Forbidden Desires

The first time I saw him, I was on my knees in the back of a horse trailer, elbow-deep in afterbirth.

Not exactly the meet-cute you dream about when you're twelve and practicing your signature on the back of a Tiger Beat centerfold. But ranching doesn't care about your timeline. It cares about the mare who's been in labor for six hours, the foal who's coming out backward, and the fact that your father is somewhere in the south pasture with a broken tractor and no cell service.

So there I was. Shoulder-length gloves slick to the elbow. Sweat dripping off my nose into the straw. My boots had gone soft with something I didn't want to identify, and the mare, a chestnut quarter horse named Dandelion who'd kicked me twice in the thigh already, was finally, finally pushing in rhythm.

"Good girl," I said, my voice low and steady. "That's it. One more."

The foal slid free in a rush of fluid and relief. I caught it, barely. A filly, long-legged and wet-eyed, already trying to lift her head. I wiped her nose clean with my thumb and leaned back against the trailer wall, breathing hard.

That's when I heard the truck pull up.

Not my father's truck. His had a bad muffler and a dent in the driver's side door that made it whistle. This was something newer, quieter. A black F-250 with tinted windows and a chrome grille that caught the late afternoon sun like a mirror.

The door opened. A man stepped out.

I noticed his boots first. That's a ranch thing. You can tell a lot about a person by their boots. His were Ariats, dark brown, well-oiled but not scuffed at the toes. New enough to look expensive, worn enough to look like he actually used them. The rest of him matched. Faded Wranglers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms tanned and corded with muscle. Dark hair, cut short. A jaw that looked like it had been designed by someone who wanted to make a point.

He walked toward the trailer and stopped about ten feet away. His eyes moved from the mare to the foal to me, still on my knees, still covered in everything.

"You the vet?" he asked.

His voice was low. Not loud, not soft. Just there, like it had weight.

"No," I said. "I'm the daughter."

He nodded like that made sense. "Your dad around?"

"Tractor's broke. South pasture. He'll be back by dark."

He looked at the foal, then back at me. "You deliver that yourself?"

"Wasn't exactly a party. But yeah."

Something shifted in his expression. Not a smile, not quite. A softening around the eyes. "Name's Cole," he said. "I'm supposed to look at the fence line on the north ridge. Your dad hired me."

I stood up, peeled off the gloves, and wiped my hands on my jeans. It didn't help much. "Ridge fence is a mess. Half the posts are rotted. You'll need to replace about forty yards of wire."

"I know. I drove by."

"Then why'd you stop here?"

He tilted his head. "Saw the trailer. Figured something was wrong."

"Something was. It's not now."

He didn't move. Just stood there with his hands loose at his sides, looking at me like I was a problem he was trying to solve. I felt it in my chest, a tightness I hadn't asked for. The kind that comes when someone sees you in a moment you didn't plan to share.

"You want a beer?" I asked.

"I'm working."

"So am I."

He smiled then. A real one, slow and crooked, and it did something to my stomach that I didn't have time to examine. "Maybe after," he said. "You need help with the mare?"

"She's fine. Foal's fine. I'm going to clean up and check on them in an hour."

"Then I'll get started on the fence."

He turned and walked back to his truck. I watched him go. Not because I meant to. Because my body did it before my brain could catch up. The way his shoulders moved under his shirt. The way his jeans fit. The way he didn't look back.

I went inside, showered, changed into a clean T-shirt and shorts. My hair was still wet when I heard his truck pull up to the barn an hour later. I told myself I was going to check on Dandelion. That was true. But I also knew he'd be there.

He was. He'd backed the truck up to the fence line and was unloading posts from the bed. He'd taken off his shirt. It hung from a fence post like a flag. His back was broad, muscles shifting under skin that had seen sun and work. A scar ran from his left shoulder blade down toward his spine, pale against the tan.

I stopped at the barn door and watched. I didn't mean to. But the evening light was gold and the air smelled like hay and horse and something sharper, the cut-grass smell of a man who'd been working.

"You're staring," he said without turning around.

"I'm checking the fence."

"You're checking something."

I walked over. Picked up a post. It was heavy, but I lifted it anyway. "Where do you want this?"

He turned then. Looked at me. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the low light. He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me like he was deciding something.

"Second section from the left," he said finally. "You don't have to help."

"I know."

"But you're going to anyway."

"Looks like it."

We worked in silence for a while. The sun dropped behind the ridge. The air cooled. I held posts while he drove them into the ground, the slam of the sledgehammer echoing across the pasture. My arms ached. My palms were raw. I didn't care.

When we finished the first section, he stopped and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Your dad said you're leaving in the fall."

"College. Colorado State."

"Vet school?"

"Eventually."

He nodded. Drank from a water bottle. Offered it to me. I took it. Our fingers brushed. His were rough, calloused, warm. I felt it all the way up my arm.

"You're good with horses," he said.

"I've been doing it my whole life."

"That's not what I meant."

I looked at him. He looked back. The space between us felt smaller than it was. I could smell him now, sweat and soap and something underneath, something that made my pulse jump.

"I should check on the foal," I said.

"Yeah."

Neither of us moved.

"I'm here through September," he said. "Fence line, then the barn roof, then whatever your dad needs."

"That's a long time."

"It is."

I handed him back the water bottle. My hand shook, just a little. He noticed. I saw it in his eyes.

"Goodnight, Cole," I said.

"Goodnight."

I walked back to the house. Didn't look back. But I felt him watching me the whole way, and I knew, in that place you don't admit to anyone, that I'd be back at that fence line tomorrow.