Page 31 of Jack Raider

But no. I stood frozen, watching as a geyser of—look, there’s no polite way to say this—liquid regret sprayed out of that bull like someone turned on a manure firehose. The angle. The arc. It was like a crime scene. A verybrowncrime scene.

And of all the places in the universe for a chunk of flying cow shrapnel to land—it hitmy foot. Right across my boot.My favorite boots. The ones I hadjustpolished.

I stared at the mess, then looked up at Eloise, who was wiping tears of laughter from her face.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Jack, your face.”

“I think my soul just left my body.”

Tony was squealing, trying to keep hold of the hose like he was in a rodeo. The bull swayed, looking ten pounds lighter and incredibly smug.

“I’m burning these boots,” I muttered.

“No, no,” Eloise said, catching her breath. “We’ll frame them. Put them on the wall. ‘Here lies the boots that took one for the team.’”

“You owe me,” I said.

“I gaveyouthe safe spot.Youmoved.”

“I didn’t think your enema instructions needed a splash zone warning!”

Eloise doubled over again. “I need to call Mable. She’s going to die when she hears this.”

I hobbled over to the hose and tried to rinse off what looked like the ghost of tacos past. “Please don’t put this in the paper. Or the family group chat.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” she said, holding up her phone.

The bull let out a contented sigh, farted one last time for good measure, and sauntered off like he’d just dropped the weight of the world. Tony collapsed on a hay bale, looking like he’d aged ten years.

“I’ve fought terrorists with less explosive results,” I muttered.

Eloise slid her hand into mine, her palm warm, her grin wide. “See? Country life. It keeps you humble.”

“Yeah, well, next time you need someone to give a bull a spa day, I’m staying on the other side of the barn.”

She leaned up and kissed my cheek. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you in boots and poop.”

I groaned, but I was grinning. Damn her. Even covered in chaos, she made me feel like the luckiest man alive.

Just not the cleanest.

By the time we made it inside the house, I was fifty percent man, fifty percent fertilizer.

I left my boots on the porch like a soldier saying goodbye to fallen comrades and limped into the mudroom in my socks—socks that were now questionably biodegradable. Eloise followed, still giggling like she’d just won the lottery.

“You sure you don’t want to hose off outside?” she asked, arms crossed, eyebrows high.

“You planning to join me?”

She paused. “Tempting. But I don’t want the neighbors thinking I’m hosing down livestock.”

“Oh, very funny.” I peeled off my shirt, which somehow caught a splatter too. “I was the innocent bystander!”

“Innocent my butt. You stood in the poop zone. That’s a rookie mistake.”

“Next time I’m bringing a poncho.”

“Yousaythat like there’s going to be a next time.”

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