Page 66 of The Runaway and the Rugged
“I’m not clumsy.” She sounded offended. “I’m just slightly… uncoordinated.”
Uncoordinated.
I quietly scoffed, and not just at the casual term of clumsy she called herself, but at the fact she was holding the shovel all wrong. I thought about correcting her, but decided against it, just to see how “experienced” she was.
“See, watch, for the rest of the time we're working today, I won’t trip. I’ll be steady on my feet like a cat.” She shot me a devilish smile while lifting the shovel high and digging it into the bedding.
Amused, I leaned my side into the wall of the stall and observed her closely.
She sent me another wide, “I told you so” grin. “Told you I’m cut out for…” She went to lift the shovel, but her movements hesitated as she seemed to struggle to pick it up. Arms quivering, muscles straining, she ultimately dropped it back down on a gasp.
“Cut out for what, Outlaw?” I asked, when instantly her gaze went dark and collided with mine. Instead of responding, she took the moment to roll each one of her sleeves up to her elbows and with a deep, resounding breath, she attempted to lift it again. This time, I was surprised to see that she managed to hoist it off the ground. Was she wobblin’ all around with puffed-out cheeks? Hell yeah. But was she giving it her all and doin’ it? Fuck yeah.
She swung herself around until the top of her shovel was over the wheelbarrow and with the swift turn of her wrist, she dumped the waste inside.
If she were anyone else, it would have been comical. But fuck was I proud of her. For someone who never set foot on a ranch, let alone a horse stable, I was half expecting a scene out ofAmerica's Funniest Home Videos. Yeah, she might not be your typical ranch hand, certainly didn’t fit the stereotype, but she was trying and I had to give her credit for that.
“Good job, Outlaw,” I applauded, and although she didn’t seem too impressed with herself, I was.
Her face was a shade of bright red as she glanced in my direction, searching for any sign of dishonesty.
“I mean it,” I added truthfully. “Wouldn’t lie to you about that.”
It was barely noticeable, and if I weren’t watching her with the intensity of a hawk, I may have missed the way her eyes glimmered with pride. It was intoxicating, in a way that mademe want to keep her workin’ hard just so I could praise her again.
“Thanks,” she whispered as a ghost of a smile appeared on her mouth. “I guess we all have to start somewhere.”
She was right, we all do, but I had a strong feeling even if she couldn’t get the waste into the barrel I would have commended her anyway for trying. To see a smile, to make her feel worthy and reassure her that there was nothing wrong with who she was.
Because there wasn’t.
She may have been a city girl, with little to no experience gettin’ her hands dirty, who was essentially startin’ her life all over, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t toughen up and change for the better. I could see the determination in her movements as she went back to shoveling. She wasn’t quitting when things got tough and I could tell it was a battle to scoop the soiled mixture of straw and gravel.
And for the next hour, that’s what she did. No complaining, no stopping, no tripping over her own feet, she bit the damn bullet and cleaned the stall. Not much longer after, I joined in, and side by side we scooped up shit together.
What a sight.
We cleared the stall in record time, and with one last scoop, Emelia stumbled out of the stable and tiredly fell onto her ass.
“Holy…” She stopped to take a breath. “Shit.”
Barely breakin’ I sweat, I chuckled, following after her.
“One stall done, six more to go.” I came up beside where she sat, then without a second thought, took the spot next to her. Sitting out here was just about as bad as sittin’ in a stall, but I didn’t seem to care at that moment. Emelia didn’t care, but most likely due to the fact she had no clue manure could make its way out onto this floor too.
It was good for her. What she didn’t know wouldn't hurt her.
“You’re joking right?” She turned her head, and as if caught off guard that I had sat down beside her, she jumped back slightly like she’d seen a ghost.Fuck, I didn’t realize how close we were. I could make out everything. The way her braid was gradually coming undone, or how the edge of her shirt's collar was slipping loose, showing off a sliver of her damp, creamy skin.
She looked good after a little hard work. Flushed, sweaty, breathless. Wonder what she’d look like at the end of a long day. Fuckin’ irresistible, that’s what.
“Normally, no.” I laughed, pulling my gaze away from her tempting face and focusing on Charlie, Greta’s horse. “But I don’t want to overwork you just yet.”
A mixture between a sigh and a scoff filled the air.
“I’m sure I have it in me to do one more,” she offered, catching me off guard even more than she already had. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m some fragile woman who can’t handle a little hard work. I’m sure you don’t treat Beau or your brother the same way, do you?”
Griffin or Beau would be on their fourth stall by this time in the day, but that was because they’ve done it too many times to count. Emelia, on the other hand, had never even used a shovel, or so she claimed, and she wonders why I don’t treat her like the other ranch hands?
