I grab my water bottle and follow him out the door before he can change his mind. Beau shadows us instantly, his big tail sweeping the dust behind him. I smile.Challenge accepted, Cowboy.
***
The sun shows no mercy, and neither does Brody.
When we reach the far pasture, we discover a section of fence has buckled under last week’s windstorm. The heat radiates up from the dry dirt like an invisible second sunintent on grilling us from beneath. Somewhere nearby, a cow moos in that lazy way, as if annoyed by the disruption to her afternoon. Brody walks ahead without looking back, with long, determined strides, and a cloud of silence. I’m practically jogging to keep pace.
We pass the barn, the fencing, the grazing fields, and keep going. A herd of black cattle watches us from under a scraggly oak, tails flicking at flies, eyes blinking under long lashes. One chews, staring at me so hard it feels like I’ve caused offense.
I finally gather the nerve to ask, “So… what exactly are we doing?”
He stops near an old, battered flatbed trailer stacked high with heavy fence posts. “Replacing rotted posts on the north pasture.” His voice is rough; gravel dragged over concrete. If I had to guess, it’s from under use. Maybe his vocal cords have crusted over.
I nod, even though I have no clue what that entails. “Okay.”
He tosses me a pair of work gloves from the truck bed without warning. I barely catch them.
“You’ll need these.”
A curious calf wanders up beside us, gangly and big-eyed, its wet nose nudging the fence post with a softthunk. Brody gently waves it off with a grunt. The calf blinks once and trots back to its mother, tail swishing.
I slide on the gloves, watching Brody grab a post as if it were made of Styrofoam, while I try to remember which end of the hammer is supposed to face the nail.
The work is brutal. Brody digs deep into the earth with a post-hole digger as if it weighs nothing, his arms rippling with effort, and sweat glistening on his tanned skin. His shirt’s discarded after ten minutes, tucked into his back pocket, leaving broad shoulders and a carved back that flexes with every thrust into the dirt. There’s a quiet focus to him, like the rest of the world fades when he’s working. I drag the old posts into a pile, awkward and sweating, mysore muscles screaming rebellion with every step. All the while, I catch myself watching him and wondering how a man that silent can be so loud without saying a word.
What I need right now is a long soak in Epsom salts, surrounded by scented candles and whale music. Or maybe a very oily massage at the hands of a strong and willing cowboy.
Instead, I’m saddled with Brody, who’s more Terminator than human. I glance up at him, expecting him to offer some instruction, a suggestion, anything. But no. He works in silence as if I don’t even exist. I may as well be another stray dog following him through the dust.
Fine.
I grit my teeth and keep going, determined not to ask for help.
Beau flops down under the shade of the truck, watching us like he’s our overlord. I swear he’s smirking at my awkwardness and Brody’s disinterest.
We work side by side for nearly two hours. The sun climbs, the sweat rolls, and my back aches. Brody works relentlessly, and the silence stretches so thick it squashes my chest.
I can’t tell if this is a test or if he really doesn’t give a damn I’m there. It’s probably both.
And it’s turning into a battle of wills. Who’ll break first?
I know it’ll be me.
Dust kicks up with every heavy step of Brody’s boots. I have to jog to keep pace. The sweat beads along my spine, sticking my T-shirt to my back as Brody carries a coil of fencing wire on one shoulder as if it weighs the same as a down quilt.
I don’t know if he picked the hardest job on purpose, but it feels intentional. “So, what’s the plan?” I ask, trying to be cheerful.
Brody grunts. “You hold. I fix.”
That’s it. No friendly banter. No playful teasing like Levi or Cody. He’s like a caveman.Me man, you wo-man. I pressmy lips together and follow instructions. Holding heavy wooden posts steady as Brody muscles wire into place and hammers staples into the wood with brutal, punishing force is hard. Every time I think we’re done, he moves to the next section without a glance back.
His body is a pure distraction. All lean muscle and sun-browned skin, moving with effortless strength that makes it impossible not to stare. Veins trace down his forearms, his jeans hang low on narrow hips, and every time he drives the digger into the ground, his abs tighten in a way that should be illegal under the open sky. I shift awkwardly, the sweat on my lower back worsening. There’s raw, physical gravity to Brody. Primal and unpolished, he has no business being this sexy. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t smirk. Just works and works and works. In all this heat, he never once complains, letting every hard line and silent flex of his body bear the burden and do the talking.
Finally, I break. “Do you hate me, Brody? Because that’s what it feels like.” God, I sound pathetic, but how the hell am I supposed to get to the bottom of this ranch’s most elusive cowboy in this heat and with his attitude?
His hammer freezes mid-swing. Slowly, he looks up at me, brow furrowing under sweat-damp curls. “What?”
“You barely talk to me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
