synopsis: you’d grown up on your fathers farm, prancing around in the open fields like you owned them. your town was small and everyone knew your father due to the fact a lot of the produce came from the farm. then there was you. the towns it girl. pretty smiles and polite laughs. getting around town and catching everyone’s eyes. but no one ever truly saw you. until a man named joel miller.
pae speaks ~ hi! just wanted to say that this series is inspired by the song ‘fuck me eyes’ by ethel cain. if you want to be on the tag list, let me know! enjoy <3
part 1 — get around — 4.5k | angst | age gap
living on a farm never gave you the full opportunity to be a normal girl. but your mother wouldn’t let that happen. you got around, being who everyone wanted you to be. the perfect girl living the perfect life. not that anyone cared how lonely you were. then, at a club you weren’t supposed to be at, you met him.
part 2 — along for the ride — 3.7k | angst | age gap
after trying and failing to escape from your fathers “perfect” household for a night, you were back to square one; be the girl everyone wanted you to be. now putting on fake smiles at his stand at the annual farmers market, you’d rather be anywhere else. even if that meant getting away with joel miller.
part 3 — take her out — 4.2k | angst | age gap
your hunger for attention (love) was starting to eat you alive. after the farmers market disaster, you never wanted to show your face in public again. but when joel shows you what it’s like to be taken care of, it should’ve been enough. if only you knew the difference between being taken out and taken home.
part 4 — feel good — 3.7k | angst | age gap
you just wanted to feel good again, even if it was only for a moment. it should’ve been easy just like all the times before but it wasn’t. not when all you wanted to do was run right back into the only arms that felt safe.
summary: Daisy, the most spoiled sheep in Texas, who also happens to be your daddy's undisputed favourite, chooses the worst possible time to give birth. And out of all the things in the world, she only seems to want to eat Joel Miller’s corn. With your mama sleeping soundly and your daddy out playing poker with Joel, you figure it’s safe to sneak into your neighbour's field to get some corn for Daisy…except Joel isn’t as absent as you thought.
warnings: no outbreak AU, rural setting, implied age gap, smut, fingering, spanking, clit rubbing, spitting, unprotected piv, public sex, getting your back blown out in a cornfield, mild profanity, mentions of alcohol and gambling, mentions of failed marriage/absent wife, domestic farm life, use of weapons, brief violence, societal pressure around marriage, nosy southern family behavior, livestock birth, reader wears a nightgown and has her hair braided (no other description of reader's appearance), no use of y/n.
word count: 6.2k
a/n: i don't know what demon possessed me but i wrote this in 3 days (don't tell my one month old drafts this). anyways, i hope y'all will like it!!
Pampered little shit, that's what Daisy is.
The most spoiled sheep in all of Texas, you can be sure of that. Refuses to eat the grass around the barn like every other animal. So you have to haul her four miles up a hill before she’ll even consider opening her mouth. And don't even think about giving her hay if you don't want a hoof hitting you square in the knee. You even have to sing her a song when you're crouched down trying to milk her. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, it's true. You've hummed so many Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash songs to Daisy that you can't stand to listen to their voices anymore whenever you go out to a dance in town.
And all of it is your daddy's doing.
If that man didn't treat Daisy like his own child you're sure she'd quit being such a snob.
Well, guess what? The prissy cotton ball got knocked up in March and your daddy's fussing over her like she's about to have his grand baby.
Can you believe that?
You can swear on your life that she only enjoyed that high pasture because the neighbour's ram was getting sweet on her.
Now it’s late July and she’s round as a barrel, waddling around the barn like a freaking duck. Her sides sway when she walks, her udder’s all tight and shiny, "bagging up," as your daddy keeps proudly announcing. She can’t seem to get comfortable, lies down, grunts, hauls herself back up with the kind of suffering sigh usually reserved for when your dad loses at poker to your neighbour.
You would almost feel pity for her. Almost. If she didn't turn into an aggressive little bitch.
You try to give her the grass by the barn because she's too pregnant to walk up the hill where her baby daddy's probably waiting? She snorts, stamps a hoof like she’s declaring war.
You offer the expensive hay your mama bought especially for her? Yeah, that hay that cost more than your truck payment. Same reaction, only louder, as if you personally insulted her.
You crouch to milk her, and she leans back on her haunches, hooves braced, glaring like she's preparing to kill you.
And maybe she is.
Sometimes she tries to shove you with her head. Not playful, definitely not gentle. Full-on "get out of my way" because she is pregnant and dramatic and convinced the world exists solely to serve her cravings. If she misses, she’ll stomp her front hooves, ears pinned, eyes wide, just to make the point. And when you think she's done? She bleats. High-pitched and commanding, the kind of bleat that could summon cows from the next ranch over if they weren’t too afraid of her.
Speaking of the next ranch, she seems to have developed a certain fondness for it. For what your darling neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing.
Corn.
Over the crooked fence line and across property you absolutely should not be crossing, stands a tall, golden field that might as well be calling her name.
And your daddy? The only craving of his sweet fluffy angel that he can't satisfy is this. Why? Because he doesn’t plant corn. Says it’s too much work, too much water, too much risk.
Joel apparently disagrees. Has about 150 acres of land dedicated to it.
You think you've had enough of her diva attitude and you're about to slaughter her with your bare hands? She suddenly becomes docile when the wind shifts just right and carries that sweet green smell from Joel’s fields.
She just stands there, calm as anything now, like she hasn’t been making your life hell all day. Nose lifted, ears twitching, breathing it in like it’s the finest thing she’s ever smelled.
You follow her gaze out toward the fence without meaning to.
Ripe. Golden.
Not yours.
You click your tongue and turn away.
"Don't even think about it, Daisy. That corn ain't ours."
Not that the fucking sheep understands a word you're saying, but you can swear that she rolled her eyes behind your back.
────୨ৎ────
You don’t think much of it after that. Just another one of Daisy’s moods. The Lord knows she’s had plenty.
Your daddy heads out not long after supper, already halfway into his boots while he’s still talking, hopping a little on one foot as he tries to shove the other on properly. He’s got that look on his face too, like he’s been thinking about this game all day.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him fumble around like he’s in a hurry for once in his life.
"Where’s your hat?" you ask.
He glances around, pats his head like it might magically be there, then spots it on the table and grabs it. "Right there, see? I knew where it was."
"Mmhm."
He jams it onto his head anyway, a little crooked, and only fixes it when he catches you looking.
"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
You let out a quiet snort.
He steps closer then, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of your hair back before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching just enough to be annoying.
"Don’t wait up," he says. "Game might run long."
You already know the drill. His poker games always drag well past midnight. Especially if there’s booze involved.
And there’s always booze involved.
You nod, half listening, your mind already drifting somewhere else entirely, running through the list of things you might have forgotten to do before coming inside. The chickens... the latch on the coop.. whether that one stubborn hen finally went in or decided to sleep out like she’s got a death wish.
Meh.
It’s been a while since you’ve had to chase a fox off with a rifle. Could be entertaining.
Your mama doesn’t even look up from her chair, too busy picking at something in her lap. "Don’t lose too much," she calls out, like she’s said it a hundred times before.
He laughs, already turning toward the door. "No promises if Joel’s there."
That gets your attention for half a second.
Of course he is.
When isn’t he?
You lean your shoulder a little harder into the frame, watching your daddy step out onto the porch, boots thudding against the wood. "Try not to bet anything we actually need this time," you call after him.
He waves you off without turning around. "That was one time."
"One time too many."
You still sometimes bring up the time your dad didn’t have enough cash and decided, like an idiot, to bet a few acres of land instead.
And lost. To Joel fucking Miller.
You remember that fight. Hard not to.
Your mama near tore the house down, your daddy swearing up and down he’d win it back next time.
He didn't.
Joel won it fair and square, as everyone kept saying.
The great Joel Miller. God of poker games to your dad. Asshole land thief to your mom. Keeper of Daisy’s latest obsession. And the fantasy of all the girls in town. Maybe even some of the married ladies too, if church gossip is to be believed.
Scandalous.
From what your aunts have told you when they visit, it seems that he's always been the center of attention for women. Even when he was married a long time ago. Even more so when his wife left him.
"You should’ve seen him back in high school, sugar. Prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on."
"If I hadn’t already been promised to your uncle Peter, I would’ve snatched him up myself."
"Mhm, that man’s always had women trailin’ after him."
"Still does. Don’t think he don’t notice neither."
"Speakin’ of that… when’re you gonna let someone put a ring on that finger, darlin’?"
"Lord, you might be the only unmarried gal left 'round here."
"Ain’t natural, a pretty thing like you, still runnin’ around with no husband."
"I know this real sweet boy over at my church. Works with his hands, good family, don’t drink much…"
"Don’t listen to her, that boy’s mama is a nightmare. But she’s right about one thing. You oughta settle down soon."
"You don't wanna end up like aunt Petunia."
Oh, yeah. Aunt Petunia. Jilted at the altar and never even looked at another man again.
Turned to religion instead. Properly turned, too. Church every Sunday, every Wednesday, and any other day her arthritis doesn't act up. Talks about sin and damnation every chance she gets.
The only unmarried woman in your family. And, naturally, the favorite subject of town gossip.
Somehow, every conversation with these women ends up circling right back to the same thing. A ring on your finger. Preferably sooner rather than later.
And how, at your very grown age, it’s practically a tragedy there isn’t one already.
The screen door creaks as you pull it shut behind you, and a second later the truck engine turns over, loud in the quiet of the evening. Headlights sweep across the yard, catching the fence line, the barn, the edge of the field before swinging away as he backs out.
You watch until the red of the taillights disappears down the road.
For a moment, it’s quiet again.
Just the hum of insects, the distant rustle of something in the grass, the kind of stillness that settles in once the day’s properly done.
You push off the doorframe with a small sigh, stretching your arms over your head until your back cracks.
"Well," you mutter to yourself, "there goes the evening."
Your mama shifts in her chair but still doesn’t look up, already halfway to falling asleep where she sits.
You glance between her and the dark window, then out toward where the barn sits just barely visible in the distance.
Everything seems fine.
No foxes, no whining from one particular sheep, no stray chickens running around the coop. Just peace and quiet.
You shrug it off and go to bed.
────୨ৎ────
If there truly is a hell where people burn at the stake, as your aunt Petunia so often reminds you, then you’re certain their screams sound better than whatever the woolly demon in your barn is making.
Somewhere between a dream and waking, something feels off. Too quiet, then not quiet enough. A sound that doesn’t belong, threading its way into your head until you can’t ignore it anymore.
You frown, shifting under the covers.
There it is again.
Your eyes snap open. You lie there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, listening.
"That fuckin' sheep's gonna be the death of me," you mutter, already pushing yourself up.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, barely awake, shoving your feet into your slippers while rubbing at your eyes. Your nightgown clings to your skin in the heat, an uncomfortable reminder that sleeping with the window open in the middle of summer was a mistake.
"Mama," you call as you step into the hallway, voice still thick with sleep.
No answer.
You head for your parents' room and push the door open. You're not sure how late it actually is, but your dad's side of the bed is empty.
Probably still out playing poker with Joel and God knows who else.
"Mama, wake up."
She groans, shifting under the covers but not opening her eyes. "What?"
"Daisy’s actin' up. She sounds-" you hesitate, listening for another noise from outside. "She sounds wrong."
"She’s fine," your mama mumbles, already turning onto her side. "They do that."
"I don’t think she’s fine."
You stare at her, waiting for her to sit up, to tell you what you're supposed to do.
She doesn’t.
Just pulls the covers higher and settles right back in like you didn’t just wake her up.
"You know daddy's gonna kill us if somethin' happens to Daisy-"
Snoring. She's fucking snoring.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. "Unbelievable."
Fine.
You turn on your heel and head for the door, trying to reach for your boots in the dark hallway.
The night air hits you warm and heavy as soon as you step outside, thick with dust that makes you cough. You don’t hesitate, heading straight for the barn, boots kicking up stray pebbles with every step.
Halfway there, you stop short, squinting into the dark.
"Shit."
You turn back toward the porch, grabbing the old flashlight hanging by the door, thumping it once against your palm until the beam flickers to life.
"Better not die on me now," you mutter, already heading back out.
Another strained sound reaches you before you even get the door open.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming," you mutter, pushing inside.
You hook the flashlight between your shoulder and cheek for a second, fumbling along the wall until your fingers find the old oil lamp.
"Hold on, hold on..."
It takes a second. Longer than it should. Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like.
The wick finally catches, flame flickering weak at first before steadying, casting a warm, uneven glow across the barn.
Shadows stretch and shift along the walls, softer than the harsh electric light but no less unsettling.
You grab the lamp, turning back toward her.
Daisy’s pacing.
Or trying to.
She takes a few stiff, uneven steps, then stops, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know where to put it. Her sides heave, and when she sees you, she lets out another one of those low, strained sounds that twists something in your chest.
Daisy tenses, and the flame trembles with the motion, throwing her shape into something uneven and sharp for a second before settling again.
"Alright," you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else. "Easy."
Your shadow moves when you do, stretching long across the straw, then snapping back in as you lean closer.
"Hey- hey, easy," you say, moving toward her slower this time, hands out.
"Yeah... yeah, that’s it. Calm down," you say quietly.
The barn feels too quiet otherwise.
Too still outside of her breathing, the soft rustle of straw, the occasional creak of wood shifting somewhere above.
Daisy sways again, a strained sound leaving her as she tries to settle. Her sides rise and fall too fast, breath uneven, and for once she doesn’t look at you like she’s about to take your knee out.
"Don't you dare bite me now, girl," you murmur, crouching down beside her.
She just looks tired.
As close as you were to turning her into lamb chops just a few hours ago, the sight does something unpleasant to your conscious.
"Okay," you say, more to yourself than her. "Okay, I’ve seen this. I know this."
You haven’t. Not really.
Not like this. Not alone.
You’ve helped once when your cousin gave birth, but you’re certain it’s a whole different thing when it’s a sheep.
You reach out anyway, resting a hand against her side, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles tighten under your palm. The lamplight flickers with the movement, soft and uneven, catching on your hands and the curve of her body.
"Easy," you murmur. "C’mon, girl."
She lets out another sound, sharper this time, and you wince. "Yeah, I know. I know."
You glance back toward the open barn door for a second, half expecting your mama to suddenly appear, maybe your daddy too, like this is something you don’t have to handle by yourself.
Nothing.
Just the dark yard and the sound of insects humming like nothing’s wrong.
"Great," you mutter. "Love that for me."
Daisy shifts again, and this time she goes down, legs folding under her awkwardly before she settles into the straw. She doesn’t stay still long, though, moving, adjusting, like she can’t get comfortable no matter what she does.
"Alright, alright," you say quickly, moving with her. "That’s fine. That’s… that’s normal, I think."
You drag a hand over your face, trying to remember anything your daddy ever said about this that you actually paid attention to.
You’ve never been one to love the countryside life, even though you were born into it. Always wanting more, always planning on leaving as soon as you could.
Maybe that’s why you pushed back every time your family tried to marry you off to some farmer.
Is it so wrong to want more? Is it so wrong that you don’t want to end up like the other women in your town?
They all seem to think so.
Another strained sound from Daisy pulls your focus right back.
You lean in a little, squinting. "Okay. Okay, I see it."
Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like talking softer might make it easier.
"Yeah, yeah, that’s it," you say quickly. "You’re fine. You’re fine."
You don’t know if she is.
But saying it feels necessary.
Time stretches after that.
You lose track of it somewhere between talking to her like she understands you and trying to keep your hands steady when things get messy.
It takes longer than you expect, longer than you’re comfortable with. You second guess yourself more than once, wondering if you should’ve dragged your mama out of bed anyway or waited for your daddy to get back home.
But somehow, you managed on your own.
────୨ৎ────
You didn't think the most evil creature in all of Texas was able to create such a delicate little thing.
Daisy shifts beside you, low and restless now that the worst of it is over. The lamb presses close to her side, unsteady but trying to stand on its legs.
You push yourself up slowly, joints stiff, brushing straw off your nightgown without really thinking about it. Your legs feel heavy when you stand, boots scraping through the hay as you move closer to the feed.
You scoop some up without thinking, more out of habit than hope, and hold it out toward her.
"Here," you say. "Eat something."
Of course she doesn't listen to you and won't eat anything you're offering. Not the grass, not the hay, won't even drink some water.
She might've just given birth but she's still a stubborn cunt.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. "So what, you gonna starve now?"
She looks past you instead. Towards the open barn door. You follow her gaze before you can stop yourself.
Out beyond the yard, past the shining creek and the fence line where dark fields stretch out under the night sky.
And there it is. Corn.
Joel's corn.
You close your eyes for a second.
"No," you say immediately.
Daisy shifts forward like she didn’t hear you, nudging the back of your leg with her head.
You open your eyes again. "Absolutely not."
Behind you, the lamb lets out a small sound, pressing closer to her side.
If she doesn't eat, then her baby doesn't eat.
Darn it.
────୨ৎ────
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Since when does a sheep tell you what to do?
Daddy would get angry if he found out that his precious baby gave birth and didn't have anything to eat.
Stupidest reasoning you've ever concocted.
But you've done worse than steal from your neighbor's cornfield. Much worse, if you're being honest. And with no reasoning at all, so does it really matter now?
You find a weak point faster than you should.
Of course you do.
One of the fence posts leans just enough, wire sagging where time and weather have already done half the work for you. You step closer, testing it with your hands first. The wood shifts slightly under your grip, old and tired.
You plant your boot on the lower wire, gripping the post with one hand while the other keeps the flashlight angled awkwardly between your fingers. The wood digs into your fingers as you haul yourself up, nightgown catching on the wire for a second before you yank it free.
"Ow, shit," you hiss quietly, not stopping.
You swing one leg over, then the other, balancing there for a breathless second at the top.
Then you lower yourself down on the other side, boots hitting the ground with a soft, uneven thud. Your knees bend to take the weight, and the flashlight jerks hard in your hand, beam skittering across the rows of corn before you steady it again.
Your boots sink slightly into the softer ground beyond the yard, grass brushing your legs as you move faster than you probably should. The flashlight beam cuts a narrow path ahead of you, bouncing with every step, catching on fence posts and patches of uneven earth.
The corn moves slightly in the night wind, tall and dark around you, swallowing the edges of the light.
One step in and the world changes. The fence is gone behind you, the barn somewhere farther than it should feel, and all that’s left is rows of tall stalks shifting softly in the wind.
You lift the flashlight, sweeping it ahead.
Light catches on leaves, gold-green and sharp at the edges, throwing shadows that move when you move. It feels like the field is watching you back, which is ridiculous, but so is everything else about tonight.
The stalks brush your arms as you push through them, dry leaves scratching at your skin, whispering every time you pass. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud, so you focus on the light instead.
You shift the flashlight, biting down on it so it rests between your teeth, freeing your hands. The beam tilts upwards now, illuminating more sky than ground, but it is enough. Just enough to see where your fingers are going.
"There," you mumble around it.
You reach out, grabbing one of the stalks.
It is thicker than you expect, rough under your palm. You pull a few ears free, stuffing them quickly into the crook of your arm before moving to the next. The corn husks crinkle loudly in your hands, every sound feeling bigger out here than it should.
"This is ridiculous," you mutter again, voice muffled.
The flashlight slips slightly between your teeth as you speak, and you tighten your jaw to hold it steady. Somewhere behind you, the field shifts with the wind, corn bending and straightening like it is breathing.
You hear a crunch of boots through dry stalks that is not yours.
You freeze so fast your whole body locks up, flashlight still clenched between your teeth, corn pressed tight against your chest.
Then light cuts through the rows.
A second beam.
Please let it not be Joel, please let it not be Joel, please-
Well, of course it's Joel. It's his goddamn field, isn't it?
You shift slightly, like moving will somehow make you less visible, but the moment you do, the corn in your arms slips. One ear hits the ground. Then another. The whole bundle follows in a soft, humiliating cascade of thuds and rustling husks.
"Shit-" you whisper around the flashlight.
The second beam adjusts immediately.
Now it finds your face properly.
You blink against it, raising a hand to shield your eyes, corn scattered all around your boots like evidence you cannot undo.
When your vision finally adjusts to the light, you see that it's not only a flashlight pointed at your face, but a rifle too.
Could this night get any more shitty than it already is?
You take the flashlight out of your mouth slowly, like that might somehow make this less embarrassing, and swallow.
"What the fuck are you doin'? Get that thing outta my face."
The light doesn’t move.
"What am I doin'?" comes the reply, calm as anything. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night? I coulda shot ya."
What are you supposed to do? Thank him for not killing you?
You stare at him through your lashes, irritation rising quicker than any common sense you should have right now.
"Weren't you supposed to be out playing poker?"
A beat passes where neither of you really moves. The flashlight is still pointed at you, though it dips slightly now, enough that you can actually see him instead of just being blinded by it.
He looks down first, then past you, then at the ground like he is trying to understand what he is looking at. It takes him a second too long to say anything, which already makes this worse.
"Fuckin' thief," he says finally, like he is still processing it. Then his eyes come back to you. "What would your daddy say if he found out about what you're doin'?"
"He’s not gonna find out," you say quickly.
Joel lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he has already heard enough.
"The hell he is," he mutters.
Before you can react, he steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides. His free hand wraps around your arm, not rough but not giving you much of a choice either. Close like this you can see the rifle in his other hand clearly, a reminder that you should probably behave.
"Hey-" you start, pulling back instinctively.
"Come on," he says, already turning you with him. "You’re gonna tell him yourself what kinda thievin' kid he raised under his roof."
You stumble a step before catching your balance, forced into motion as he guides you back the way you came. The corn brushes against you again, louder now that you are not sneaking, the flashlight beam jerking in your hand as you try to keep up without tripping over uneven ground.
"The corn wasn't even for me, it was for Daisy-"
"Daisy?"
Yeah, playing the sheep card, that's totally gonna work.
"Yeah," you say, a little too defensive now, "My sheep."
He keeps walking, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let go of your arm.
"You broke into my field for a sheep," he says.
"I didn’t break in," you shoot back. "And she just gave birth, for your information."
Not that he cares.
You reach the edge of the field, the fence coming back into view, and he finally slows. His grip loosens just enough that you can pull away. You yank your arm free, taking a few steps back.
"Daddy ain't even home," you add. "Thought he was out playin' poker with you."
"I didn’t go tonight," he says.
You frown. "What?"
A little late to find out that he was home the entire time. Maybe if you knew from the start you wouldn't have snuck in his field.
You cross your arms anyway. "Well, he went. So he’s not here. Which means there’s no reason for you to be draggin’ me back like I’m five."
He looks at you for a second, then says, "You've always had such a mouth on you, sweetheart."
You don’t answer him right away. That alone makes it worse, because now it’s just quiet. Too quiet.
What if he does tell your dad that you snuck on his property and tried to steal from him?
Then you'd be fucked.
The thought sits heavy in your chest longer than you want it to. Not enough to scare you straight, but enough to make you stop talking for a second.
Wait, what the fuck is that?
A sound cuts through the corn behind you. Growling..?
The rustling comes harder now, closer, moving through the rows in a way that doesn’t sound like wind.
Something bursts through the edge of the corn a second later, low to the ground, fast enough that your brain doesn’t fully register it at first.
Then it does.
Fucking fox. Probably on its way to kill your chickens.
You step back too quickly, boots catching on uneven dirt and broken stalks. Your heel slips, your balance goes before you can fix it.
"Shit-"
It happens fast. One second you’re upright, the next you’re going down hard into the dirt and scattered corn. The flashlight flies from your grip, beam jerking across the ground, cutting through stalks before it drops out completely. The batteries must’ve come loose.
For a second, everything is just noise. Your own breathing, the rustle of the corn, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.
A shot is fired. The loud noise startles you even more than it did the fox who crawled under the fence and ran off.
You don’t move right away. You’re still half on your side in the dirt, one hand braced under you, the other feeling blindly for the flashlight.
You don’t even acknowledge Joel until his rifle lands on the dirt beside you, smoke still curling from the barrel. Not long after, his flashlight is thrown down too, the beam angled uselessly into the ground.
The light spills forward, cutting across the dirt and broken corn stalks, making it harder to see him properly when you turn your head. Just shape and shadow now. Close enough that you know he’s there.
You’re still on your hands and knees, trying to get your footing back, palms pressed into the dirt while you push yourself up a little at a time. The ground shifts slightly under you as you move, uneven and stubborn.
Then a thought flashes through your mind, an undeniably bad one.
If trespassing and stealing weren’t good enough reasons to get you reported to your father, you were about to give him something truly worth reporting.
You give him another look over your shoulder, even though you can't really see him you can tell he's kneeling or crouching behind you.
Perfect.
That was it. You snap your heel backward and upward, swinging your leg around in a pass meant to land squarely between Joel’s legs.
That's for scaring the shit out of you with that rifle of his.
Your aim isn't at its best in the pitch-black night, but what you lacked in precision you made up for in force, your foot drove in hard where you assumed his groin was.
From the way your heel drove into him and the sound that tore out of his throat, you figured you’d landed it well enough. But when you turned your head again, you saw his silhouette clutching his stomach.
A little lower next time, maybe.
You figure that this is a pretty good time to run away, so you try to sit upright and bolt straight for the fence.
But you don't get far. Something clamps around you ankle dragging you right back. You lose your balance mid trying to stand up and fall straight to your face.
What you don't expect is a sudden retaliatory strike.
You feel his hand gripping a fistful of your nightgown, hauling it up until you can feel a gentle breeze grazing the skin of your hips.
A sharp, abrupt slap lands against the curve of your ass. Your mouth drops open in shock. You barely have time to react before another hit snaps across your cheek.
"Fuckin' hell.. your daddy should've done this to ya a long time ago, sweetie," he muses through his teeth.
It's not the first time you're being told that you need a good ol' spanking. You never actually got one, so maybe that's why you're so shocked to feel Joel, out of all people, do it.
"Spoiled little thing, ain't ya..? Thinkin' everything should go your way.."
Sounds familiar?
Maybe you and Daisy aren't that different after all.
You let out a short, breathless laugh despite yourself, more annoyed than intimidated and lift your ass up in the air, wiggling your hips at him.
He lets out a low grunt and moves in closer, clearly unamused by your teasing. The air around you thickens with the soft scent of worn leather, dry hay, and fresh wood shavings, all layered with the salty tang of skin that’s spent the whole day beneath the sun.
Well, this is clearly one strange way to convince him not to tell your father what you've done tonight.
Your teeth clamp down so hard you almost bite clean through your lower lip, trying to hold back a reaction you can't quite control. The night around you feels even tighter somehow, the cornfield pressing in on all sides, the rustle of dry stalks shifting with every faint movement.
Then something shifts behind you and a new sensation cuts through everything. Warmth presses against you, sudden and intrusive, and you go completely still for a heartbeat, your thoughts stalling in the dark as a finger pushes your underwear to the side.
For a moment, you stay frozen, caught in the pitch-black field while the corn rustles around you and the silence stretches tight and uneasy.
He teases you lightly with the tips of his fingers, hovering at your entrance. A sharp, consuming need coils through you, tightening your thighs as you respond instinctively, your body betraying you and deepening the slick warmth that gathers against his hand.
Then, without much warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. The sensation pulls a sharp sound from you, your fingers burying into the dirt underneath you.
A mix of intensity and emotion overwhelms you, so strong it stings behind your eyes. You tremble as your body responds to him, sensitivity heightening everything he does. When he adds another finger, it’s slower this time and you gasp at the stretch and pressure, your breath catching as he works you carefully.
"Gonna hurt a little, baby," he murmurs behind you.
Your gaze is fixed forward, at the rifle laying on the ground next to you, at the flashlight that does absolutely nothing to help you see the man behind you. You almost extend an arm to grab it, but you stop yourself when Joel's hand leaves your cunt. You sigh at the loss, arching your back into him.
You hear the faint clink of his belt buckle, followed by the soft scrape of his zipper coming down. A moment later, there’s the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down.
His hands slide around your back, holding you close as he draws you in. His pelvis is flush against yours, what you assume is his cock heavy against your thigh.
A sudden rush of emotion and intensity floods through you, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose and unfocused, leaving your mind suspended.
You feel the cold press of his belt against the back of your leg, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your hips, squeezing the soft flesh in his rough palms.
The head of his cock grazes your swollen clit, going up to nudge itself at your entrance. Then something warm and sticky lands between your folds.
"Did you just fuckin' spit on me?"
His cock slaps against your moist folds with a squelching sound, making you clench around nothing.
"Language, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth.
You should recoil from his touch and tell him that spitting is fucking gross, but before you can protest further he smears it up your slit. He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise, vision blurring further into the dark as he slams into you.
There is an ache as he pushes in, a stinging sensation that dulls with the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you. Spreading you apart in his hands, he spits yet again, the glob of saliva landing at the base where he's buried to the hilt inside you.
"So fuckin’ tight, sweetie," he says. He reaches around to rub your puffy nub, a move that makes your entire body shiver.
Joel moves his other palm up your back, finding purchase in the braid resting on your back, tugging it until your back arches even more. He lets a low groan escape out of his throat while he rocks his hips back and forth.
For a moment he withdraws, gripping your hair even tighter, then he drives his cock to nestle inside your cunt again. The circles on your clit and harsh movements may as well set your whole body on fire.
You are filled to your limit, overwhelmed by heat and slick need, your body trembling as each sharp thrust draws another helpless sound from your throat. Already worn down, overstimulated, and desperate, you’re barely a second away from begging him to slow down.
A sharp slap echoes as your bodies meet, the sound punctuating the moment, and a muffled whimper slips past your clenched teeth as the sensation of your climax crests and pulls you under.
You let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching even as you instinctively pull away, caught between retreat and need. Your body wavers, unsure whether to escape the overwhelming sensation or press closer, chasing it instead.
Your fluttering walls push him over the edge. You feel him twitching inside you before he pulls out, his release spilling across the curve of your lower back.
The sound hits you both at the same time.
That low, familiar rumble of your daddy's truck engine rolling up the dirt road. You turn your head and there they are, behind Joel and the crooked fence, the headlights cutting across the yard like a warning.
You shove forward, scrambling out from under him, hands slipping in the dirt as you try to push yourself upright. Your nightgown is still bunched up, hair half pulled loose, breath uneven as you drag the fabric back down your legs, fingers clumsy, not working fast enough.
If Joel didn’t shoot you tonight, your daddy sure as hell will if he sees you like this.
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Joel Miller is back home running his family’s ranch, the work coming back to him easily even as the house fills with the memories of what happened thirty years ago.
He hires a young farm hand, expecting nothing more than help around the barn. Instead, he finds someone just as lost as he is.
|| MDNI 18+ angst, smut, intimacy, rancher!joel, cowboy!joel, retiredpornstar!joel, horsegirl!reader, western vibes, ranch life, grief, romance, lil bit of flirting, tommy miller cameo, BIG FEELINGS, confessions, drinking, no animal death, nurturing joel miller, estranged family, kissing! yay!, guilt and longing, reader is having a hard time and is a bit of a crybaby, this is an intense chapter please proceed with caution, happy ending!, using humor to deflect, like not great humor and bad jokes so dont come at me its not meant to be funny, pinv, he talks you thru it, insecure!reader, f!receiving oral, lil bit of dirty talk , missionary, riding, lotus for like a sec, lots of pet names this chapter ||
wc: 17k
Inspirations & References: Good Will Hunting (1997), Flicka (2006)
trigger warnings beneath the cut
***TW: pregnancy complications, graphic medical scene, detailed medical procedures, blood, birth, traumatic birth, bodily fluids, if you are squeamish this might not be the best for you, y'all are learnin more about horses than ya probs wanted to know, did you know I went to school for equine science? now ya know and you sure can tell in this chapter. mentions of miscarriage, abortion, traumatic birth and pregnancy!!!!!! if any of these are a sensitive topic for you please do not read***
What a fucking asshole.
Your face burned hot as you climbed the stairs two at a time, shoving the apartment door open harder than necessary and letting it slam behind you. Your hands were shaking, whether from adrenaline or humiliation you didn’t care to sort out— you went straight for the drawers, yanking it open and pulling out crap in uneven handfuls. You didn’t even fold anything. You everything into your backpack along with your anger.
What a dick.
Cornering you in the shed, knowing you'd be there. Was he watching you all this time? And then to breathe down your throat about taking care of you, about how you wouldn't talk to him.
You dragged your boots off and tossed them onto the floor, dirt flying over the hardwood and carpet. You took your laptop again, snapping it shut from where it had the half written email to your advisor— and shoved that in your bag too.
You didn't need this. This place. You'd only been here a week! A week! You could leave tonight and nothing would fall apart. He had Jesse and Tess to help out. The thought of her had your stomach piling into your throat, images of him and her together and moaning and sweaty. He could take care of this place himself.
Your hand paused at the zipper of your bag.
You were not responsible for this—for him.
If he wanted someone who didn’t tremble, who didn’t overthink, who didn’t get flustered by the weight of his history, he could go find it somewhere else. He had before. There were tapes to prove it. Women who knew what they were doing, who knew exactly what to say. Who didn't cower at his closeness.
Whatever.
You could get a ride with Jesse into town. He’d understand. Joel wouldn't ask questions with Jesse there. And you’d find something else, maybe a room over some cafe or bar downtown. Or maybe shared place with strangers. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than standing there feeling like some foolish little girl who didn’t know how to handle a man with a past.
But you knew one thing for sure—you wouldn't be leaving without giving him your piece of mind. He wanted you to talk? You'd talk. Fuck him. Fuck his dismissive tone and his cornering and his soft words.
He didn’t get to decide how this ended. He didn’t get to shut you down and send you away like you were a problem to be managed.
You left your backpack down at the last step outside as you marched outside, dirty converse smacking and sliding against the steps. The sky was deepening into purple as the last light bled out over the pasture, but you weren't looking at the open fields behind the barn. You weren't looking at the extra truck in the driveway. You were bee-lined for that stupid house.
You crossed the gravel in hard, uneven strides, stones kicking out beneath your soles, breath still hot in your chest, and you were halfway up the porch steps before a sound rented the air, cutting through your ire.
You froze, one hand hovering near the porch railing, the anger that had been propelling you forward snagging on something else entirely as voices inside rose loud enough to spill into the night around you, through the wooden walls of the house.
Joel's voice, definitely. But a second one you didn't recognize. Definitely not Jesse's. But another man, a similar twang to his cutting remarks you could half hear.
You looked back at the truck in the driveway, the one that didn't belong: a heavy black Ford 150, gleaming in the twilight, facing the house.
Joel had a visitor.
Joel
He'd been in a piss poor mood since the shed.
Truth was, it had probably started before that. Back in the truck with you. You had been so open with him, so honest in a way he wasn’t used to, looking at him like you saw straight through the parts he kept buttoned up. You’d spoken about him like he was just a man who did what he had to for his daughter. A man who had lost something and was still standing. He hadn’t known what to do with that. He didn’t deserve your soft voice or the way your eyes had filled up over something that had nothing to do with you. He didn’t deserve your empathy. You were just a girl—a woman working on his farm. Still, younger. Brighter and untouched by the kind of years he’d stacked up.
He never meant for it to become this.
But then you’d kissed him.
It had been quick and hesitant and yet real enough to knock the air from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to think straight since. He’d replayed it over and over in his head, confused by it. It had been wet with the salt of tears, a soft press of lips, your hand on his chest just to steady yourself. His replays of the incident weren't always PG either, and he had to take many cold showers to keep himself from any temptations involving his hand. That kiss had lit something up in him that he’d worked hard to keep dim. Want. Heat. The kind of need that didn’t fit cleanly into boss and employee, into right and wrong.
He’d spent too much of the next few days inside the house, which had been a mistake. The place still carried his father's voice— in the leather recliner, in the creak of the stairs, in the silence of the closed door that led to master bedroom he refused to sleep in. He stayed in his childhood room instead, posters down, trophies boxed, like he could keep the past contained.
It didn’t matter what you thought of him. That’s what he told himself. You’d only been here a week. You were temporary. Another worker passing through on your way to something better. And yet he found himself listening for your footsteps above the barn at night when he sat in Paloma's stall, just watching her. He liked keeping track of where you were during the day and wanted to ask questions about your life he had no business asking. Instead, he gave you the space you clearly wanted so badly.
And then he'd noticed you, just the other day after giving dewormer to the pasture horses, too much on his mind but he'd stopped short to watch you. You had come from the shed, moving too quick to be anything but guilty, looking over your shoulder but somehow not noticing him coming.
He watched you disappear up the barn steps quickly only to come down shortly after. Riley stored all kinds of things in the shed. Joel kept it organized too. But he knew…he knew that you knew what was in there. You'd had a full blown conversation about it, and you'd seemed so freaked out to even speak of it he hadn't expected…but if you were watching more of them…Well, that could only mean…
By the third time he caught you going in and out of the little yellow shed, he had to make a plan.
The idea of you still taking the time to watch his old films upstairs in the dark had his gut coiling tight, but not with anxiety anymore. Well, there was some of that. The wriggling bewilderment of wondering what you thought, if you'd judged the way the scripts were written to make him talk to women like that.
So, he made a plan to confront you. This was a matter of respect and boundaries, after all. You were watching him at his most vulnerable—naked and sweating, even if most of the scenes seemed more exciting than they really were.
He knew it was childish, waiting out for you that night. But there was no other way. So he'd confronted you, a whole script of what he wanted to say— a breach of privacy, that it was unbecoming of you, but…
He'd felt his temper wane the moment he'd seen you step inside the orange light of the shed. All thoughts of reprimands gone. He wanted to be controlled and firm, but the way you were trembling and nervous, like a rabbit caught in a wolf's den, he couldn't do it.
And then, even more foolishly, he'd nearly kissed you then and there. He'd seen every sign that you'd want it—dilated pupils, quickening breath. Your pulse beat so loud against the tips of his fingers as he traced your soft skin.
But you wouldn't say the word. So he stopped.
And now, on top of the awful days and piss poor mood, he had something else to make it even worse.
Tommy fucking Miller.
Dinner was nothing but forks and knives scraping plates, chewing, the low clink of glass. Conversation never rose above the surface.
How's Sarah?
Good. How's work?
Good.
That was about it, past the muttered compliment from his little brother about the steak. But Joel knew something was coming before Tommy even leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs, one hand settling on his knee as if bracing himself.
“Can’t believe you’re back here after all this time,” Tommy said once the beer bottles were empty and the dishes sat finished clean.
"Yeah," Joel grunted, sipping the last dregs of his bottle. "Me neither."
Tommy huffed out a laugh that didn’t carry any humor. “Always figured you’d die before you stepped foot back in this house.”
Joel’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t have much choice.”
“There's always a choice.”
Joel looked slowly up at him, his brow heavy over his gaze.
“I’m just sayin’,” Tommy shrugged, but his shoulders were tight. “You left soon as you could. Didn't seem like you were eager to get back here.”
“You seem to remember that night differently than I do, little brother.” Joel’s voice stayed even, but something underneath it sharpened. “Oughta' get yer head checked.”
Tommy shifted in his seat. “All I remember is I had a one way ticket outta here with a scholarship to Texas A&M that I had to let go of to be here with Pops.”
"I tried, Tommy." Joel squeezed his eyes shut, "You know I did."
Tommy choked out a laugh, "Yeah, county fair every year really counts as tryin' in your book, huh—?"
"Jesus, boy— why are you even here?" Joel cut off.
He and his brother glared at one another across the room, the question heavy between them on the hard wood lacquered table. Joel wish he'd get to the point, why he'd even come all this way. It couldn't have been this, to berate him, to make him feel more guilty than he already did. Could it?
"You remind me of him, ya know," Tommy finally said.
Joel stood up, his chair screeching the hardwood beneath his boots. "I know you didn't just say that shit to me."
Tommy didn't back down, both of their tempers rising to each other's bait. "Look at you— startin' to raise your voice about things that don't matter, tryna keep this place afloat when you know it's gonna run you into the ground just like it did to him. To me. Abandonin' yer family up north."
Joel rounded the table fast enough that the sound of his boots bounced off the walls, his fist coming down beside the plates hard enough to rattle them. His finger jabbed in the air towards Tommy's face before he could stop himself. He knew it wasn't right, it wasn't fair. They were both carrying versions of the same man in different ways, answering to a voice that wasn't alive anymore. That kind of thing should've pulled them closer, should've made it easier to understand each other. And yet—
"I came back here because I wanted to make somethin' right of it. And you—you got your wish, Tommy. Nice little wife and kid up in cozy Austin. All you had to do was be here two more years. And then you got to get away and have a god damn life. But I came back cause it was the right thing to do. Don't act like it's so easy. Like it's fuckin' rainbows and sunshine here."
"All our life all you wanted was to take over the farm, his legacy." Tommy growled back, looking into his brother's eyes. "You suddenly have a change of heart?"
"Yeah. Thirty fuckin' years ago, I did." Joel scoffed with a snarl. "You sure gotta' funny way of showin' up here outta the blue just to rile me up. But you know what I think, Tommy?"
"Oh, this oughta be good," Tommy rolled his eyes, shifting his feet in annoyance.
"I think—"
But then both of them stopped.
The second porch stair gave its familiar creak. It was never a loud sound, even after the first and second time it broke, but it was like a warning bell of their childhood. They would have about five seconds before the door would open and the presence of their father would change the entire mood of the house.
Both of their heads snapped at break neck speed toward the front door. The fight still hummed between them, but something had replaced it. Something older and wired into their very bones.
Joel let out a rough breath and straightened. “Probably Jesse needin’ to get home.”
Opening it, he was surprised to find you standing there.
"Hi." you said softly, wringing your hands together.
Joel glanced back at Tommy and then stepped aside without a word, giving you room to enter. You moved in carefully, eyes flicking around the room before landing on the other Miller at the table.
“This is my new barn help,” Joel said, voice even but tight. “This here’s Tommy.”
He didn’t look at either of you. He had to get his temper in line first, squash the fight of adrenaline in his bloodstream before he could be hospitable. His hand came up to scratch through his beard roughly and a bit distracted. He caught the way your eyes followed the movement before glancing back at his guest.
You plastered on a polite smile and reached out when Tommy stood, and he took your hand with easy warmth.
"Howdy, darlin', pleasure to meet ya." Tommy said, "you must be the one givin' my brother all this hard time."
You blanched, and Joel had to clamp his jaw to keep from snapping at him. Tommy had always had that way about him, that easy grin and teasing lilt that made women lean in without thinking. He could turn it on without effort. But it had been too tense between you and him these past few days, and you took his brother's poking as interrogation.
“I’m only teasin’ ya, sweetheart,” Tommy chuckled, giving your hand an extra shake before letting go. “He must be really messin’ with ya to make your face turn that shade.”
“Sorry,” you said with a small, nervous laugh, your shoulders lowering a fraction. “I'm so used to talking to the horses now, hardly get a word in with this one," you joked, shoving your thumb over your shoulder before glancing back with a smile on your face, "What are you guys up to?”
Joel nearly smiled back. It almost felt normal between you two with just that one teasing remark. Like it did in the beginning—could it have been only last week when you were teasing him like that at the fenceline?
"Bout to have some dessert, I believe." Tommy smiled like a cheshire at his brother.
Joel grunted and headed for the kitchen. He could hear the low murmur of your voices behind him, the soft giggle that slipped out of you at something Tommy said, and it made him feel like he was a teenager again. Left out while his brother flirted with any of the girls that came to ride their new prospects.
Joel took the cheesecake from the fridge that he was saving for you—for whenever you decided it was safe again to have dinner here—and began cutting a few slices. He set one down in front of you without comment, slid another across to Tommy, who caught the plate mid-slide across the wood table, licking frosting from his thumb like he hadn’t just been ready to swing a fist ten minutes ago.
“Wine, darlin’?” Tommy asked.
"Oh, um, sure. Yeah."
Joel moved around the table, grabbing the opened bottle that waited corked at the mahogany hutch in the corner. and poured you a glass without asking how much.
He told himself to let it go. Told himself this was better, this was normal. You walking into the middle of it had kept either of them from doing something stupid. But as he watched you lean toward Tommy, answering him easily, smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled at Joel in days, the temper he’d tried so hard to bury didn’t fade.
Over the next hour or so, Tommy settled into his rickety wooden chair like he'd never left it. All the years between Austin and this dining room were nothing more than a long weekend away. He talked easily to you, one story about that damn dog that threw him into the second step easily slipped into another about Joel falling off his colt the first time he tried to ride him. His brother had one elbow hooked over the back of the chair, boot kicked out under the table, his hand around another bottle of beer as he spoke.
"He swore up and down he could do it," Tommy said, grinning at you, "Wouldn't listen to nobody— not even a second in, Fender was throwin' 'em in the mud."
Joel rolled his eyes and took a slow drink of wine. “You forget to mention I was twelve.”
"Old enough to know a colt ain't gonna take kindly to someone on its back right away," Tommy shot back, a smug grin pulling a dimple in his chin as he sipped his beer.
You laughed, and it wasn’t forced this time. It rang sweet and warm through the kitchen, and Joel felt it in his chest before he could stop himself. But you weren’t just watching Tommy. Every time he exaggerated a detail, every time he puffed his voice up to make Joel sound smaller or meaner or dumber than he’d ever been, your eyes flicked back to him like you were checking the record, studying him. Measuring what was true.
Tommy didn’t seem to notice. He kept talking, filling the house with himself the way he always had, taking up space without asking for it. Even sitting down he felt taller, louder, the center of gravity in any room he walked into. He asked you questions about the farm, about how you were liking it here, about whether his brother was workin’ you too hard.
“You can tell me,” Tommy said lightly, tipping his glass toward you. “I’ll knock some sense into him.”
Joel felt his jaw tighten again, waiting for the answer.
You smiled into your wine before looking up. “I'd say he's been more than fair.”
Tommy hummed, skeptical. “That so?”
You nodded, then glanced at Joel again, something quieter passing between you that Tommy wasn’t privy to. “He's good at taking care of everyone.”
Joel looked down at the wooden grain of the table, suddenly aware of the way his shoulders had eased without him meaning to. He hadn’t realized he’d been braced.
Tommy leaned forward on his forearms. “So you plannin’ on stickin’ around, or you just passin’ through?”
It was casual, but Joel heard the weight of it. He didn’t look at you this time. He kept his eyes on the table, fingers curling loosely around his glass.
“I don’t know yet,” you said after a pause. “Still figurin’ it out.”
Tommy studied you for a second, then smirked. “Well, if you stay, you’ll have to get used to him broodin’ around like he’s got the weight of Texas on his back. He’s been like that since he was eight.”
Joel scoffed. “You ain’t exactly sunshine, Tommy.”
“Yeah, but at least I'm charmin' about it.”
You laughed again, and this time when Joel looked up, you were already looking at him. Not at Tommy. At him. Your mouth curved just slightly like you were in on something private, like you understood more than the story being told.
By the time the wine bottle was finished off and Tommy had picked at some more snacks to sober himself up for the ride home, his brother was rising from the table with a heavy sigh.
“I should get goin’. Wanna make it back before Maria heads into work in the mornin’.”
You rose too, brushing your hands down your jeans before offering one to him. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“You too, sweetheart.” Tommy took your hand easily, giving it a warm squeeze. Joel watched the exchange closely, reminding himself it was only manners. Only friendliness. “And if he ever tells you about the time somebody tried to drink Mary’s milk while she was foalin’,” Tommy added, pointing a finger at Joel, “That was him.”
You barked a laugh, head tipping back, and Tommy looked up at his brother, the live wire that hummed hours ago simmered down to an old rusted current.
Joel stepped forward and took Tommy’s hand, gripping it hard before pulling him in just enough to clap a hand against his shoulder. “Drive safe. Tell Benji I said hi.”
"You know I will—kid asks about you all the time. And… about what I said earlier—"
"S'okay, Tommy," Joel shook his head.
Tommy paused, searching his face, then nodded with one more clap to his brother's shoulder, and grabbed his keys off the counter. The screen door slapped shut behind him as he crossed the porch, boots thudding down the steps. He stopped beside his truck and leaned over the open driver’s door, looking back toward the house.
“Don’t let him scare you off,” he called to you with a crooked smile, then glanced at Joel, something serious settling in his expression. “And don’t be a stranger. Spent too long like that. I’d appreciate havin’ my brother back.”
Joel lifted a hand in half a wave, nodding. “Get home safe.”
Tommy hauled himself into the cab, turning over the engine loudly in the dark, headlights sweeping across the yard before the truck rolled down the drive and disappeared past the fence line.
Joel stood there a moment longer than necessary before turning back toward you. You’d come up behind him in the doorway, hands tucked into your back pockets, a quiet breath leaving you.
“So that’s Tommy Miller,” you said.
Joel gave a short nod.
“He’s kind of a cocky son of a bitch, huh?”
Joel unfolded his arms from his chest, a breathless bark of laughter surprising him from his own throat. "That he is." he said, smiling crookedly down at you.
For the first time in days, things felt a little lighter between the two of you. He hoped he could keep it that way.
You were smiling up at him, then glancing out toward the pasture, the driveway, the house, and back to him again. He watched the way your thoughts moved across your face. He wished, so badly, that you would just say whatever was sitting there.
"Joel… " you began, "I think we need to talk—"
"Joel!"
A voice, sharp and insistent and terrified, came from the barn door that was sliding open, wood against wood and metal track. Both of your head snapped toward it.
Jesse was running across the driveway, but Joel didn’t wait for him to reach the porch. He was moving down the steps, pulse climbing, you right behind him.
"What is it?"
"It's Paloma. She's gone into labor."
Joel was already striding toward the barn before Jesse finished the sentence, long steps eating up the gravel between the house and the wide barn doors. He heard the scrape of you and Jesse's boots behind him, nearly jogging to keep pace as he moved past the first row of stalls without so much as glancing inside them, heading straight for her.
He slowed only once he reached Paloma’s door. He stood there a second, watching. She was pawing at the matting, her bedding shoved into uneven piles where she'd kicked it around. Her tail lifted and dropped, a low bullish breath forced from her nose as her body tightened.
“Hey, girl,” he murmured as he stepped carefully inside.
His hands moved over her neck automatically, down the length of her shoulder, along her side. He pressed his palm into the curve of her belly and felt the tightening there, the way her muscles drew hard beneath the skin and then softened again. He walked behind her, checked beneath her tail, watched her for a long moment. Only when he was satisfied did he straighten and move with purpose. His fingers reached for her pale blonde tail, braiding it quickly, his hands working through the strands before taping it tight so it wouldn’t interfere later.
When he stepped back into the aisle, his brain was counting down the hours.
“She’s got some time yet,” he said. “This is only the first stage. Jesse, let me take you home." and then he turned to you, "Call Tess. Stay here, watch her.”
"Me?" you gaped.
He didn’t feel like he had the luxury of indulging that uncertainty, not with the clock already ticking in his head. “Yes, you,” he answered, not unkind but he knew there was a firmness to his tone. “Call me if anything changes. Get her hay out of the stall. Water bucket too.”
You shook your head, and he saw the fear rising under your skin.
"But—but I have no clue—what if something goes wrong? You're gonna be almost an hour away!" you exclaimed.
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight, and stepped closer so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
“If she starts rollin’, you keep her from casting herself. If you see red instead of clear when her water breaks, you call Tess right away.”
The word red seemed to have stricken you.
“And if she starts pushing?”
“Then you stay out of her way. Let her lie down. Don’t crowd her.” He leaned his head down to catch your eyes before they started spiraling. “You’ve been watching her all week. You know her.”
“I don’t want to be alone if something—”
You cut yourself off, swallowing around something in your throat as you looked away from him into her stall again.
Joel heard it anyway.
“You won’t be,” he said, steady, his hands falling to your shoulders. His hands nearly swallowed the caps of them, his touch felt too rough, too big for something like this. "Listen, look at me, hun." you finally did, "Call Tess and get her here. I’ll be back. Everythin's gonna be fine. She's just nervous because its her first go of it. You gotta stay calm for her, keep your voice steady. I will be back.”
Paloma groaned again, tail lifting, muscles trembling along her flank.
Your eyes searched his face, big and scared and unsure. But he watched as your brows knitted, a look of determination washing it all away.
“Okay.”
He held your gaze another second, searching your face for something—what, he wasn't sure. What the hell were you going to talk to him about tonight? He needed to push that thought away for now, tuck it somewhere behind in his mind. His eyes flickered around between yours, then lower. He had to drop his hands from your shoulders, to refocus his head right now.
“Jesse. C’mon.”
At the barn door with his farm hand behind him, he paused and looked back down the aisle.
You were already turned toward Paloma again.
“Call me,” he said once more.
You nodded.
You
Outside the stall, you sat watching the pale yellow horse with your back pressed uncomfortably against the wood. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, your phone held to your ear as the dull ring echoed again and again.
Paloma shifted, heavy and restless, hooves scuffing where she had shoved most of her bedding aside and was now pawing at the rubber mat beneath. Her tail lifted and dropped every few seconds. You watched for something different, something that would tell you it had truly begun. She lowered herself slowly, rolled onto her side, then almost immediately struggled back to her feet, skin shivering over muscle beginning to dapple with sweat.
Your throat worked as you swallowed down the tightness there. You kept watching. Watching. Watching.
This was all normal. You thought it was, at least. Joel said she'd be restless, up and down, sweating. You'd even googled it quickly to make sure. But still, you were on edge.
You thought of your backpack still sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment. The way you had almost left and demanded a ride home. You had been ready to confront him, to finally say what had been building up. But then you’d overheard him arguing with his brother, the way they circled each other, saying almost what they meant but never fully. It had made you pause. It made you see how lonely Joel Miller really was. But none of that mattered right now.
Paloma let out a low, strained groan.
The ringing stopped.
"You've reached Tess Servopolous. Leave me a message and—"
You hung up.
Dialed again.
"Hey. Everything okay?"
You sagged with relief at the sound of a real voice on the line. “Yeah, I think so—I—I tried calling Tess but she’s not answering.”
"You called her personal?" Joel said on the other line.
You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”
He sighed, the engine in the background loud and impatient as it ate up the road.
“You drop off Jesse yet?” you asked.
“Yeah, I’m on my way back and—oh, hang on—Tess is callin’ me. I’ll call ya back, hun.”
“Okay,” you said, maybe a little too quietly.
The pet name hit you wrong and right at the same time. Your chin trembled, throat thickening before you could contain the tremble in your voice. You hung up and forced a deep breath into your lungs, gripping your phone between both hands as you watched Paloma.
She stood again, legs spread wider now, tail lifted and held.
And then you saw—
A bulge.
Your eyes widened as you looked closer—it looked as though maybe her water was finally breaking. You couldn't make out the color, what it looked like. You pushed yourself up onto your knees, squinting through the light of the stall.
But no, it wasn't clear. Not the pale, translucent sac you saw from googling photos of what to expect, it wasn't thin enough to see a hoof through.
It was dark.
A deep, violent red, glossy and thick, pressing outward with the next contraction.
Your stomach dropped so hard you felt dizzy.
“No,” you breathed.
Paloma strained, a guttural sound tearing out of her as the red membrane pushed farther out, stretched tight and misshapen.
Fuck.
You scrambled for your phone just as it buzzed in your grip.
“Hey,” Joel said, casually. “Tess is on with me. Her damn car broke down so I gotta get her—" he paused, "What’s goin on?”
You didn’t look away from Paloma. “It’s not clear.”
“What?”
“The placenta!” you said, your voice shaking now. “It’s not clear, Joel. It’s red. It’s—it’s dark red.”
“That a red bag?” Tess’s voice cut in, suddenly close, suddenly focused.
“I think so,” you said. “I don’t see feet. I don’t see anything, oh god.”
Joel cursed.
“Okay,” Tess said immediately. There was no softness to her voice. “Listen to me carefully.”
Paloma groaned again and dropped hard onto the stall floor. The red membrane protruded farther, thick and wrong against the pale of her coat.
“You don’t got time,” Tess continued. “That placenta’s already separated. The foal ain’t gonna get any oxygen soon if we wait any longer.”
Your vision tunneled.
“What do I do?”
“You need to open it. Right now.”
You stared at it, horrified. “Open it?”
“Get gloves on. You should be able to open it with just your hands. You’re gonna listen to everything I say, you hear me?” Then, sharper: “Joel, what’s your ETA?”
Joel's voice was strained, blending with the growl of his engine as you heard him slam the gas, "Ten minutes."
"Make it five," she demanded, "Kid, you still with me? Got your gloves?"
“Yes!” you squeaked, already running. You tore into the tack room, yanked a pair of rubber gloves from the box, shoved them on with shaking hands, nearly tripping as you rushed back.
You dropped the phone into the bedding and hit speaker.
“I’m here, girl,” you murmured to the horse, even though your pulse was roaring in your ears. You tried to even your breathing, to slow your heart. Your fingers brushed along her hindquarters first, slow, steady, letting her know you were there. “I’m here.”
You lowered yourself behind her.
The membrane pulsed with the next contraction, swollen and obscene and so very wrong.
You reached for it.
It was warm beneath your gloved fingers, thicker than you expected, resistant in a way that made your stomach twist. Paloma’s body clenched again and you froze, heart hammering so hard you thought you might black out.
“Do it between her contractions. You'll feel her tighten up.” Tess urged through the phone. “When she relaxes, tear it.”
Paloma exhaled, her body loosening slightly.
"Okay, I'm doing it now." you said. You dug your fingers into the wet sac, and pulled hard. It split open, wet and bloody, dark fluid spilling over your hands, your jeans, and into the bedding of the stall. It was hot and shocking, and you gasped, but didn't pull back.
"Okay, you're gonna need to reach in and tell me what you feel. You might have to really get in there, girl. Hope you're not squeamish."
You slid your hand in, past the knuckle, past the wrist, feeling nothing. Your forearm went in deeper, feeling resistance as her muscles trembled around you.
"I feel—"
Nothing, you felt nothing. Just scorching heat and her muscles contracting around you.
But then, there it was.
"I feel one! I feel a leg, I think!"
"How many?"
You lightly gripped your fingers around what felt like a long slender leg , "One—I feel one hoof."
There was silence except for the loud engine of Joel's truck.
"Tess—!?" Joel growled.
“Shit. Alright.” Tess said, quickly. “You’re gonna have to push the foal slightly back in and find the other. The baby might be stuck with its head bent the wrong way. You need to get in and move 'em around right so you have a head and two legs facing you. You listenin'?”
Paloma let out another strained cry and your free hand pressed hard against her leg, trying to soothe her.
“I hear you,” you said, even though your whole body was shaking.
You reached deeper. Your elbow disappeared into the mare, shoulder pressing into her hindquarters as you reached blindly around the small body inside, feeling for another leg, a head, anything.
Paloma convulsed around you again, pinching down around you, her muscles clenching so hard your arm was going numb.
You gasped, cheek against her flank as you tried to keep your footing in the blood-slick bedding beneath you.
"I can't—shit—" you gasped, "she's clamping down, Tess, I can't—"
"It's okay, she's probably goin' into shock. You gotta stay calm girl. Breathe."
Stay calm.
Meanwhile your jeans were soaked, your hands were slick and numb, the floor beneath you was turning dark and red, sticking to everything. There was more blood than you were ever expecting.
Paloma let out a sound you'd never heard from her before. It shocked your spine straight, your brain to whiten. It was as close to a scream you'd ever heard a horse make.
"Joel?" you said, you didn't even mean to.
"I'm here, baby." he answered instantly, but his voice sounded so far away, so distant.
"I think—I don't know—she's—she's stopped pushing, she's stopped—nothing—oh my god, Paloma? PALOMA?" you tried to shake her where your hand rested on her leg, pinching and pushing her to shake her out of her stupor.
“Kid, you need to get up and check her gums,” Tess said, "get your hand out and go check her now."
You pulled your arm free, scrambling forward around her, slipping, almost falling as you grabbed Paloma’s jaw and lifted her lip.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “They’re nearly white.”
“Alright,” Tess said, and she was trying to stay even, but you could hear it now. The edge. “She’s in shock. You don’t have time to wait for a contraction. You need to pull when I tell you.”
“I’m not— I don't think I can, I'm not strong enough,” you sobbed. It was humiliating and honest and you didn’t care. This could be a hundred pound foal you'd be yanking from the poor mare.
"You have to be." Tess snapped. "Pull yourself together and get back to her flank."
You could still hear Paloma's breathing, rapid and shallow, her sides fluttering instead of expanding. She was alive. You had to act fast.
But blood and fluid was pooling beneath her tail.
You shoved your arm back inside her, this time without hesitation, without delicacy, without thinking about what you were touching or how it felt.
You found the second leg.
"I'm in." you told Tess.
Your hand slipped.
You gripped harder.
“Okay,” Tess said, voice tight. “When I say pull, you pull with everything you’ve got. Down and back. That baby needs you, girl."
That baby needs you.
Your vision blurred.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, to Paloma, to the unseen foal, to Joel, to yourself. “I’m so sorry.”
"Pull!"
Joel
He hadn't turned the truck off when he saw Tess's car. He didn’t fully stop either, just jammed his foot into the brake long enough for her to wrench the passenger door open and climb in with her phone still pressed tight to her ear, already speaking to you in that firm tone that she used when there wasn’t room for panic even if it was clawing at her throat. The second her door slammed shut he was back on the gas, the engine never dipping, the truck lunging forward hard enough that dirt and gravel snapped against the undercarriage.
She barely looked at him as she kept the phone to her ear.
“I’m gonna hang up now., baby." he said over the groan of the engine, "Tess is with me. I’m here. I’m still here.”
The word kept slipping out without thought, pulled from somewhere deeper than pride or caution. Baby. He didn’t care until the line went dead and the cab filled only with the loud protests of the engine and Tess’s voice speaking into her own phone.
He had one hand on the wheel and the other braced hard against the top of it, leaning forward like it would get him there faster. The road unspooled ahead of him in thin ribbons of yellow light. He barely registered the turns he took, the dips, the fences. His body felt in tune with the sounds of your crying through Tess's speaker.
He should've been there, should've stayed. The hell was wrong with him? Leaving you there to fend for yourself with Paloma? Of course something was bound to go wrong. He thought he had time. There was always time, wasn't there? To fix things, to come back.
He was so good at leaving. Tommy was right. He was so practiced on stepping out just when it mattered most and telling himself it was for the better. He had made a life out of convincing himself he wasn't abandoning his only brother, his father, regardless of how everything went down.
He hadn't been able to hold onto a relationship to save his life, his heart. His job made it weird, made everything difficult. He'd never gotten used to having anything intimate with women and attaching anything to it. So he always left.
But he prided himself on sticking with his daughter for her entire life, for doing unthinkable things to pay his bills and keep food on her table, for soccer practice and summer camps and vacations. But now—now that she had her own life and her own two feet on the ground making her own way—he'd abandoned her too. To come back here to this haunted place.
And now, his final crime, abandoning you and Paloma at the farm.
Tess was talking to you, walking you through birthing the foal from Paloma's spent body. That too was a mark on him. First year back to the farm and a mare who was bound to die on his watch. An orphaned foal. He wasn't sure he'd be able to carry on if that was the case. All he could do was pray to a God he wasn't even sure existed anymore.
He could hear your wrecked sobbing still, words garbled into Tess's ear as she spoke straight to the point with you—no coddling, only business. He wished he was with you, to keep you away from this part. The gore of bringing life into the world, the way horses don't always have the same will to live that we wanted them to.
The arch of Miller Stables finally appeared through the trees, one hanging light bright in the dark. The long winding driveway stretched ahead like punishment as he pressed his foot all the way down and the truck roared, gravel spraying as he took the curve too fast and corrected it without slowing. Tess gripped the dash, knuckles white, speaking into her phone, her voice suddenly urgent.
He barely felt the stop when he hit the brakes outside the barn. He didn’t remember killing the engine. He only knew he was out of the truck, air tearing at his lungs as he ran.
Paloma's stall door was wide open, and inside was a sight only hell should know. The wet smell of metal and the heat of sweat filled his nose as he took in the scene.
And your face.
Oh, god.
Eyes swollen, cheeks wet, your mouth pulled wide as you tried to drag in air. Blood coated your hands, your jeans, your forearms. It soaked the straw beneath you. The foal’s small legs protruded from Paloma, the head resting limp in your lap, the body only halfway into the world.
For a moment he couldn’t move. The image lodged in him, permanent. He'd see it for years after, burned in his retina when he thought back on this night.
Tess pushed past him, dropping beside you, hands covering yours, voice low and steady as she spoke to you. She checked the foal with quick, efficient motions, lifting a lip, pulling back an eyelid, murmuring that you had done exactly what she told you to do.
You did great, kid. it's okay. I've got it from here.
Joel knelt on the threshold.
"Come here," he croaked. His voice wasn't his own, full of grit and rough with desperation.
Your breath hitched when you heard him.
“Come here,” he tried again, kneeling in the doorway, one hand held out to you, open and steady despite the tremor in it. “Tess has it. It’s alright. Come here, baby. Please. Let’s get you inside.”
You didn’t move at first. You were locked in a sort of trance, hands still wrapped around those tiny legs like letting go would undo everything you had fought for.
Tess glanced up at him then, something tight in her expression but he couldn't help but catch the glimmer of determination in her gaze.
“Get her out of here, Tex,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, swallowing against the dryness in his throat, but he still didn’t move further into the stall. His hand stayed out, hovering between you, not wanting to startle you, not wanting to pull too hard.
“Sweetheart,” he tried again, even quieter now, forcing softness to cover his fear. “Look at me.”
Your eyes flickered toward him.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d found you in a storm. “You did so good, hun. It's alright. Tess has her now. Come here. Let me take care of you.”
Your eyes seemed to register the world around you finally, a hiccuping cry as you stared at him, and all he could do was nod. He was trying to not let the thickening of his throat show. How he could barely stand to see you like this. He wanted to look away so badly, to not see what he'd done to you. But he couldn't.
"Please." was his last word.
You finally moved. Fingers loosening, your body testing whether it was safe to let go. Tess's hands slid in to replace yours without a second of hesitation. You looked down at your hands like you didn't recognize them.
Then you pushed yourself back on your heels. Your knees wobbled, your weight shifting unsteadily as you tried to stand, your hand slipping into the bedding and catching yourself on the way up. Joel stood too, a mirror of you, both hands out.
Your hand braced on the side of the wall as you took a few small steps towards him, blood and fluid staining where your fingers dragged. He was crossing the distance in seconds. You didn't resist when he reached you.
Your hands came up blindly, searching, and when they found the front of his shirt, you clutched at it like a buoy sent out at sea. He wrapped both arms around you instantly, pulling you into his chest, not caring about the blood soaking into his shirt, not caring about anything except the way your body felt fragile and shaking against his.
“I’ve got you,” he said into your hair, voice low and thick, his lips pressing against the top of your head. “I've got you, baby girl."
He felt you sag into him, finally, all the strength you had used to keep yourself from falling apart the last hour, suddenly heavy in his arms. He held you in the stall door for a long moment, watching Tess move, pulling the foal out and assessing it.
He turned and took you away.
Over the kitchen sink, there was only warm amber light and the sound of running water.
It filled the silence between you. The steady rush, the change in pitch when it struck porcelain, the dull splash as it ran over your hands and down the drain. Clear at first. Then pink. Then briefly red again before fading back to clear.
Joel stood close enough to feel the heat of you but not close enough to crowd you. The rag in his hand had gone heavy and warm, saturated, and he kept wringing it out beneath the tap before bringing it back to your skin. His fingers worked carefully over your knuckles, over the fine bones of your wrist, up the length of your forearm. He pressed harder where the blood had dried into the creases, softer where your skin looked raw from scrubbing.
You were so quiet he didn’t trust himself to break it.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the dark window above the sink, not really seeing the glass, not really seeing the yard beyond it. Just staring out into the night like you expected something to emerge from it. Like any minute Paloma might step into view, foal at her side, everything resolved and whole.
He kept his eyes on your hands.
He had failed you.
The thought settled in him without argument.
He had left. He had measured the time, the distance, and told himself it was safe. He had assumed first stage would stretch on long enough for him to get back, assumed the ranch would behave for him just because it had in the past. He had come back to this place telling himself he could carry it, that he knew what he was doing, that he wasn’t his father and he wasn’t a boy anymore.
And yet the first real test of it, the first birth under his care, and you had been the one kneeling in blood while he was miles away.
The rag moved over your elbow, catching on a stubborn patch. He shifted closer to the light, pushing your sleeve up carefully, exposing more of your arm so he could see what he was doing.
The house around you was dark, the new moon leaving everything beyond the kitchen swallowed in shadow. The only warmth came from the lamp over the sink and the heat of the water running over his skin.
He wished he could promise you things. That it would never happen again, he would never leave you again. That you never had to speak to him again if you did not wish to. He wished he could promise that Paloma would be fine, that her baby would live after minutes without oxygen.
But promises, he knew, were easy to make, and harder to keep.
The water running filled his ears. He wrung the rag out again. It was clearer now.
“I…was pregnant once.”
Joel froze.
For a moment he thought he had misheard you. Thought the rush of water had distorted something else. His hand hovered midair, rag dripping onto the basin.
He hadn’t said anything, had he? He hadn’t pressed or asked anything of you. He had been trying so hard not to push or crowd you, not to demand more from you tonight than you had already given. He had thought silence might feel safer. That quiet hands and steady water might be enough.
He swallowed, carefully, and forced his hand to move again. He brought the rag back to your skin slowly, easing it over the dried blood at your elbow, pushing your sleeve up with quiet fingers.
You took a deep, steadying breath, and he felt as if it filled his own lungs with air too.
"But I…I lost the baby." you said, chin wobbling.
He felt his grip tighten despite himself, cloth pressed into your arm, but he forced himself to soften, his thumb smoothing over the place he pressed.
Your eyes were still fixed out the dark window. "I'm supposed to be on a backpacking trip right now with my best friend and I can't even talk to her. I can't do anything. I'm supposed to be in school and I failed the entire semester."
He hadn't even realized you were in school. He barely asked questions about why you'd been needing a job, why you'd been displaced. He only knew what you told him, and even then it had only been a few words. He should've asked more questions, should've gotten to know you more instead of all this hiding.
"S'that…why…?" he didn't know how to ask such questions, didn't know if you wanted him to. Maybe you just needed someplace to finally let all this go, let it circle the drain and ring clear like the water.
You let out a shaky sigh, your eyes coming back down to where your hands met, watching his closely.
“My parents wanted me to keep it,” you continued. “Even though I was still in school. I don't think I understood … I grew up thinking there wasn’t another way, and even though by then I knew more about the world, the options… it didn't cross my mind that they were for me.”
He nodded. It sounded too familiar. A mirror, somehow. Not quite identical, but how a reflection shows the opposite a person. A different story, but still somehow the same.
“But then,” you said, and your voice faltered for the first time, “something went wrong during the second trimester. I had finally… I don't know, wrapped my head around it. I had plans for cribs and names and what she’d look like.”
She.
He looked up at you then.
You didn’t meet his eyes.
“I woke up to blood in my bed,” you said, gaze still memorizing his hands over your skin. “And that…was…it.”
He could tell it took everything from you to say the words aloud. Every breath seemed to cost you, every formed syllable and truth of what had happened.
“She?” Joel asked softly.
You nodded once.
“Yeah," There was a softness in your mouth, a sad grin starting to pull into your cheek, your gaze softening. "I always thought it would be a girl. Had a name picked out already.”
He smiled a little too, a mirror, reflection, the same sadness in either of you, but different somehow.
"What was her name?" he then asked.
For a second he thought he’d misstepped. You drew in a quiet breath and shut your eyes, and he felt it in his own chest like he’d pressed somewhere tender without meaning to. His thumb gentled against your skin even though there was nothing left to wipe off, the rag now forgotten in a heap at the bottom the sink.
When your eyes opened again, they were glassy, but your smile widened anyway, fragile and wet with holding back the tears.
"Ellie."
Joel sighed out a long breath, and held your skin there for a moment, letting her name take up the space, to be real, to let you hold onto the vision of your bouncing baby girl in your arms, even all these years later.
"That's a real pretty name, darlin'." he said finally, letting his hands fall from you when he realized how long he'd been standing so close.
He could've sworn you leaned in further, chasing that touch, but your hands only landed on the counter for support.
Your hair was a mess, still damp at the edges from where his fingers had pinched out the violence of blood. Your skin was warm and sticky where your tears had dried. But your breathing had evened out, though there was still something tight beneath it. You looked exhausted and wrecked and yet impossibly beautiful all at once.
It reminded him of the first day you’d shown up with that plastic bin and your backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes uncertain and lost like you were waiting for the ground to give out beneath you. He’d watched that look soften over the days, watched confidence settle into your posture, watched you find your footing here.
And then tonight had dragged something older back to the surface.
You straightened slowly, collecting yourself, and when you looked up at him there was something different there now. Lighter, yet guarded.
"Your turn."
He huffed, a little surprised, it could barely be called a laugh. But you were smiling a little crookedly at him now, teasing.
"My turn?"
"Tell me your secret."
He swallowed hard, his smile vanishing. The shift in you was abrupt enough to make him feel off balance. One second you were standing in a memory that bled, the next you were tossing the weight back to him like it was a game.
“Or don’t,” you added quickly, shrugging.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the heat there. “Why don’t we get you changed and showered,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Then I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”
“Oh, right,” you said lightly, “men only respond to naked wet women in their house.”
He knew the joke was just lightness you were forcing, just your walls getting built back up. He knew that play like the back of his hand. For a moment, he only stared at you, trying his best not to be thrown by it. The way you could pivot so quickly from something fragile and grief ridden to playfulness.
The switch of your humor was giving him whiplash. He felt dizzied by it, confused.
“Come on,” he said finally, pointing toward the stairs, dragging his other palm over his brow to hide the color rising into his cheeks. “Upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
You
The shower in Joel’s house did more than wash the blood from your skin and rinse away the thick, metallic feeling that clung to you. When you stepped under the spray and let it beat against your shoulders, the heat slowly untangled the memory from your body. And when you reached for the soap, you realized you would step out of it smelling like him. Something in your heart constricted at the thought.
He was a simple man. That much was clear. His private world, reduced to a narrow plastic shelf in the shower, held a bar of Irish Spring and a bottle that claimed to be shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer, and eight other things in one.
But it gave you something to focus on, as ordinary and uncomplicated as it was. You traced the tiny print on the back of the bottle, reading every word twice just to keep your mind from drifting. You kept your eyes open, had to keep reading, because if you let your thoughts wander, you were back in your bed last year.
Sticky, wet, smelling of iron and rust. And tonight had pulled it up from wherever it had been buried. The helplessness of watching something slip away from you no matter how hard you tried, Paloma giving up…it was all too much. How could you and a horse have so much in common? Both of you had bodies that did not cooperate when it mattered most, that turned against the very thing they were meant to carry.
And then there was Joel, who had gone through it, raised a little girl and loved her with everything. Enough to bend his whole life around her. He had made choices, used his body in order to keep food on the table and keep her life as normal as possible.
You felt as if you'd been punishing him for it all along.
When you finally ran out of words to read on the back of the bottle, you put it down and turned off the scalding water, stepping out to grab a towel. You looked down at your clothes, a heap of bloody ruined fabric. You hadn't thought to grab your own. But you didn't think you could go back out there now. You didn't want to know, didn't want to see Tess's face when she told you neither of them had made it.
So you stepped out into the hallway, towel clutched to your chest as you padded around the dark landing, wood creaking under your footsteps.
"Joel?" you called softly.
No answer. Hm…
You padded down the hall, hands hesitating to reach out at every door. No light bled from beneath any of them. Maybe he'd gone back out to the barn, to check on the horses for bed as if nothing had changed from their usual routine.
You reached the largest bedroom at the end of the landing and pushed the door open slowly.
You paused.
It felt like stepping into a memory you weren't supposed to see. It was ghostly still and untouched, clear sheets covered everything, tucked around what must've been a dresser, a bedside table, a desk and a large king bed in the center. Dust lingered in the air in the shafts of light from the ceiling fan above.
You looked around, trying to make sense of it. It felt as if you'd stepped into a different, forgotten decade. Old, wooden furniture, antique yet simple. The bed still had a quilt underneath the plastic wrap, you could just make out the red and white patches. Above it hung a landscape painting of the land. The pasture and the mountains beyond it. You recognized them immediately, the exact line of ridge that framed the horizon when you stood out back by the fence.
And you knew, with a sudden, abrupt certainty, that you should not be in here.
As you turned to leave, you nearly collided into a wall.
Joel was there, filling the doorway, one hand rested on the knob. He had changed his shirt, his jeans. But he hadn't stepped inside, remaining in the hallway.
"Joel, I'm so sorry." you gasped, "I thought this was your roo—"
"C'mon."
He didn't raise his voice, but there was a tightness to him. A stone cold look on his face as his eyes flitted around the space.
You slipped past him, your knuckles that clutched the towel into place brushing against his chest as you did. He didn't make room or step back, and you felt the heat of him flooding your skin as you made your way down the hall.
He followed behind you until you heard the sound of another door opening.
“Here.”
The difference was immediate. There was life here, though the furniture felt smaller, nearly boyish. A chest sat at the end of the queen bed, covered in stickers of band logos, faded lucky horseshoes and bumper stickers from different rodeos. A lamp leaned slightly to one side on the nightstand.
"Is this…?"
"My room," the words left him in a sort of long exhale, "yeah."
You turned toward him, questions rising, but he was already holding out a folded stack of clothes. His eyes stayed somewhere above your shoulder, not quite meeting yours.
“Thanks,” you said, taking them carefully. The fabric was soft, worn in the way only something handled often becomes. “These are… yours?”
He nodded once. “Apartment’s locked.”
Your gaze dropped when he gestured. Your backpack rested against the dresser, set there neatly.
“Found your bag,” he said, and something about the stiffness in his voice told you he had an idea of why it was there in the first place.
"Thanks." you said again, though the word felt like it lost its weight.
Silence stretched, neither of you looking each other in the eye. You could feel him choosing what not to say. Your damp hair clung to your shoulders, droplets sliding cold down your spine as the room cooled around you.
"I'll…just…" he started, then shifted his weight towards the door, "yeah."
He left the sentence unfinished and stepped out, giving you privacy without looking back.
You changed quickly, pulling his clothes over your still-warm skin, the cotton soft and worn in ways that felt almost intimate. They swallowed you, long sleeves falling past your wrists, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging loose at your hips. You threw the towel over the chair without thinking and opened the door again.
He was still there in the hallway, chin braced in his hand, brows drawn tight in thought. When the bedroom light spilled across him, he straightened, like he’d been caught in something.
“Joel,” you started, stepping back into the room to give him space to follow, “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About… going into that…room, I guess. I'm sorry. I don’t even know.”
He came inside slowly and shut the door behind him. He was so quiet all of the sudden. It had you on edge.
"Sit." he said, pointing at the bed.
You did as he bid.
He paced once in front of you, hand dragging through his beard, then down the back of his neck. You could see the war happening in him. The instinct to shut down. The same instinct to deflect you had in the kitchen.
Eventually he sat beside you, not touching, elbows braced on his knees.
“You wanted my secret.”
Oh.
“Only if you want to tell me,” you said quietly.
He nodded once, then shook his head like he regretted it, then nodded again as if forcing himself forward.
"When I found out my…when Jess was pregnant…" he began. It seemed very difficult for him— to say this. To bring back the past as you did.
"I knew what my pops would think." he went on, he wasn't looking at you. His bedside lamp threw him in soft gold, reflecting in his heavy eyes.
"I was seventeen and panicked and…" his jaw flexed, bracing himself, "I asked her to get an abortion."
Your chest tightened, though there was no judgment only understanding. Seventeen. High school, living with the smell of fear and possibility and futures that hadn’t even formed yet.
Suddenly his words were spilling out very fast as he went on, as if trying to make up for the bomb he'd dropped, "I had no clue what I was doin. I had a whole life ahead of me, of bull ridin' and rodeos, horses to train. It wasn't in my plan. We were in school when she... I couldn't…I wasn't…ready."
His voice was tightening, whether from disuse of never saying the words before or having to bare himself fully to you now.
“She refused. And I’m glad she did. God, believe me, I'm am glad she did.” he shook his head, and then put his face in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. You'd never seen him like this. You'd seen him naked, sweaty, in the most vulnerable state you thought on film. But…you'd never realized how much more exposed this felt. You'd never seen…this.
“But my dad didn’t understand. I knew he wouldn’t. But he had to know.” His jaw tightened as if he were chewing on something bitter. “I expected the belt. Hell, I expected a black eye. I expected him to call me every name in the book. I just… I didn’t expect him to throw me out.”
Your hand found his back without you thinking about it, fingers smoothing over the broad curve of his shoulders. He was warm beneath your palm, solid, but you could feel the tension sitting there, humming beneath his skin.
“I was eighteen when Sarah was born,” he continued, and his voice softened when he said her name. “And Jess… she decided she didn’t want any of it anymore. Didn’t want me or the kid. We’d gotten married. I thought that meant…” He swallowed. “But then it was just me and the baby.”
You watched his hands instead of his face because they told the truth faster. His fingers were locked together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
He lifted his eyes to you then, and there was something naked in them that made your chest ache.
“I know you must think…” his voice faltered, “That I’m… that I chose that job because I wanted it. I didn’t. I didn’t have any options. I was livin’ on ramen and beans. Sarah couldn’t keep growin’ up on food stamps and whatever I could scrape together.” His throat worked. “Tess gave me a way out. It wasn’t some ego boost. But it paid.”
He shook his head once, frustrated with himself.
“I’d already failed my dad. Failed Tommy. I wasn’t gonna fail her too.”
“None of that is your fault, Joel,” you said.
“Listen,” he cut in gently but firmly, shaking his head. “I ain’t askin’ you to…hell, I don't know. I’m sayin’ I’m sorry you had to find out like that, that I scared you. And tonight…” He stopped there, the hesitation heavier than any raised voice. “You were gonna leave, weren’t you?”
You could only stare into his hazel eyes until he was tearing them away from you again, staring at the wood grain of the floor.
“I saw the bag,” he continued quietly. “I knew… well, because I’ve done it enough times myself.”
You felt heat crawl up your neck. Shame and grief and something else you couldn’t quite figure out.
“I ain’t good at this part,” he admitted, “The talkin’. The feelin’s. I say the wrong thing and make everythin' worse.”
“Joel,” you whispered, stopping the motion of your hand on his back so he’d feel the pause. “Look at me.”
It took him a second, but he did.
You had to pull together your courage, because you knew you'd only get one chance to say this.
“It’s not your fault your father was too proud to stand by you,” you said carefully.
"I know—" he frowned.
"No, you don't." you said sternly, "It’s not your fault he didn’t know how to love you the way you needed. It’s not your fault Jess left. And it’s not your fault you were forced into a decision to take a job that kept your daughter fed and healthy."
He looked like you'd smacked him across the face with your words. Your hand came up gently, finally feeling what that beard was like in the palm of your hand. Scratchy, thick.
“You are a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered. “And I’m sorry that everyone, including myself, made you feel like you weren’t.”
He closed his eyes, and to your surprise, leaned into your hand.
"I was scared." you said even lower, "scared that….that I had feelings and I'd never…"
Be brave, be brave be brave.
“I was scared,” you confessed again, quieter now. "That I’d never measure up to the women you’ve been with. When you were in that world… it just seemed so easy. For them, for you.”
His eyes opened again, studying you carefully.
"What were you so afraid of?"
You mouth frowned. Hadn't you said it? Hadn't you just admitted to him? You didn't know what else to say.
“You have to see what you do to me,” he went on, slowly. “When I was workin’… it was separate. It was physical. It didn’t…it never…” His hand came up, covering yours where it stayed cupping his jaw, “I never felt anythin’ for them.”
You felt your pulse start to climb.
“But with you…” He exhaled through his nose, almost frustrated by the admission, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Since the day you walked up to my truck with that bin and that backpack, I haven’t been able to separate work and…and what I want.”
He brought your hand down into his lap, tracing the life line of your palm.
"I don't know what it is. What you do to me. S'different than anythin'…anythin' I've ever…"
"I think I know." you murmured, "because I feel it too."
A faint smile pulled at his mouth, but it didn’t last.
“But I can’t…I won't…ask that of you. I can't keep you here,” he said quietly. “This place… it’s empty. It’s still my dad’s in ways.” His jaw tightened. “I haven’t stepped foot in the arena since I got back. I grab a lunge rope and my hands start shakin’. I walk past that room and my chest locks up. I don’t know how to live here yet.”
You shook your head, "We can make it right. Make it beautiful again. Make it yours, not his."
"But--school?" he asked. "Your life? I can't take that--"
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you admitted. “It was a degree I picked because it sounded right, even though I couldn't stand it. But this place, Joel…it feels right. I feel stronger here than I have in ages.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. “I want to stay. But only if you stay.”
The memory of the shed was coming back to you, he was so close again, the memory of it flooding your senses. The smell of Irish Spring, the scent of his sweat and how the yellow light of the bedside table cast his hazel eyes to turn to honey.
Your eyes are tellin' me one thing, but you won't say it.
"I want you, Joel."
And suddenly he was leaning in, his hand dropping your palm and coming up to your face.
And this time, when you kissed, it wasn't a light brushing of lips. It wasn't hesitant or wet with tears. It was warm, full and eager. You breathed each other in for a long moment as his lips melded to yours, the soft prickle of his mustache against your nose.
You couldn't help the way your hand traveled up his arm, his thick, veined arm, squeezing the corded muscle there beneath his sleeve. His hand not cupping your face came up to settle against your waist, squeezing you back, a nonverbal confirmation of everything that had led to this. Avoidance, fear, cowardice. Only to finally be where you'd wanted all along.
"Say it again," he whispered against your lips as he sucked in a breath.
"I want you," you breathed, "of course I want—"
He was kissing you again, harder now, pushing you back onto the bed, and both your hands came up to lock around his neck. You kept him close as he maneuvered your bodies until he was laying over you, one hand firm at your waist and the other still soothing along your cheek.
"Again."
You smiled, you couldn't help it. Was it really so strange to him? To be wanted like this?
"I want you," you breathed into his open mouth as your legs parted, welcoming him closer, letting his hips settle between them and oh—
Fuck, he was hard already. And bigger than anything you'd ever...
A low sound rolled up out of him then, half hum, half growl, vibrating deep in his chest where it pressed against yours.
"You're so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, his mouth drifting down from your lips to your jaw, then to the warm shell of your ear before trailing slowly along your neck. "Prettiest thing a man like me has seen in a long time."
"Man like you, huh?"
He smiled into the next kiss he planted on your neck, and hummed in amusement.
"Tell me," you said, your eyes drifting up to the ceiling as his beard rasped along the column of your throat, the scratch of it making your stomach flutter.
Hm? he hummed again, distracted, mouth still wandering.
"Tell me you want me too."
His teeth caught your skin, a quick nip that pulled a startled gasp from you.
"Silly girl," he murmured softly, voice thick with something like indulgence. "Course I wantcha. Can't you feel how badly I've been wantin' ya?"
He rolled his hips forward then, pressing harder into your waiting lap, and the slow drag of him against you made a helpless little sound slip from your throat.
"Yeah," he muttered against your neck, voice rough and baritone. "Been wantin' you since I laid my damn eyes on you."
You sucked in a breath.
Because for some reason, for some godforsaken reason, that was when your traitorous brain decided to remind you of everything that had happened since you met him.
The videos you'd watched.
Those tiny little pornstars climbing over him like they belonged there, bodies moving easy and practiced as they worked him just right, knowing exactly how to pull those sweet, grunting sounds from him that you had buried your fingers inside yourself imagining. The way he looked with them, big and sure and confident, the way he seemed to know exactly what to do with every inch of them. And here you were. A nobody, with a body less than perfect. In sweatpants and his sweatshirt, no sexy lingerie or makeup done, laying in his bed and—
"Hey."
You saw his eyes before you realized he'd spoken, still hazel, still clear, not swallowed yet by the dark haze of arousal.
You blinked, pulled back into the room, and lifted a hand to your forehead, covering your eyes.
"Sorry."
"Where'd you go just now?" he asked quietly.
His hand reached up and gently pulled yours away from your face, brushing your damp hair back as his gaze moved slowly across your features, searching.
"Nothing," you murmured quickly. "I'm fine."
Before he could answer, you cupped his face in both hands and pulled him down again, pressing your mouth to his. Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck, urging him closer, trying to drag the moment back where it had been just a second ago.
He kissed you back, but you had your eyes stayed open, watching him. And after a moment, you realized his eyes were open too, his brows tightening over his gaze.
Your stomach twisted. Shit, you were ruining this. Of course you were.
His hand came up then, large and warm against your jaw, and he gently pushed your face back just enough to look at you. His gaze moved over your lips, your eyes, then back again, thoughtful, before he leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to them before saying:
"Tell me what's goin' on in that pretty head."
You sighed, the sound heavier than you meant it to be, and let your head fall back against his pillow. Your eyes drifted everywhere but him, tracing the ceiling, the corner of the room, the soft spill of light across the wall.
"It's just…" you started, then stopped.
Your fingers dropped and twisted into the sheet beside you.
"You're a…" you gestured vaguely toward him, heat creeping up your neck. "And I'm not. I'm just…"
The words stalled out in your throat.
Joel didn't move away from you. If anything, he settled more solidly where he was, one forearm braced beside your head as he watched you wrestle with it.
"A what?" he asked.
You huffed out a quiet breath.
"You know," you muttered. "You do this for a living."
For a moment, he didn't say anything, but a light sigh was released from his nose as his thumb traced your jaw as he watched you, deep in thought.
"I used to. And makin' a livin' like that…it was never anythin' real. You gotta know that." he said, shaking his head, "None of them made me feel as crazy as you do. I've been losin' my mind tryna get you to talk to me this past week."
You worried your bottom lip, but finally looked up at him, trying to read his expression.
"It was only a job, baby." he whispered. His thumb came up and gently tugged your lip free from where it was caught between your teeth.
"If you want, we can take a break. Sit here and talk about it some more." His voice softened even more. "But I promise you, nothin' I ever did for that job came close to how badly I wanna do this right now."
Your eyes flickered between his, his pretty eyes, his crow's feet and thick brows, the line that deepened between his brows of worry.
"It's you in my bed right now," he continued, shifting his hips slightly against you like he couldn't quite stop himself. "You who's got me feelin' like a damn teenager again."
His mouth curved faintly. "And you're gonna sit here and tell me you ain't the one who belongs here?"
He shook his head slowly, soft disbelief written all over his face.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek.
"You got no idea. Let me show you. Let me take care of you."
Let me take care of you.
Your hands came back up to his hair, tracing the hairline there, down to the protruding cheekbone, how could he feel such things with so much certainty? All this want, a desperation for this. But you knew, because you'd been feeling it too. For him. It was the part of how you fit into it all which made you uncertain.
But now…hearing him talk like that…
"Okay."
His eyes softened a bit at that, "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," you nodded, hands threading further into his hair.
"Okay," he mimicked, quieter this time.
One of his hands slid from your face down your back, broad palm warm as it moved over you, settling at your waist before slipping under the hem of your sweatshirt. His skin was rough against yours, calloused and steady, and the touch made your stomach flip. "Gonna take this off, alright?"
You nodded.
"Got no idea," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head faintly.
He leaned down to steal a quick kiss from your mouth as he did it, the movement easy, almost absentminded, like he couldn't quite stop touching you. Then he was lifting the sweatshirt up and over you, the fabric dragging warm across your ribs before it disappeared somewhere behind him.
A low rumble rolled out of him when he pulled back enough to look at you. Your chest, bare to the cool evening air now, heaved in heavy breaths, and then you felt his lips on your hip a second later, warm and sudden against your skin, the rough brush of his beard making you jolt. When you looked down, he was watching your breasts as they rose and fell with the motion of your lungs.
"And these?" he whispered, kissing past the hem of his borrowed pants.
"Okay," you said again, gnawing your lip, your hands always touching him without meaning to. In his hair, scratching through his beard, drifting across the broad plane of his shoulder.
He looked up at you as he placed another light kiss to your pelvis.
"Love seein' you in my clothes," he whispered. "But my god if it ain't better seein' em off of ya."
"Cornball," you chastised with a smile. He returned it, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked up at you. Then he sat back and tugged the borrowed pants down your legs one at a time, peeling them away until you were bare to the room, to his gaze. You noticed, suddenly, you could no longer see the hazel in them anymore.
"Not fair," you kicked at him as the pants came off, "take these off—" you nudged the hem of his shirt, then toed at belt holding up his jeans, trying to push them off too.
He grabbed your ankle, and pulled you down the mattress, hard so the back of your thigh was up against the denim of his lap. If you would've looked down, you could've seen your slick darkening against the zipper that hid his bulge.
"Bossy girls don't get what they want," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.
And for a second you got a glimpse of The Texxxas Wrangler there. Cocky, knowing, confident.
You tried to kick at him again, but his grip on your ankle tightened, and he leaned down and bit the sole of your foot.
You yelped, and he held your leg open, "you're not lettin' me enjoy this, naughty girl."
Then his gaze dropped again, attention settling between your legs in a way that made heat rush straight to your face.
"Fuck," he breathed under his breath, shifting down and guiding your legs up over his shoulders. "Should'a known a pretty girl would have a pretty pussy like this."
He moaned a little just looking at it.
You could feel how wet you were, how it made your folds shine as he blew gently across your sensitive skin, pursing his lips and making you whine dramatically. Your legs hooked over his back, pulling him in.
"Be good," he scolded lightly, kissing just to the left of your slick, trembling center.
You huffed, but kept quiet.
He kissed again, then to the other side, and closer and closer, and your hips began to move, desperate for more. His thick beard scraped against you, prickling and thick against your sensitive skin.
His lips, soft and warm and wet, finally, finally pursed and kissed your throbbing nub.
"Ohhh…" you sighed in relief, letting your body become putty in his hands, which were sliding around your hips to keep you steady as his tongue dipped out, a bowl collecting nectar as he licked up and down, like he'd finally gotten a taste of ambrosia after years in a desert.
He moaned and groaned as he ate at you. There was no other word for it. He was a man starved far too long. And now you understood why none of those girls' moans had sounded so annoyingly pornographic. Because now you were here, in his arms, making mewling noises you couldn't control as his tongue pushed into you, his teeth scraping just barely over your clit when he pulled it into his mouth, tongue flattening against it.
Your hand was buried deep in his hair, legs locked around him, hips moving to thier own accord.
"Tha's it," he panted, tongue out, letting you push and pull up against him, "tha's it, baby, c'mon now, use my mouth and come on my face, yeah,"
Oh, fuck.
His hands dug into the flesh of your hips, holding you there, guiding the slow roll of your body as you pressed down against him. The rough scrape of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to know exactly how to keep you right on that edge—it all built and built until the tension snapped. With one last nudge of that wet muscle of his tongue, you broke apart above him, hips trembling as pleasure spilled through you while he kept you steady, coming against his face.
Your head was thrown back, mouth open as you dragged in deep mouthfuls of air, your body rocking against him until the motion softened, slowing to a gentle sway before you finally settled, loose and liquid in his bed. He smiled up at you, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling over you.
He slid his shirt off easily, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. Your legs stayed wrapped around him, though now they locked around his hips now as he shifted between them.
"That was —" he huffed a little bemused chuckle, "god damn perfect,"
You couldn't help grinning back at him, a little drunk on the rush still flooding your body. A soft, simpering sigh slipped out of you as you watched him unbuckle his belt and push out of his pants.
But then the world came rushing back when you looked down and saw him free his throbbing cock. It didn't jut up and out like ones you'd seen before, but hung heavily between you, veined and thick and angry red.
"Oh—"
"S'okay," he cooed, letting it rest against your belly as he leaned forward to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, honey and musk and the sweet tang of arousal. "Gonna take it nice and slow."
You nodded into the kiss, letting him deepen it, your mouth opening for him as his tongue pushed in, nice and slow and indulgent. You let him take his time there, the kiss turning messy and hungry, little sounds slipping from both of you between breaths, his deep, rough curses and your low hums of pleasure.
You felt his hands moving below, adjusting the angle of your bodies until he could press himself just against your folds. Your brows pinched slightly, and maybe he felt the tension in you, because all he did was rock his hips so the underside of his cock slid along your soaked folds.
"How's that, honey? Huh?" he cooed.
"So good," you breathed against his mouth, humming softly as the veins along his shaft dragged against your clit, the friction making your hips start to move on their own, ankles tightening around his lower back. "M-more, please."
He smiled into the next kiss, "Okay, baby, gonna give you a little more, anythin' you want."
He nudged the head of himself against your weeping entrance, and all you could feel was heat, like your body had caught fire and his had with it.
"Deep breath for me, angel," he whispered, one hand sliding into your hair, settling at the nape of your neck with a steady grip that kept you anchored with him. Your hands curled around his shoulders as he kissed you again, catching your bottom lip lightly between his teeth so you'd focus.
You drew in a breath, and he licked just inside your teeth, tasting you again as he slowly began to push in.
Both of you gasped.
Breaking from the kiss only by a fraction, you didn't pull away so much as hovered there, mouths open, breathing hard. Every shaky inhale you took pulled straight from his mouth, and every breath he exhaled warmed your lips in return. Your noses brushed, foreheads nearly touching, the two of you gasping there together at the feeling of it, the stretch of him, the heat of you, sharing the same thin pocket of air.
And then his head fell in the crook of your neck as he pushed in another inch, making you keen.
"Joel, oh—oh god."
"I know," he whispered, the words breaking through a groan like a crack in his throat. "I know, baby, slow, slow, slow—"
You weren't sure if he was talking to you or to himself then, the way he kept repeating it, easing in another inch and moaning even louder.
"God—" he breathed, his forehead dipped harder against your neck. "Your pussy feels so fuckin'—holy—"
You brought your legs higher around his waist, opening for him, lifting to take more of that stretch.
"More, Joel, more," you urged.
It was like being split down the center. Physically, yes, your body barely able to take the obsene stretch of him. But also… it felt like your life had been split in half. Because there was suddenly a before this moment, and an after. Where the road split, where your heart line split off and became new and whole.
Because there would never be anything like this.
"Joel, please, I need—"
He pushed in further, cursing on every inch he settled into you.
Your hand slid deeper into his hair, fingers tightening there, and you heard him hiss in a breath as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight, locking your bodies together in a vice like grip.
And then—suddenly—he was flipping you.
Your eyes swam with the motion as he shifted, flipping your position and bringing you upright into his lap, your legs still wrapped around him.
Your head fell back, mouth open as you settled fully around the heft of his cock. The thicket of hair at his base brushed your clit, rough and welcome.
"Lemme see you," he whispered, kissing the underside of your chin. "Wanna see your face when I fuck you."
You whined, rocking your hips.
"Look at me, little lady,"
You did as you were bid.
He shook his head, "You're fuckin' perfect, you know that?"
You moaned, a little breathless now, noticing the sheen of sweat starting to gather along his hairline.
"You're—" he rocked his hips again, pushing a little deeper, his voice catching mid-sentence. "Jesus… you feel so good, baby, pussy was made for me."
"Yours," you breathed. "M-made for you, Joel."
A rough groan tore out of him at that.
"Yeah?" he breathed, eyes locked on your face as he moved beneath you again, rocking his hips into you. "My cock's just for you too, baby. Only for my best girl."
Your hands tightened in his hair.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice dropping lower, rougher. "Takin' it so good… c'mon now… I can feel how bad she loves it."
You rocked your hips with his, desperate for more of him, the motion drawing another low groan from his chest.
"Want more, Joel," you whispered, voice breathless but stubborn. "You won't break me, I promise, please, show me—I want it all."
He groaned desperately at that, "Careful what you wish for, baby, fuck—"
His arms, already wrapped around you, tightened so you were slick body against slick body, his wirey chest hair scraping your sensitive nipples where they laid up between his chest and chin, your stomach flipping at the feeling of being so close. There was nothing but breath between you then.
He felt deeper than before now as he held you down against him, thick-banded arms made for hauling hay and handling horses now keeping you tight against his chest. His breath had gone short and rough, every sound leaving his throat lower, more unhinged than anything you'd ever heard from him before.
You’d watched him on those tapes, heard the grunts and soft curses, but nothing like this. This was different. Animal, almost, in the way he dragged in breath and cursed against your skin.
His lips came up against your ear as he thrusted up into you.
"Can ya hear how greedy your little pussy is for me, baby?"
Your nails dug deeper into his shoulders.
"She's been cryin' for me all this time, hasn't she? Just wanted a little taste. That right?"
You nodded quickly, breath breaking apart in your throat. "Yes, fuck, yes, Joel, please don't stop—"
"Ain't stoppin' til she comes all over my cock—"
"Fuck, fuck" you hiccuped, whining, "—I've never—I don't know if I can—"
"S'alright, darlin'. I got you. C'mon, lemme show ya."
He leaned away, letting himself lay back then, your skin suddenly cold to the air and his hands loosening but holding roughly to your hips.
"Play with yourself, lemme see, I'll show ya—"
You did it without thinking. You'd do anything he asked. He felt so deep, so right, buried inside you that your brain had momentarily shut off, all wires only directed to him and what he told you.
Your fingers found your clit and you began circling the swollen bud, but you winced, the pressure too sharp, too much all at once. A small whine slipped out of you as your hips rolled restlessly against him.
He pushed your hand away and replaced it with his thumb, wet with spit, and your head fell back again, a soft, helpless sound leaving you.
"Yeahhh," he breathed, teeth showing in a rough grin as he watched you. "Just like that. Ride me, baby. Tha's it… right there, huh? Just needed me to show ya how it's done."
"Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, I—I think I'm—"
"Yes," he rasped, grip tightening on your hips. "Come for me, baby."
Your body seized around him, your spine arching as the feeling tore through you, bright and overwhelming. You reached for him instinctively and he pulled you down tight against him again, thrusting up hard as you rode out the trembling rush of it, white sparks bursting behind your eyes.
He was cursing under his breath now, jaw tight, the sound of it rough and broken as the tension finally snapped in him too, his arms locking around you while he groaned your name against your neck, spilling everything into you.
Your body was still trembling around him even as your breath settled, small aftershocks shivering through your thighs and stomach, your chest pressed tight against his as he held you there. His own breath came hot and uneven against the side of your neck, every inhale dragging through his chest like it had to claw its way out of him.
Soon, he was releasing his tight hold on your body and letting you slide beside him, his wet spent cock laying obscenely against his stomach as it softened, your core sore with the memory of it.
Your body felt loose, almost boneless, heat fading from your skin as the cool air of the room crept back in. The sweat between your shoulders cooled slowly. He leaned down and brought the light blanket over the both of you, groaning in exhaustion. You stayed close, your thigh still draped over his.
And underneath that fading warmth, something else was stirring.
You felt as if your entire self lay bare, as if your heart, only recently stitched back together so tightly, was being pulled open again, stitch by stitch, given room to breathe.
You nestled deeper beside him, burying your nose into the wiry hair of his chest and inhaling.
“Tell me this will never end,” you murmured.
His arm came around your shoulders, wide hand settling over the cup of your shoulder, and his lips found the top of your head, inhaling your similar scent. Irish Spring, arousal, sweat. You were so heavily intertwined you weren't sure where he ended and you began yet.
“It don’t have to,” he said softly.
You pressed closer, hiding deeper against him. He was warm, smelled clean and familiar, something safe your body wanted to believe in. Every hormone in you was humming, coaxing you toward confession, loosening your tongue in that reckless way that came after being held like this.
“Sometimes I…” you faltered, breath shaking, your face turning further into his chest. “I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away somehow. Either because of me or…something.”
Joel paused, you heard the way his breath paused, the way his mouth stopped its lazy kisses in your hair. His hand slipped between your cheek and his chest, fingers easing under your chin.
He tipped your face up.
“What makes you say that, hun?”
His eyes were soft, heavy with sleep and something deeper, his brows drawn together in that familiar line between them. Up close like this he looked warm and solid and achingly kind. Hazel again.
You leaned in and brushed your lips against his, and he welcomed it, pinching your chin a little harder before pulling away again.
“Tell me why you think that about yourself,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
"Because I went to school and failed. Once I felt like I was ready for my baby, I failed her too. I came here and..." Your throat thickened, voice wobbling. "I failed Paloma and her baby."
He was shaking his head all along.
Joel was shaking his head before you’d even finished.
“No you didn’t, baby. Hey—c’mere.”
Because you were crying again. Tears slipping down your temples into your hair, your breath shuddering in your chest.
“S’gonna be okay,” he murmured, gathering you closer. “School’ll always be there if you wanna go back. And one day I bet you’ll be an amazin’ mama if that’s what you want, alright?”
You noticed the thing he didn’t say.
Because neither of you knew if Paloma was alive, if her foal had lived. Your heart constricted at the thought.
“I should’ve been here tonight. That ain’t on you, okay?” he said, rocking you gently. You pressed your face harder into his neck as his hand smoothed through your hair.
“Everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away,” you whispered hoarsely. “Every time something starts to feel good I’m just… waiting for it to get pulled out from under me.”
“I know, trust me I know,” he said finally, voice low.
“I thought I was gonna be here my whole life," he went on. "The ranch, workin’ with my pops. Thought that was how it was meant to go.” His thumb traced slow circles along your arm. “Then life had other ideas.”
You shifted a little, listening.
“If I hadn’t had Sarah, though…” he continued softly. “My whole life would’ve looked different. Who knows what could'a happened, might've left and never come back. Might never’ve met you. I don't wanna know what that version of my life would be like. Sarah's the best thing that ever happened to me. I only know that now, after the fact.”
His lips brushed your hair again.
“Things change, hun. But that don’t mean they’re taken from you. Sometimes they’re just movin’ you somewhere else, right where you're supposed to be. And right now this is where you're supposed to be, in an old man's bed.”
You clung to him as you let out a wet chuckle, and your crying began to subside, his warmth rocking you slowly until the weight of sleep started creeping over you.
Somewhere in that haze you heard him speak again.
“I think I’m gonna go see her.”
Your brain lagged behind the words.
“Sarah?” you murmured.
He nodded, thick beard scraping your hairline.
“I think she would love that.”
After
It was so warm. Your eyes, sleepy and heavy, opened to the soft light stretching pale across the bedroom wall, filtering in through the thin curtains and laying itself gently over your bare skin. You were sprawled across the sheets, limbs loose and heavy in the aftermath of sleep and everything the night had given, the air still carrying the faint scent of Joel and something deeper, something that felt settled now instead of uncertain.
You realized then that you'd woken to the sound of the door opening. You hadn't even realized he'd gotten up, that he'd left the bed at all.
But there he was now, black t shirt stretching across his chest with the smell of coffee drifting in ahead of him. The smell was rich, grounding, tickling your nose to wake. The mattress dipped where your hips curved, and he sat there carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb anything that had been built overnight.
When your eyes opened fully, he was already watching you.
“Hey,” he said softly.
He set the mug down on the side table and reached for you without hesitation, his fingers brushing the hair back from your temple. The pad of his thumb traced slow along your hairline, smoothing it away from your face.
"Mornin'," you said groggily.
“How're you doin’?”
The memories of the night, of before you and him… it came back all at once.
The barn. The blood. Paloma’s body beneath your hands. The terrible stillness of the foal.
Your throat tightened.
You turned your face slightly into the pillow, staring at nothing in particular, and he kept brushing your hair back, slow and steady, like he was trying to soothe something he couldn’t see.
He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stayed there beside you, so warm and solid as his fingers combed gently through your hair, thumb resting at the base of your skull.
He was still smiling down at you. A soft grin, something gentle and kind in his expression as he watched you, until finally, he said:
“I wanna show you somethin'.”
Your brow furrowed.
“Get dressed,” he said, and there was something in his voice now. Something he was trying not to give away.
You searched his face for a second longer, then pushed yourself up, the sheet slipping from your shoulder. You dressed quickly into the borrowed sweatshirt and sweatpants, your heart beginning to beat harder for reasons you didn’t yet understand.
He took your hand and led you down the stairs, out into the kitchen, and you slid on your sneakers to walk out the front porch steps and toward the barn. The morning air was crisp and clean, the world washed new in the light. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of your shoes as you crossed the yard, your chest tight with a fragile kind of dread.
You stepped inside the barn, expecting the pit in your stomach to dip.
Except, it didn't.
Because there was a smell to the barn now, no longer metallic or wet, but…warm and fresh and alive. The smell of fresh bedding and milky breath.
You looked up at Joel then, searching his face for anything that might explain it. He was already watching you, smiling in a way that was softer than you’d seen in a long time, guiding you forward with a quiet tilt of his chin.
You moved quickly, rounding the corner into the far foaling stall.
And there she was.
Paloma stood on her feet, head bent into a fresh pile of hay, chewing lazily like nothing in the world had nearly taken her from you. Morning light streamed in through the back window and caught along her flank, still a little damp, still marked by the night before.
But alive. Alive and steady and breathing and real.
Beside her, a small, gangly shape wobbled uncertainly on too-long legs.
The sound that left you wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob. Your hands flew to your mouth to contain it, but it spilled through anyway, the feeling of it all breaking open in your chest at once.
You stepped into the stall slowly this time, like you were afraid the scene might vanish if you moved too fast. The little foal was blonder than its mother, a bright white blaze cutting down its delicate face, striking and soft all at once. Its knobby knees buckled as it nudged at Paloma’s side, impatient and indignant, already demanding the world give it what was wanted.
Your tears ran freely now, unchecked. You lowered your hands and reached out, and the foal turned toward you with wide curiosity, stepping close enough to mouth at the strings of your hoodie. Paloma lifted her head and gave a low nicker, as if to say she remembered you too, before returning calmly to her hay.
“Thought you might wanna meet ’er,” Joel said from the doorway. He leaned there with his arms folded, watching you instead of the horses.
“This is Ellie,” he added.
Everything in you stilled. You turned slowly to look at him, breath caught in your throat, heart stopping. The only thing keeping your two feet on the ground was the little filly stomping around for your attention.
"What?"
He nodded once.
“She’s strong,” he said simply. “Tess said she fought for her damn life. Her and mama both.”
The world felt too bright all at once.
You laughed through your tears and turned back to the horses, the baby's eyes wide and doe like as they looked up at you.
“Hi, Ellie,” you whispered.
"She'll be yours to take care of," he then added, stern, but there was some amusement in it, and when you looked back at him, he was almost uncertain again, "if you choose to stay."
You let the filly drift back to her mother, and you you were suddenly crossing the stall in two big steps and throwing your arms around his neck. He barely had time to unfold his arms from his chest before you were kissing him, smiling so wide it felt like your face might split.
And this time, there wasn't anything holding you back. No more cowardice or uncertainty. Because you finally understood.
Everything, no matter how great or small or terrifying or joyous, had been leading you here all along.
epilogue coming soon! thank you so much for reading!!!
Joel Miller is back home running his family’s ranch, the work coming back to him easily even as the house fills with the memories of what happened thirty years ago.
He hires a young farm hand, expecting nothing more than help around the barn. Instead, he finds someone just as lost as he is.
|| chapter tags: MDNI 18+ angst, light smut, masturbation, western vibes, estranged family, mentions of grief, mentions of abusive parents (joel's, tho reader's aren't great either), horses / ranch vibes, older man x younger woman, rancher!joel, expornstar!joel, flirting, swearing, drinking, eating, soft!joel, domestic!joel miller ||
author's note: eeee she's here!!! forever and ever grateful for my friends for letting me yap on for ages about this, for helping me with parts that snagged. thank you @pearlessance for reading her and picking me up off the ground when I wasn't sure about it. I cherish you forever. and jamie, if you're seeing this, thanks for the poem :)
wc: 10k
Inspiration & References: Flicka (2006)
Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
Good Bones, by Maggie Smith.
There's a creak to the front steps that has a nasty habit of yanking Joel back to the past better than any smell or fickle trick of memory ever could.
He remembers when Tommy cracked it, falling face first off the dog’s back when he was three, the step catching his chin before the ground could. That mean old mutt—Joel hadn’t been there that day to tell his little brother not to bother the damn thing. Instead, he'd been out in the pasture with their father, learning about grass and fence lines in the blistering heat, pretending he was absorbing any spec of it while sweat soaked through his shirt. He loved the ranch, he did, but back then all he’d wanted was to be on the back of a horse, moving fast and free across open land. Not standing in the sun while his father talked him through pasture rotation and repairs. The senior Miller was hellbent on teaching his son how to keep the farm running, not just how to enjoy it.
Tommy left a nice break in the wood, but only the house got fixed. His little brother still carried the scar.
The step took another hit years later, when his father bolted out the door when one of the horses came in with its hind leg torn open on the fence. Joel remembers how much blood there was. He could show you the spot it happened, the blood stained into the wood. His father ran so hard down the stairs not bothering to put on his barn boots, so his slipper went straight through the second step and caused a nasty twist in his ankle, but he hadn't stopped. The Miller man limped out into the field anyway to save the gelding. It was a miracle the horse lived. Horses were like that—always finding ways to hurt themselves, somehow surviving it. That, or dying from the smallest inconvenience. His dad called them stupid for it, but Joel thought they knew something he didn’t.
And then he remembers when the step had its final say—its last injury, permanent in the wood— cracked through the middle so bad it whines for repair every time it meets the bottom of a boot.
It was the night Joel had told his father Jess was pregnant.
He remembers how quiet it was at first, how the slide of forks and knives came to an abrupt halt, how the record player in the corner had timed its self to stop the John Denver vinyl just then too. His father had stood and lunged for him, dragging his son by the collar through the house until Joel was being thrown out the front door. He'd tried to catch himself, reached blindly for the railing, but his heart was beating too fast and his blood felt too loud in his ears for him to think straight. He slipped, weight gone wrong all at once as he went down hard on the porch steps. His elbow took the worst of it, punching into the bottom board with a sharp crack that echoed out into the night.
He'd laid there for a long moment, staring up at the underside of the porch roof, unable to look his father in the eye.
The door shut with a loud slam, and that was that.
He was on his own.
You
"So, like, what about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
She had to be joking.
"You can't just ask me to move out tomorrow, Brit, where would I go?" you said. Your voice had begun to shake, it felt odd even in your own ears: thin and nearly desperate.
"Call your friend Abby! I'm sure she's—"
"She's on a European backpacking trip—"
"I'm sure your mom and dad would—"
She seemed to find her mistake there, and stopped short. All you could do was look at her as a sour curdle of betrayal settled between you.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But I really need you to move out. Brad’s coming tomorrow and we want to finally live together. And starting this next chapter of our relationship just doesn’t make sense with a roommate.”
You had half a mind to laugh. Brad, who she'd been dating for six months, moving in. Kicking you out. But you couldn't quite get yourself to even smile at the insanity of how impulsive your roommate could be. She'd been like this ever since you moved in together your sophomore year of college. Your throat was closing up quickly, so you stood up from the couch, legs a little shaky, and walked toward your bedroom without saying anything else.
Inside, there wasn't much. At least, nothing that belonged to you. Most of the things here belonged to Brit or were bought secondhand when you'd first moved in last year. Since then, the room had slowly become yours, though maybe you always knew this day would come. It was why there weren't posters on the walls, why you didn't even get a rug even though the floor was freezing in the early mornings.
You pulled your backpack from the closet and started packing on autopilot. Fuck this— you weren't gonna let yourself mope here for another day before having to leave. Your laptop went in first, then the chargers that were all tangled up beside your bed. You shoved your notebooks next and your lumpy makeup bag. There was a folder too, stuffed with old syllabi and warning letters and forms you hadn’t looked at yet. You knew what they said, more or less.
You hesitated over them for a moment though, then pushed them down deeper, continuing the checklist in your head. Wallet, sunglasses, lip balm. Toiletries.
The clothes from your drawers and hangers all got shoved in the one plastic bin that you pulled out from under your bed with the rest of your crap.
You walked out into the bathroom and swiped your things from the vanity to shove in your backpack too. The adrenaline of it all was flowing in your blood, making it easy to just go go go. Toothbrush, tampons, deodorant—and for security, and extra roll of her Charmin's Ultra. You never knew when you'd be strapped.
You couldn't help but let the anxious thoughts of next steps begin to crowd your mind, wondering where you could go. You didn't even have a fucking car.
Out in the living room, Brit was leaning back on the couch, her phone in her lap as she texted away as if nothing was amiss.
“Here.” You tossed your house key onto the coffee table.
She called your name as you turned for the front door, but you could hardly bother to face her. There was a lump forming thicker in your throat now as the door came closer and closer, your life of unknown just on the other side of it. You worried if you looked back at your roommate again, you might do something humiliating. Like beg to stay.
She called your name a little harsher now, and finally you stopped.
“Your mail." she said. "And…I'm sorry.”
You glanced over just enough to see her arm extended toward you. You couldn't look at her face, just her manicured fingers holding out the envelopes.
One from your school.
A hospital bill.
Another from your credit card.
And a postcard from Abby with a green mountainside somewhere in the south of France.
You snatched the mail from Brit and made for the door, slamming it behind you.
You didn't really know where you were going when you started walking, just that your apartment was close enough to downtown and standing still felt useless. Your phone buzzed in your hand as you moved, probably Brit, but you keep walking. The bin you carried dug into your hip and you were dying to sit down and think through a plan. But you refused to sit on the curb. You'd at least check your bank account. Maybe you could get something to eat.
At a stop light, you set your bin down and pulled out your phone. Opening the banking app, your thumb was braced for disappointment.
The numbers were just as bad as you expected.
Your checking account had been thinner and thinner these past few days, but at least getting kicked out in the middle of the month meant you still had a chunk from saving for rent. Your actual savings had been a joke since you left home years ago. Your credit card balance sat in that ugly in between of minimum payments barely making a dent and the waning emails had started feeling more serious. You swiped into your email as you thought of it, subject lines of warnings and low balances and automated reminders about missed payments.
You closed the app and nearly threw your phone into oncoming traffic. But instead, pulled out your wallet. Okay, you still had some cash from babysitting your neighbor's little assholes last weekend.
So you picked up your backpack and your bin and kept walking, this time, towards a destination.
Randy's Diner came into view and soon you were walking inside a little clumsily, fitting yourself and your belongings through the glass door before sliding into a booth. You sighed with relief of finally having a place to land for a a little while when the waiter came and took your order of a milkshake and fries. Cheap, greasy, something to make life a little better for a second. The guy who took your order hardly took a second glance at your belongings around you, and you were grateful for it.
Lining up your things on the table just to give yourself something to do, you tried to think about a plan. You had a phone that still worked, a wallet with some spare cash. The stack of mail Brit had handed you on the way out.
While you waited for your order, you went back to scrolling.
Indeed, ZipRecruiter, Craiglist—though maybe you should've known better than to try that last one.
Everything wanted a degree. Everything wanted reliable transportation. Everything wanted experience you didn’t have or credentials you’d never finished earning. You bookmarked a few anyway, even applied to one or two jobs that paid barely above minimum wage. You'd figured out the transportation after. Your student work at the university had officially run its course, so you had to start somewhere. Your thumb kept moving, muscle memory at this point, even as your chest started to feel tight.
Your fries arrived first—hot and salty and perfect—though your appetite had waned as your future became more and more bleak. You wondered how long they'd let you stay in here. If you ate one fry at a time, took a sip of milkshake every five minutes, maybe they could last you a couple hours without buying anything else.
In the middle of your thought process, the waiter came back with your milkshake, setting it down in front of you, chocolate dripping slowly down the side of the glass. You saw him looking over your shoulder at your phone screen before you could hide it from view, and he looked back up at you.
“You lookin' for work?”
You hesitated, laying your phone face down in your lap, but nodded. There wasn't any point in pretending.
He leaned his hip against the booth opposite from you for a second, his kind face and dark eyes gentle as they took you in.
"We've got a bulletin board by the entrance, people are always tacking stuff up there. Babysitting, dog walking, odd jobs. It's not much, but… yeah. I could see if my boss is hiring too."
"Thank you," you said, and you meant it, and gave you a small smile as he walked to his next table.
You ate your fries slowly, though the milkshake didn't stand a chance of lasting you a few hours. The creamy cold sweetness felt good down your thickening throat, the salt of the fries a perfect pairing. If anything, it was making you feel a little better. Though for how long, you couldn't be sure. You tried to stay off your phone, saving the phone battery for as long as possible.
You thought about how fast everything had unraveled. Not just today, but over the last year. How it all happened so quickly and in small, miniature disasters. And then a missed assignment, a few classes skipped, a failed class and then two. And then your scholarship slipped through your fingers. You had parents who thought they loved you in theory, but you weren't sure you could get past the things that had happened. You thought of the money you used to have, options you used to assume would always be there.
You'd gone from being a student at a top rated school to sipping a marble milkshake in a diner with your life stuffed into a single bin and backpack before you knew it.
You wondered, briefly, if you should’ve just stayed with them. If you should’ve swallowed their words, their expectations and kept your head down, let them buy you a car and pay your rent. You imagined yourself back in that house, walking on eggshells, smiling through it, letting them dictate your life in exchange for comfort.
Your stomach tightened at the thought.
Even now, sitting here with your backpack at your feet and everything you owned stacked beside you, you knew you couldn’t have done that. You’d rather be broke and displaced than small and silent with your family who reminded you everyday of what went wrong.
That didn’t make this any easier.
When you eventually flagged down the waiter for the check, he shook his head.
"It's on me," he said, "I've been where you are. It ain't easy."
You started to protest, but he only shook his head harder, a smile widening his lips. "Seriously, it's cool. Don't even worry."
You sighed, giving in. "Okay, well…I appreciate it."
He nodded, rapping his knuckles on the table, and turned away.
Eventually you realized there wasn’t much point in sitting there anymore, watching strangers pass by through the window while your empty plate sat cold. You needed to figure out where you were sleeping. That part couldn’t wait.
You pulled your phone back out and started searching, thumb moving slower now. Women’s shelters, emergency housing, cheap motels within walking distance. Some of the reviews mentioned bed bugs and stolen belongings. You stared at one listing for a long minute, doing the math in your head, wondering how bad it really was, if it was worth it.
You weren't sure. But you had to start somewhere.
Collecting your bin and throwing your backpack over your shoulder, you thanked your waiter again and made for the door, but paused.
The bulletin in the entryway was tacked full of business cards of local real estate agents, lawyers, and We Buy Houses with Cash crap, but there were a few job postings. One in particular caught your eye.
ISO — ranch help. 50 horses. Stall cleaning, general barn maintenance. Must be able to lift heavy weight and have experience with horses. Work for room and board available.
You leaned in closer, reading it again. Room and board. Horses. A ranch.
Memories suddenly flooded your minds eye. It was like remembering a past life, what was your past life. Afternoons after school spent throwing on riding boots and climbing into the saddle while the other kids did team sports like soccer or softball. Your summers were spent on sprawling farms where your parents dropped you with a suitcase and a credit card to spend every hour of daylight brushing coats and braiding manes and begging the counselors to let you stay in the barn after dinner. Weekend mornings started earlier than the rest of the world, your hair perfectly tucked under your helmet, stiflingly stiff show coats and tan breeches pressing tight against your skin while your mother sipped coffee on the sidelines. Visions of ribbons and trophies and the smell of hay and horses filled your head, all still there, tucked away somewhere inside you. A second skin you’d worn once upon a time.
You pulled out your phone and dialed the number on the card.
The voice on the other end was low, baritone, and breathy.
"Hello?"
"Um—" you hesitated, not sure where to start, the diner suddenly felt very quiet, like everyone could hear your conversation. "I saw your job posting on the bulletin at Randy's, for room and board?"
"You got experience with horses?"
"Yes."
There was a pause, and you swore you could hear the grin on the man's face as he finally went on, "You gonna tell me what kinda experience or gonna make me guess?"
“Oh—sorry,” you rushed, fumbling over your words. “I grew up riding, you know, lessons and summer camps. I did show jumping and hunters. An-and barn chores too.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was already recalibrating whatever picture he’d formed in his head.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna be straight with you. This ain’t that kinda place. We breed quarter horses, raise em' and train for barrel racin' and other western discipline. The work you gotta do ain't like them hoity-toity English lessons. I need someone for cleanin', feedin', haulin' water, early mornings. Ain’t polished, ain’t fancy, and it—”
"That's fine," you answered quickly, "Really, I just um, I really need the place to stay, and the job. I don't mind the work."
There was another pause, longer this time. You squeezed your eyes shut and prayed to whatever god there might be that he was going to accept.
“Well," he sighed, "I sure as hell need the help. You callin’ from Randy’s right now?”
"Yes, sir."
"You got a car to come out here?"
"No, sir."
There was another pause, but this one was rented by the sound of keys jangling in the background, a creaking of a screen door opening and snapping shut.
"I'm on my way. Stay put. Tell Jesse I'll be there for ya soon."
Jesse?
Before you could ask, the line went dead.
45 minutes and a free cup of coffee later with your waiter—who, it turned out, really was named Jesse—a loud, rattling exhaust rolled down the center of the street and parked crookedly in front of the diner doors.
"That'd be your cue," Jesse said with a wink, taking your empty cup from your hands.
You turned toward the noise: an old red Ford idling rough at the curb, coughing like an old man with a bad lung. You gathered your bin and slung your backpack higher on your shoulder, starting toward it.
There was a man in the driver’s seat with dark, graying hair under a Stetson hat, shading a thick brow that threaded over his eyes. You couldn’t quite see the color at first, only the way they caught the sunlight bouncing off the street as he leaned back with his cheek resting against his knuckles, scanning the sidewalk for whoever he was supposed to be meeting. When his gaze landed on you, you felt it like a rush of warmth, just a quick glance down and back up again, taking inventory.
He climbed out of the truck right away and reached for your bin before you could stop him. Up close, he was broad and tall, solid through the shoulders and chest, everything about the way he took up the space unmistakably masculine.
“Howdy,” he said. “You the girl I was talkin’ to?”
“Yes, sir," you replied, adding a quiet thanks as he lifted the bin from your hands.
“Go on, get in. I’ll grab the rest.”
"The…rest, sir?"
He paused, his hand sliding your backpack off your shoulder without asking. “The rest of your things.”
You shrugged, glancing toward the truck bed where your plastic bin already sat, the snaps barely holding it together.
“This is it.”
He cocked his head a bit at that, a clicked his teeth. But it didn't take him long to throw your backpack on the bench seat and grab a hold of his driver's side door. "Well. Come on then."
You nodded, moving around the front of the truck and hopping in beside him.
He was playing some old Johnny Cash song on the radio, so low you barely heard the strumming guitar riffs over the truck shuddering as he pulled out of the lot.
“So, like… no background check or references?” you called over the loud engine.
When you looked over at him, you suddenly realized how handsome he was. Hazel, his eyes were hazel. A hundred different shades of green and brown and blue all muddied together. And he was smiling, a wide grin stretching over his face as his hand came up to scratch at his thick beard.
"Should I be worried?" he replied. He had a classic Texas twang to his voice too, you had a hard time thinking to be clever over his charm.
You shrugged, "Just…you didn't even think to ask about my criminal record or anything. Must be desperate."
He laughed a little, and his smile was so nice, he wasn't anything like the old rancher you expected to be picking you up. Your shoulders loosened a bit at the easiness he brought.
"Why? You gonna show up on America's Most Wanted if I turn on the TV?"
"Ya never know," you said, mirroring his wide grin.
Out on the open road, you drove for a while with the music turned back up, talking dulled down to quiet. Mostly because there was no use trying to have any conversation over the grumbling of the old Ford. You wondered how old the dang thing could be, if it had been in his family or if he was one of those old car junkies. Time passed easily, open fields of corn and produce filling the landscape more than anything else. The land opened wide and patient beneath the sky, and the road seemed to stretch on and on under his headlights as the sky slowly softening toward evening. When he reached over to turn the radio quieter, you felt him glance over.
"So gotta couple things to tell ya about," the man said, "'fore we get there n' all."
You nodded, "Okay," folding your hands in your lap.
"Ain't much out here," he began, "If you need somethin', we keep a list in the house for when I go grocery shoppin', which is about every two to three weeks if I can manage it. Any kinda fun you think you might wanna have, bars and clubbin'—your social life, that is—"
"Don't really have one, so—"
“— you’ll need to let me know ahead of time,” he said, rolling right over your interruption, “and I’ll take you and pick you up. Ain’t no cabs comin’ all the way out here. Closest place we got is The Tipsy Bison, and that’s mostly bikers passin’ through and a few stragglers from nearby farms.”
You laughed quietly. “The Tipsy what now?”
He shook his head, "I'm just tryna let you know that we're way out there, alright? Far from town, from civilization. Some people go a bit stir crazy from it."
You looked out the window, the sunset beginning to drench the sky in a blaze of orange.
"I got nowhere to be so…"
When you glanced back over, you caught him looking at you again with something thoughtful, maybe even worried. But then they softened, and he let out a soft breath, and turned the music back up.
Eventually the ranch came into view, an old rickety sign blowing in the breeze that stated its name proud and rusted:
Miller Farms Quarter Horses.
He pulled the truck right up to the house, porch lights glowing warm against the darkness. It was so dark out here you couldn’t even make out the rolling mountains behind the property, only the moon hanging high above and a scatter of stars, thin clouds drifting slow across the sky. The quiet felt bigger than you were, stretched wide in every direction. You suddenly realized just how far from anything you really were, the moon feeling like the closest to anyone you'd be for a while.
He hopped out of the truck with your bag in tow, grabbing your bin and moving easily with it despite how heavy it had felt in your arms before. Walking around the truck, he came back around with your backpack slung easily over his shoulder, broad frame crowding the car door you opened.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you your place.”
You nodded, nerves humming low in your chest, and followed him across the gravel, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders moved under his simple black tee shirt. He led the way toward the barn, and you saw the old, chipped red paint coming into view as you got closer, then turned left and up a narrow flight of stairs that were barely lit.
“Door gets a bit jammed sometimes,” he said over his shoulder as he made it to the top. “Gotta get used to the way she likes handlin'.”
He set your bin down and dug out his keys, working them into the lock.
“She’s a little nitpicky,” he added, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But if ya hold her just right and—”
He leaned his shoulder hard into the door, and it opened with a tired creak.
You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged your lips as you passed him to see inside.
The place was sweet, bigger than anything you needed or expected, but already warm with someone else’s living. Carpeted floors led into a furnished living room, a little box TV with a VHS player tucked beneath it, a gray couch and a La-Z-Boy framing the space. A couple of barstools sat at the kitchen counter, a coffee maker waiting quietly in the corner. You walked through slowly, taking it all in, past a full bath and into a small bedroom off to the right, everything already set up like someone had tried to imagine you here.
“Got some sheets n' blanket a few days ago, so everythin' is fresh for ya,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sure who’d be stayin’, so sorry if they ain't your taste. We can always—”
"What's your name?" you asked suddenly, turning on your heel.
He cleared his throat, "Oh—"
“Usually I try to learn a man’s name before he comes into my house,” you said, half joking, half not.
His shoulders dropped as he smiled, something easing out of him at the tone in your voice. “Joel. Joel Miller.”
He held out his hand, and you took it. His grip was warm and solid, calloused in a way that told you he worked with them every day, and you realized you were staring a little too long at the lines of his face, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the sunburnt planes of his cheekbones. He was so…big, broader than anyone had any right to be, and suddenly you felt very small standing in front of him with your whole life packed into a single plastic bin and a backpack.
“Listen,” he said, pulling his hand back gently to shove it into his jean pocket before fishing out the little front door key and handing it over. “Why don’t you get settled in, and I’ll introduce you to everyone. Then we’ll have some dinner. I gotta do bed check soon anyway.”
"Dinner?" Everyone?
“Yeah,” he said over his shoulder, heading for the door. “Figure you’ve had a long day. Least I can do. Just holler or come on down when you’re ready.”
You only could force yourself to nod, watching as he pulled the door shut, the descending sounds of his footsteps on the steps, and the beginnings of murmurs and movement below.
You found yourself worrying who he meant by everyone. Other workers, maybe. A wife and kids? You wondered what it would feel like to exist in the margins of someone else’s life like that, sleeping upstairs in the barn while their family moved through the house across the gravel drive. Would you be standing shoulder to shoulder with the farm workers who might barely look at you at all? It was the quiet dismissal you remembered from barn culture when you were younger, the way people could acknowledge your presence without ever really seeing you.
The thoughts started to pile in your chest.
You shook your head, rubbing your palms up and down your face, then turned toward the shower.
Joel
Joel wasn’t entirely sure what he’d gotten himself into.
When he’d put up the ad, he figured he’d find another nice young guy like Jesse, someone with their own truck, their own life, who’d stay upstairs and keep to themselves, come down for chores and head back out again without ever really crossing into his world. Someone easy, someone who didn’t need much from him.
But the first surprise had been your voice.
Sweet and young and threaded through with a desperation he tried not to dwell on. He’d barely questioned your experience or knowledge, even though he knew better.
He still hadn’t asked your name, and that bothered him now.
Where were his manners? He kept meaning to, kept losing the moment, and somehow every time he looked at you it slipped his mind again. He’d felt thrown off from the start, even just watching you walk out of the diner toward his truck, carrying one plastic bin and one backpack, everything you owned balanced between your arms and shoulder. No car or extra baggage, just the clothes on your back and that look on your face like you were trying very hard to not fall apart.
He thought that might’ve been when it really sank in that he was in deep. That he couldn't question you like any old job interview. That he couldn't just leave you there. You were coming with him, and that was that.
He’d left you upstairs to get settled, hoping everything looked alright. He’d had Tess meet him at the department store to help pick things out, because she’d always been good at that sort of thing, even back when Sarah was little and needed things he didn’t understand. She’d helped him keep it neutral while still making it feel livable, neither of them knowing if it’d be a man or a woman moving in, one person or two. It wasn’t much of an apartment, but it was something.
He remembered the old man who used to live up there when Joel was just a kid. Mr. Riley. Gruff old bastard who’d put Joel straight to work the second he had his boots on in the morning, always handing him the worst stalls, the jobs nobody wanted—sorting rotted lumber from the good, shoveling horse shit in the round pen and exerciser, or pulling weeds until his hands cramped. Back then Joel had hated it.
But now, standing back here years later, he figured it’d done him some good. Toughened him up, made everything else feel manageable by comparison.
He was downstairs now, filling water buckets, letting the routine carry him easily and allowing his thoughts to wander. It was his favorite part of the evening, when the horses were tucked into their hay for the night, rustling and content. Fender got his mash and his meds, looking better than he had in a long time, and Joel couldn’t help shaking his head at the old fool. Thirty-five years old, easy. Maybe more. He watched the old stallion as he smeared mash all over his muzzle now, ears flicking toward Joel as he topped off the water in his stall.
Fender had been the first horse he ever broke. Joel had been a gangly teenager, the horse nothing but legs and attitude back then. His father had let him keep him because the poor colt's mama nearly kicked her own baby's head in the day he was born. Some horses were just like that--never meant to be parents--but Joel never held it against them.
He stood and walked to the next stall now, starting the water again, and listened to the steady rhythm of chewing, the filling of water in the plastic buckets, that old feeling of the barn settling around him. He tried to shake the image of you standing there in the parking lot with your whole life packed into plastic.
He told himself he’d done the right thing.
He hoped he had.
"Hey."
Your voice came from the far end of the aisle, quiet but clear enough to pull him from his stupor. He turned quickly, caught off guard, and found you standing there with damp hair darkening the shoulders of your hoodie, pearl drops of water still soaking into the fabric. You’d changed into something comfortable, already looking more at home in a barn than he’d expected. His barn.
“Hi,” he said, and it came out softer than he meant it to.
What the hell had gotten into him.
You were smiling, just a little, and then the gelding beside you shoved his head halfway out his stall, drawn by the faint crinkle of something in your pocket. Before Joel could even open his mouth, half the barn followed suit, noses poking out one after another, ears pricked, a sudden chorus of hopeful snorts and nickers filling the aisle.
“Found these upstairs by the door,” you laughed, pulling out a peppermint, your smile brightening in wattage as you took in the lineup you’d accidentally summoned.
“Best not spoil ’em rotten before you get to know ’em,” Joel told you, though there was no real scolding in it.
He watched as you unwrapped the candy and held it out to the blue roan nearest you, who took it delicately before immediately chomping down like it was heaven on earth. The sound set the rest of them off, heads tossing, hooves kicking their stall walls, everyone suddenly convinced they were being unfairly neglected.
“Oh now you really got ’em goin’,” Joel said, reaching out to pat Fender’s neck when the old horse joined the racket before he stepped closer to you and nodded toward the stall door beside your shoulder.
GOOD MATCH
MAC : GOOD MACHINE X MISS BUCKEYE
BORN 3/15
“This here’s Good Match,” Joel said, pointing to the happy blue roan. “One of Good Machine’s foals.”
You raised your eyebrows at him while your hand was still slick with horse spit.
He smiled. “Fancy horse, is what I’m sayin’. Good genes.”
You wiped your palm on your pants and leaned back toward the young gelding. “I gotta say, it’s been a long time since I remembered horses got weird names like that. We’re just gonna call you Mac, okay?”
You kissed him between the eyes, and Mac promptly decided he’d gotten everything he was going to get out of you and went back to his hay.
Joel walked you down the aisle after that, pointing out stalls as he went, giving you everyone’s story and their barn name, the one they went by instead of their pedigree. His father would’ve slapped him upside the head for it.
Ain’t no good dumbin’ them down to their stable names when introducin’ them to folks, Joel. You take away all our hard work that way.
“We got Mary here,” he said, stopping beside a bay mare, trying to clear his head of his father's reprimand. “She’s retired from her show days, and has a bit of trouble under saddle, though she’s a good girl on the ground. Best mama we got. She'll be goin' to a new home soon. Found a nice family with little girl who will love her.”
You nodded, smiling as the mare took a peppermint.
“Rocky hates his hind end touched,” he continued, already moving on to the bay gelding next to her. “Might get yer head kicked off unless he's sedated. Broke a groom's jaw once when they didn't listen."
"I don't like my hind end touched without permission either, bud," you whispered, touching Rocky's nose as he took a mint.
Joel chuckled a bit at that, and carried on.
“Paloma here goes out alone during the day, then stays in her stall at night like the rest of 'em,” he said, slowing near the larger foaling stall. “She’s due any day now with her first foal, don't want any trouble by puttin' her out with the herd.”
You stopped, stepping closer to the pale blonde mare, taking in her swollen belly, the way she stood with her head low in her hay.
“She don’t care much for sweets,” Joel added, quieter now. “But if you ever got a banana, you’ll be her best friend.”
“That’s so cute,” you murmured, leaning your elbows against her stall window. “Pregnancy cravings are weird, huh, woman?”
Paloma swished her tail in response and went right back to eating.
“The horses in the barn are here for a reason,” he said, turning to you after all the introductions had been made. “Either stall rest or workin’. The rest are out on the east hillside right now. I’ll be changin’ fields tomorrow if you wanna come along.”
You turned toward him, eyes wide, nerves and excitement tangled together as they reflected the barn lights. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Gotta show you around when the sun’s out.”
You nodded back, fingers lifting to your mouth, biting lightly at the tips before you caught yourself. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That sounds great.”
“I’ll give you the mornin’ off from stalls,” Joel said. “But come Tuesday, I expect ’em all done first thing, alright?”
“Yes, sir,” you replied softly, hands dropping back to your sides.
He waved it off. “Just Joel’s fine, darlin’.”
Then, after a beat, he tipped his head toward the back of the barn.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you the feed and tack rooms, then we’ll eat.”
Joel had missed this—cooking for someone. He realized it halfway into plating your dish, handing it to you, letting you settle in at his dining table.
Sure it was a little awkward, having you in his home where no one had been except for the occasional visit from Sarah in the months he'd been here. The house was so quiet, it made him a little restless, too much space to fill with the echoes of his memories. He kept catching himself listening for things that weren’t there anymore: boots on the stairs, his brother hollering his complaints about getting up early, the baying hound dog losing its mind over a squirrel in the yard. He remembered his father falling asleep on the old recliner in the living room, watching the same reruns on the loudest volume because he couldn’t hear half of what was being said.
But Joel didn't think of any of that now, not when you let out a long sigh of contentment as you ate the dinner he made you. You'd let him talk you into a glass of wine, toasting to a fresh start, though you'd looked at him funny for that. He'd really meant for you, but maybe he meant for himself a little too.
"This was really nice, Joel," you said softly, sipping the last dregs of your wine glass, setting down your knife and fork, "Thank you."
“Ain’t nothin’. Happy to,” he replied, waving off your kindness. He found himself liking the way his name sounded in your mouth. He also noticed he was on his third glass and made a mental note not to pour another.
"It's awfully quiet in here, ya know." you said with another contented sigh. "Where is everyone?"
Joel picked up his own wine glass, toying with the stem for a moment as he looked at you, an indifferent frown forming on his lips, "S'just me."
You looked over at him him then, your gaze lingering, and he felt the burn of being studied, looked at a little too hard. But you had such pretty eyes, he almost…didn't mind it—you, staring at him. He found himself wondering what they'd look like in the morning light tomorrow. It was a curious thought, as he wasn't much of a painter at all, but he wanted to know the different colors it would take to get them just right. And right now they were a little red at the edges, brightened by the wine and warmth of a full stomach.
"Tell me something—about you then." you said, sitting up a little straighter and letting your chin rest on your propped up hands, elbows setting gently on the table as you leaned in, "Something I should know."
"I'm shit at dancin'."
He wasn't sure why he'd said it, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
"And that's something I should know?" you smiled widely, toothily, and he couldn't help but smile back.
"Just in case we ever do make it to The Tipsy Bison—they got square dancin' on Sundays. And don't think you'll ever talk me into it."
“Yes, sir,” you said, lifting two lazy fingers in a mock salute. “In exchange, I’ll tell you I’m a terrible singer.”
"I'll make sure not to walk in on ya in the shower, then."
Fuck, he really shouldn't have said that. He was cursing himself again for the three wine glasses he'd consumed, making his tongue loose. But you humored him with a deep blush, looking away for a moment, into his kitchen, but your face fell slowly, and then all at once.
"Why are you all alone on this big farm, Joel?"
You looked at him again, the warmth of wine still gleaming in your eyes, but they were serious now. Sad, almost.
He sat back, his own smile gone too now. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest, following where your eyes had looked, over into the kitchen, where a family photo still hung on the wall a little crookedly. One of a man and a woman with their two sons. And an old dog by their side.
"This was my family's farm. My dad's." he started softly, and you only nodded, he could see it from his peripheral, but he didn't look back at you yet, "we uh…we didn't get along too well. Hadn't seen 'em since… well. In a long time." His hand came up without thinking, the sound of his nails through the thicket of his beard soothing to his own ears.
"I had to make my own way for a long, long time. And just last spring I got a call that he'd... And no one was around to take the place. My brother is off livin' his life in Austin now, and I was…." He trailed off, then looked back at you. “I’d been retired for a while. So here I am.”
"You grew up here?" you asked softly, biting your lip a little shyly as you met his gaze.
He nodded.
"And your dad… did he…was he a good man?"
Joel didn't answer that.
"I don't talk to my parents either." you added then, soft as anything, saving him from having to.
His gaze didn’t waver from you.
“They wanted something for me,” you went on slowly, and he could see how carefully you were choosing your words. “Something they were sure was right. And I tried to go along with it.” Your mouth pressed thin for a second. “But it cost me more than they’ll ever understand.”
You shut your eyes briefly, steadying yourself, and when you opened them again there was something firm there.
“And I don't think I'll ever forgive them. Easy as that.”
"I'm sure it ain't easy." Joel murmured, leaning in now, wanting to listen.
You huffed a short breath, a cold smile on your lips, "If it was, I wouldn't be here, would I?" You shook your head, looking down at your nails, "but…I'm glad I am, by the way. To be here. Thank you."
He nodded once, unable to answer yet. There was a strange thing happening, something like a mirror held up to him, and he didn’t like how clearly he could see himself in it. He wondered if he’d been just as fierce about the line between himself and his father when he was your age, or if he’d just left quietly and carried the damage with him. He wondered if he’d ever had the kind of courage it took to sit here like you were now: in the middle of nowhere, with a strange man on a thousand acre farm, all alone with nowhere to be.
“I should probably go to bed now,” you said. “Big day tomorrow, huh?”
Joel felt himself soften, shoulders dropping.
“Somethin’ like that.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Let me walk you out—no—” He stopped when you reached for your plate, holding a hand out. “Leave that, I’ll get it. Got enough work ahead of ya.” He gave you a small smile.
You returned it and thanked him again quietly, and he walked you back to his front door, opening it for you. He could see your door from here now. Not Mr. Riley’s anymore. Yours. A funny feeling in his stomach dropped low and warm at the thought.
You stood there as if waiting for him. For him to say something, or do something, he wasn't sure. He wondered if you’d had any of the same thoughts about him today, if you’d felt it too—the strange shift in the course, the way something had gone a little sideways the moment you showed up with your life in a plastic bin.
He didn’t know. So he only said:
"Goodnight."
And you were so close. He could nearly count your lashes you were so close. And you were looking up at him, and he tilted his own head to mirror yours, not even meaning to, his eyes scanning your face, taking you in under the porch light.
“Goodnight, Joel,” you said softly, and to his surprise you rose onto your toes, your delicate fingers settling gently on his upper arm for balance as your lips brushed his cheek. “And thank you again…for…yeah, everything.”
“You won’t be thankin’ me by midday tomorrow,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady as you leaned back on your heels. “Go on now. Get some sleep.”
You laced your fingers behind your back and turned, heading down the front steps, the bottom board giving that familiar aching creak as you disappeared into the dark.
You
You rode out with Joel while the morning was still young, the sky wide and washed clean blue, the pastures stretching open in every direction.
The land rose in fell in gentle swells around you, acres of grass catching the early breeze, fence lines cutting through fields that felt endless. The air smelled cleaner out here, fresh, forgiving. As if all your problems were left behind at the barn.
The saddle felt different than the English tack you'd grown up in—heavier, wider, that big western horn with the lariat rope hanging around, a saddlebag of things. Your canvas sneakers felt silly in the stirrups, and Joel had even eyed them a little funny in the barn when he'd helped you onto the horse. It all felt a little clunky, everything reminding you this wasn't a show barn or a perfectly manicured arena anymore, but once you found your balance it came back easy, a muscle memory that felt like it had been waiting for you all along.
Your hips followed the rhythm of the horse beneath you, heels dropping unconsciously into the stirrups and your hands light on the reins. It felt funny how quickly your body remembered something your life had left behind.
That morning, you had tried to find Joel in time to help with stalls, but he was already done and saddling up two horses for you to head out when you came downstairs. He was on Mac and had given you a chestnut mare named Georgie who was all bark and no bite, her ears pinned when the gelding got a little too close, but quick on her feet and a smooth ride up the hillside.
You followed his lead at first, watching how easily he sat upon his steed, his shoulders relaxed, at home out here in the wide open space. You let yourself drift a little, letting your gaze wander over the land, over the herd moving ahead of you, tails swishing lazily as they moved through the pasture, ears flicking back every so often to check where you were.
The morning passed easily as you turned the thirty something horses over into the next pasture, both of you on either end. Joel was a good teacher, clear and concise and forgiving if you meandered out of line. He only spoke when something needed saying, pointing things out you'd need to remember. But mostly you rode in companionable quiet, the sounds of leather creaking beneath you and hooves in the dirt filling the space.
At some point you realized…you felt lighter. Like something had been left behind. That weight you'd been carrying, whether it was physical or metaphorical—it felt forgotten out here. You chest was lighter, you were just…existing. You weirdly felt lucky.
By the time you finished shifting the horses into the eastern hillside, your legs were sore and tired in a good way, and your cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling without realizing it.
You were dismounted now, horses tied behind you and grazing on the grass by the fence posts, watching the herd enjoy their new plot and Joel checking the wires and wood of the post that needed fixing.
The morning dew was burning off in the sunlight, the air warming fast.
“This place…” you began with a quiet sigh, your face resting atop your hands. Your body was threaded through the fence line, your butt perched on the second plank, feet hooked behind the bottom rail, your head leaned against the top while you watched the horses fan out across their new pasture. “It’s wonderful.”
Joel smiled to himself as he dug around the base of the post to your left.
“How long have you been back for?” you asked when he didn’t answer right away.
He dragged the back of his glove across his forehead, leaving a faint streak of dirt behind. “’Bout a year now.”
“And you just… knew what to do?” you said. “Even after your time away?”
He looked up at you from where he was kneeling, caught you looking down at him.
“My pop’s farmhand was still here when I came back. Couple workers too, just for the transition, busy months.” He leaned his weight into the post, straightening it by hand. “By the end of summer, the farmhand left me to it.”
“Just like that?” you asked. “Everything?”
He grunted as he packed dirt back into the hole. “Workers come and go. That’s how it’s always been. Which is why I needed someone full-time.”
He took the fence post, pulling and pushing it into position, his shirt stretched tight across his chest when he straightened it by hand. His thick muscles shifted under the fabric, forearms roped and dusted with grit as he packed dirt back into the hole. You watched his shoulders flex as he pulled the wire taut, the muscles in his arms bulging with the force of his strength. You had to look away quickly, refocus on the twitching muscles of the horses instead.
"Riley said he'd finally get the retirement he wanted, far from here," he grunted again, lurching the fence post into submission, "I think he said somethin' about the coast of Florida, not sure where he is now. Hope the bastard got to be with his grandkids, though." Joel finished.
"I hope so too." you said quietly.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he secured the wire, drove the staples back in, then stood and leaned against the post with a long breath, looking out over the herd with you. One of the horses pinned its ears at another and let out an irritated whinny.
He chuckled.
“So,” he said after a moment, folding his arms over his chest, glancing down at you. “What do you think?”
You tipped your head back to look at him, cheek still resting on your knuckles.
“It’s amazing.”
He nodded, pleased, then turned back toward the pasture.
“What’s your deal then, Joel Miller?” you asked.
It came out a little seriously, but you said it with a smile. When he looked at you, you could tell he was relieved it wasn’t an interrogation.
"Dunno, what is my deal, little lady?"
You dragged your teeth over your bottom lip, considering your words, then shrugged. “I mean… no wife? No kids? A good-lookin’ man like yourself shouldn’t be out here all alone.”
"Good lookin', huh?" he teased, and you rolled your eyes.
You waited though, not giving him an out just yet.
“My daughter’s grown,” he said finally. “Livin’ her own life. She’s up in San Diego. Tryna grow a family.”
Your eyes widened. “You’re gonna be a grandpa?”
His face softened at that.
“Maybe,” he said. “She came to see me when I first got here. Checkin’ in on me. I offered her the apartment for her and her partner, but she didn’t want any of this sorta life. Went back home and…"
"Haven’t seen her since,” he finished quietly.
“You should go visit her,” you said.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I should.”
You watched him for a beat, then nudged the moment back into lighter territory.
“No wife?” you asked again.
He looked down at you, one brow lifting. “Nope.”
You pretended to think about it, tapping your finger against the back of your hand where it laid. Hmmm…you hummed.
"What?" he asked, mock affronted.
You smiled up at him. “Nothin'. Just a shame, seems like someone would be missing out.”
He snorted. “Careful.”
“Careful what?”
He peered down at you from the corner of his eye, a smile tugging harder into his cheek, his hand coming up to his beard. He did that a lot, you were starting to notice—his fingers dragging through the thick of it, thoughtful—and you wondered what it would feel like if it was your hand there instead.
“Gonna make me act outta line if you keep flirtin’."
“Should I call HR?” you teased.
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
You leaned your chin into your palm, studying him plainly now. “So what, you just scare all your employees off with your rugged charm and unresolved daddy issues?”
He barked out a surprised laugh at that, pointing at you and standing straight. “Oh, you’re trouble. Get on yer horse, young lady. Let's head back."
“Only observant,” you said innocently, untangling your body from the fence to stand beside him, “Come on now. Tell me why someone like you isn't married off with ten kids.”
He shook his head, turning his back on you, making his way over to the blue roan and untying his reins from the post as he called over his shoulder: “You sure like to poke and prod into a man’s life, don’t ya?”
You shrugged as you did the same with your mare. “Just like to know the person I’m gonna be spendin’ most my days with. That’s all.”
“And ten kids?!” he added, catching up to what you'd said, incredulous as he gripped the horn of the saddle and hopped on.
You couldn't tell him the real reason why you thought it.
“Whaaaatever,” you sing-songed when he didn’t give in, still smiling as you slid your foot into the stirrup and hauled yourself up. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find out one way or another.”
He didn't turn back when he nudged his horse forward, but you could've sworn you'd heard him say:
"I'm sure you will."
By late afternoon the barn was swept, chores done and checked off. Joel walked you through the evening routine you’d be handling later on, then headed out to a neighboring ranch for what he called a meeting. He had said something about breeding schedules and future placements and money changing hands. You hadn’t followed most of it, only nodded and smiled and leaned against the truck while he talked, watching the way he moved when he was explaining something, then watched him climb into the cab and pull away down the drive, dust kicking behind the old Ford.
And now, upstairs organizing what little you had, you realized the apartment had grown on you in the hours you’d been here, though you hadn’t spent much of that time inside it. It felt good to have a place that was yours, with the soft snorts of horses drifting up through the floorboards, a few still stalled downstairs while the rest were turned out to pasture. There was something comforting about the quiet noise of them eating, the low rustle of hay to keep you company.
You found the vacuum and supplies to clean the apartment for yourself, even though it already looked like someone had done so before you arrived. You tried to imagine Joel doing it and couldn’t quite make it fit. Maybe he had someone come by. Maybe he just liked things tidy. You caught yourself wondering if he had friends. Or—stupidly—if he had lady friends.
You shook it off and grabbed your emptied plastic bin.
You’d noticed the shed earlier, tucked behind the barn. A little yellow, rickety thing with one dusty window and a porch light over the door. When you’d asked about it, Joel had said it was just storage, told you if you needed to put anything in there he could handle it. But he wasn’t here now, and you didn’t feel like bothering him over something so trivial.
So you headed downstairs, the empty bin bumping lightly against your leg, gravel crunching under your canvas sneakers as you rounded the back of the barn. A few horses lifted their heads at the sound of you, hopeful for an early dinner, but you passed the open aisle doors and kept walking.
The shed sat behind a line of wheelbarrows, unimpressive and quiet. And yet, something about it made your skin prickle. You told yourself it was nothing. Inside probably just stored tack, tools, extra feed bins. Normal ranch stuff. So you made your way carefully around the wheelbarrows, and pulled the door open. Inside was exactly as you expected: dust and old wood and the faint smell of oil and leather. A single bulb hung from the ceiling on a pull cord, which you yanked and light spilled across the space.
Maybe Joel was a bit of a neat freak—things were tidier than you expected. Tool boxes lined the left wall, unused saddles and bridles on the right, all clean and hanging nicely, only age and disuse covering them in a layer of dust.
Ahead of you, long shelves ran the width of the shed, stacked with plastic bins, some clear, some opaque. You slid a few of them aside to make room for yours, careful not to disturb whatever system had been here before you arrived.
You pulled on one of the bins, heavier than you expected, and tried to shift it down to create some space for your own. Instead, the sudden pull sent it slipping out of your hands and off the shelf. It hit the floor with a crash so loud it felt explosive in the small space, plastic slamming concrete, the sound ricocheting through the walls and straight up your spine.
"Shit!" you squeaked, jumping away from the spilled contents.
Under you, the lid had popped loose on impact, causing a crack in the top of it. For a moment, you stood there, weighing the consequences of your actions before stooping down to begin cleaning up your crime. You half expected to hear Joel’s truck crunching back down the drive or his boots outside the shed door to find you guiltily snooping through his things, but the quiet stayed, the stale air of the shed pressing in, and your pulse slowly settled.
It was just a bin of old VHS tapes, and you couldn't help but smile at thinking what an old man, hanging on to old movies like this, like it was still the 90's. It looked as if he'd raided a blockbuster after they'd all closed down, given how many he had. They were all in paper casings—which you would only find odd after the fact—blue and black and most of them written on in sharpie with the titles. Maybe he'd pirated the movies, bought them secondhand. You tried scanning a few titles to see if you recognized any.
Deep Inside Tessa Fox
Wicked & Willing
The Screamer
Special Delivery from the Texxxas Wrangler
Next Door Naughty
When Lust Takes Over
Everything's Bigger in Texas, including The Wrangler
Something in your stomach was wriggling around as your hand kept reaching for different titles throughout the pile, and you noticed how many of them didn't have titles at all—just dates or lettering that stood for a system you didn't quite understand. You sank back on your heels, surrounded by the spread of them, and finally let yourself clock it for what it was.
Vintage pornography.
You snorted quietly to yourself.
What a dirty old perv, you thought with a smile creeping over your face. Who knew an old man would hold onto so much old porn? Was there something that 90s porn had that present day Pornhub couldn't itch for him? You chuckled as you began piling them in neat stacks again back into the box.
And then…well…what was the harm?
You hesitated only for a second before setting a few aside, the titles that caught your eye whether they were so ridiculous you had to know what went on in the corny plot, or ones that had your pulse quickening and traveling south. You'd put them back tomorrow, telling yourself it's not like Joel ever came out to this shed anyway. It felt harmless—silly, even. No one had to know.
You slid the bin back into place, found a spot for your own beside it, and hurried upstairs, tucking the tapes away before heading back down to start your barn shift, giddy with a bit of excitement for your evening plans.
Dinner shift came and went, the inside horses brought in from the near pasture, the far ones checked and watered and counted twice over until everything settled into its evening quiet. By the time you climbed the stairs again, the barn was humming with a low shuffling of content horses beneath you.
You curled up on the gray couch with a blanket pulled over your legs, making your way through a bag of crisps you’d found tucked away downstairs, realizing a little too late that you’d need to tell Joel what you might want from the store. The apartment wasn’t stocked with much beyond ketchup packets and a couple of old beers shoved into the bottom drawer of the fridge, but someone had clearly made sure carbs were easy access downstairs in the feed room, and Joel had texted to say he’d be home within the hour with pizza for both of you.
He was really growing on you. Other than being stupidly good looking, you could tell he was a good man, the kind who took pride in caring for his animals properly, and who seemed to extend that same care to you in return. It was easy to forget about the outside world while you were here.
After you showered, scrubbing away the smell of hay and horse sweat, you slipped into clean clothes and dropped onto the couch as you slid the VHS into the player and pressed play.
The screen was static for a long minute, and then a blurred scene formed in front of your eyes. A slate was held in front of the camera, blocking anything around it, the person holding it shouting "Deep Inside, Scene One, A: Take One. Action."
The slate dropped and the camera panned to a young woman with brown hair and tanned skin wearing daisy duke shorts and a red tied up top, showing off her beautiful body by a pool. The scene was slow, indulgent, her hands moving leisurely up and down herself as she laid back on a lounger. Music began swelling as she pulled her top off, her electric blue manicured fingers slowly pulling the ties apart and revealing her voluptuous chest. And then her hands dropped to her shorts, shimmying them off and leaving only her skimpy thong on.
She stretched and let her hands gracefully touch herself along her belly, up to her plump breasts. What caught you off guard was her neatly trimmed bush, something you hardly ever saw in porn anymore. And she looked like she was enjoying herself, not just performing as her back arched into the sunlight, skin warm and glowing with body oil. This had to be post-eighties, maybe well into the nineties, when production and lighting had gotten better. You sank a little deeper into the couch, the chip bag forgotten, fingers wiped absently on your blanket before they traced the inside of your thigh. Watching her bask in the sun, bare chested and gorgeous in her tiny thong, made it easy to follow the same path.
Soon her hand disappeared beneath the strip of fabric, though you could nearly see everything anyway, the cotton darkening quickly as she soaked it through. She was really enjoying herself. Your fingers slipped past your waistband, teasing over the cotton of your own panties, panting harder to the music as it swelled and she opened her mouth into a silent O, her back bowing as she came apart under her own touch.
As she climaxed, the camera slowly pulled back, drifting farther into her backyard, over the fence, until it settled on the back of a dark-haired man standing there, watching. You couldn’t see his face yet, and you had to give the director credit. It was creative as hell. The camera traced the rippling muscles along his glistening bare back, down to his hips, which rocked subtly until it became clear his pants were lowered and he was touching himself too.
You licked your lips, fingers dipping past your panty line now, circling your wet entrance with the pads of them. The music faded, replaced by the sound of his breathing, a muttered curse, a thick groan pulled from deep in his chest.
Then the scene cut.
What a damn tease.
Static, and then another slate appeared. “Deep Inside, Scene Three B, take two. And… action.”
Now the woman clearly knew she was being watched, and as the slate clapped and dropped, her face grew into a sly smile as she looked off camera, likely over the fence. She spread herself without hesitation, the thong gone now, finger fucking herself in earnest while her breasts heaved in heavy breaths.
“Come and play, Texas,” she cooed, and the camera swung around towards the side gate as it creaked open, and your whole body froze as the camera panned from his body up to his face.
No fucking way.
Absolutely no fucking way.
Watching the man--him--stride across the lawn, his jeans tugged back into place but slung low, his chest bare, dusted with dark hair that ran down into a thick happy trail, your body seemed to react before your head could organize a single thought. Heat was rushing up your spine, so sudden it had your thighs closing and your breath stalling.
His body was younger, leaner, but it wasn't any of that that gave him away.
It was his eyes.
Even softened by the grainy tape, even half turned away from the camera, you knew them instantly. The weight of his gaze, the pretty green that shone in the sun though a thousand other colors muddied them…
Your mouth went dry as you recognized your boss on the screen.
He had stopped just beside the lounge chair now, camera panning down to watch his hand drop to his waistband—casual, practiced, a movement seemingly so familiar to him. The camera lingered there, the woman's face coming into view beside it, licking her lips, and as his hand dug into the confines of his jeans—
Your hand flew from your pants to the remote, fumbling, knocking it against your thigh before you caught it, thumb slamming down hard to pause the tape.
Joel Miller was… he was in porn. And not just some amateur home video porn. This had a camera crew and lighting and boom microphones that you could see between takes. A director calling out direction before the slate struck. No. Joel Miller was a god damn porn star.
Your boss Joel Miller.
Nice, polite, handsome as ever, ranch-owning Joel Miller.
Fuck.
Looking back on it later, you might have called the next choices a threshold moment, the kind you only recognize once you’re already past it. Maybe you could have explained why you pressed play. Why you'd kept going, why you kept watching the younger version of the man you knew pull out his half hard dick from his jeans. Maybe you could have explained why your own hand drifted back between your legs as she unhinged her jaw to accomodate him, the way she seemed to love it, her fingers curling around him and then lower, fondling his balls to draw out a low, guttural sound out of his chest.
You knew you should've stopped it, stopped yourself, stopped the tape. But fuck she was enjoying him so much. It was written all over her face when he fucked her in the next scene. And you…you couldn't help yourself. You stuffed a finger inside your weeping entrance, then two—then three, trying to chase the feeling of how big he looked, how full he stuffed her. The sounds she made were messy and real and not that kind of overdone high pitched scream from modern porn you knew, and she came so hard her eyes rolled back into her head. When she was done he pulled out to paint her chest in white cream, and you were coming hard over your own hand at the beautiful sounds he made from above.
The screen snapped back to static as the VHS auto-ejected, and the hiss of it loud enough to yank you out of your head just in time to see the reflection of headlights flooding your window from below.
