn't admit I wasn't ready for the task.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Grant instructed.

My stomach clenched. Looking into his eyes meant facing the disappointment I knew I'd find there. It meant being vulnerable when all I wanted was to disappear. But I forced myself to raise my eyes to meet his.

Grant's gaze was steady and penetrating, like he could see right through my carefully constructed adult facade to the frightened little girl underneath. I battled the instinct to retreat into my little space—to let my eyes go wide and innocent, to make myself small, to seek comfort and protection rather than face consequences. It was a struggle I'd fought my entire adult life, but never had it been this difficult.

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