Page 3 of Curvy Girl and the Grumpy Cowboy

"Jackson," she says finally, and hearing my name in her voice again after all this time nearly buckles my knees.

She stands, brushing dirt from her hands onto her overalls. There's a wariness in her expression that was never there before. I put that there.

"I heard someone was fixing up the Miller place," I manage to say. "Didn't know it was you."

Sarah tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it aches. "Just moved back last month. The Equine Heart Center is my new project."

"You're back? In Cedar Falls? 100%? Not just visiting?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

"Looks that way." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I step fully out of the truck, closing the door behind me. "What about Seattle? Your job at the big hospital?"

"I did my time in the big city," she says with a small shrug. "Seven years building a pediatric equine therapy program from the ground up. Now I'm bringing what I learned back home."

Home. The word hangs in the air between us.

"It's a good spot for it," I say lamely, gesturing to the property.

She nods. "The barn needs work, but the indoor arena is solid. I've got four therapy horses arriving next week."

I look around at the scope of the project, impressed despite the awkwardness churning in my gut.

"You're doing this alone?"

"I have contractors," she says, then hesitates. "And Cole's been helping when his ankle allows."

Of course. Cole. My brother who conveniently forgot to mention she was back in town permanently.

"I should get back," I say, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here, looking at the life Sarah built without me. "Got a sick horse waiting for medicine."

She takes a step forward, concern immediately crossing her face. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Just a mild infection. Midnight—you remember her?"

"The black mare with the attitude problem?" A real smile now, small but genuine. "Hard to forget."

For a moment, we're on familiar ground again, and it's so easy to remember how good we were together before I ruined it.

"Well," I say, stepping back toward my truck, "good luck with all this. It's... It's good to see you, Sarah."

She doesn't say it back. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, studying me with those eyes that always saw too much.

"Actually, Jackson," she says, brushing her hands against her overalls again, "since you're here—I could use your help. The delivery guys left the water trough in the wrong spot. I need to move it before they pour the concrete pad tomorrow, but it's heavier than I expected."

The request is casual and practical, but we both know what it costs her to ask me for help.

"Sure," I say, trying to match her tone. "Let me just put these antibiotics in the cab."

I do so, and then follow her toward the barn, keeping a careful distance between us. The gravel crunches under our boots, punctuating the silence. I notice she still walks with that slight bounce in her step, like she's perpetually on the verge of breaking into a run.

Inside the barn, the air smells of fresh sawdust and new beginnings. The metal water trough sits awkwardly in the middle of what will eventually be an aisle between stalls.

"Needs to go against that wall," she says, pointing. "The plumbing's already roughed in."

We position ourselves on opposite ends.

"On three," I say, and our eyes meet briefly over the metal edge.

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