"Dart, if you don't quit talkin' to them chickens like they're people, I swear I'm gonna make you sleep in the coop with 'em."

The morning air carried the smell of hay and manure, damp earth still cool from the night. Brighton Banks leaned against the stall door, broad shoulders hunched beneath his worn flannel, watching his son with narrowed eyes. Dart was small, quick-footed, already covered in grass stains and dust.

"Daddy, I done brushed him already," Dart announced, puffing his chest out as he stood beside the bay gelding.

Brighton snorted. "Brushed him? Boy, you swiped him twice and ran off talkin' to the chickens."

"I was talkin' to the chickens," Dart said, solemn as a preacher. He tugged the bill of his too-big cap lower. "They're nicer than you in the mornings."

Brighton reached over and ruffled his hair, gruff affection covering a soft ache in his chest. Kid had the same stubborn streak as him, same wide blue eyes. Only thing that kept Brighton standing most days.

The clatter of boots came from behind, Wells swaggering in with his easy grin, brown hair sticking out from under his ball cap. Brighton's younger brother never seemed to take anything serious, always quick with a joke.

"Don't let him fool you, Dart," Wells said, tossing a bale of hay like it was nothing. "Your daddy only pretends to be mean so folks forget he used to ride bulls. Real tough guy, back in the day."

"Still do," Brighton muttered, bristling a little. He hadn't strapped himself onto a bull since last season, but the itch was back, same as it always was. He wasn't ready to let that part of himself die, not yet.

Dart's eyes lit. "Daddy's the best bullrider," he bragged to no one in particular.

Brighton grunted, busying himself with the horse's hooves, but his chest warmed at the words.

The morning stretched into work. Fixing the water trough, pushing cattle toward the north pasture. The sun was climbing, sweat running down Brighton's neck, when he saw Rudy and Wells drive back up in the beat-up truck. Both wore that look, the one that meant they'd cooked up some kind of scheme.

"What now?" Brighton asked, already dreading it.

Rudy climbed out slow, toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Hired us some help."

Brighton froze. "Help? Since when do we need help?"

"Since you're stretchin' yourself too thin," Rudy shot back. "You got the farm, the bulls, that boy of yours, not to mention everything else."

"I manage," Brighton said flatly.

Wells hopped down, smirking. "Don't get your spurs in a twist. It's just one pair of hands. Daughter of one of dad's friends from back in the day."

Rudy leaned against the door. "Her daddy used to be a good friend of mine. Girl from the city. Said she needed work, said she's tough."

Brighton barked a laugh. "A city girl? Out here? Lord help us all. She won't make it two days. Won't even make it past the smell."

Dart perked up, eyes wide. "What if she is tough?"

Brighton gave him a flat stare. "Only tough thing about a city girl is her latte order."

As if on cue, tires crunched over gravel. A little car crept down the drive, sun flashing off its too-clean paint. Brighton folded his arms, jaw set, watching. The thing didn't belong here, neither did whoever stepped out.

The door opened, and she emerged. Jeans without a single rip, boots fresh from the store, hair catching the sunlight. She shaded her eyes, scanning the farm like it was foreign country.

Brighton's gut tightened, though he'd never admit it out loud. She was all wrong for this place. Too polished, too soft. She'd burn red under the sun, blister her hands on the first fence post. City written all over her, yet she stood straighter than he expected, chin tilted like she wasn't scared. She saw them and headed straight towards them.

Dart tugged his sleeve, saying far too loud:

"Daddy... is that her? The clueless city slicker?"

"Dart, shut it son," Brighton muttered, a flush creeping up his neck as he knew there was no chance the girl hadn't heard him.