Page 21 of Run to Me
“Got plenty of that and then some,” I say, flashing her a grin. “Just you watch.”
I watch them spread out across the yard, families and friends already laughing. I’m wound so tight I don’t notice Ace until he’s standing right beside me, his strong presence hard to miss.
My younger self, more at ease with horses than humans. That girl didn’t worry about the mortgage or modernization; she just wanted to ride. I watch Ace, already deep in conversation with a group of older men.
One volunteer, wiry and spry, raises his hands to the sky. “Did you see this many folks out when we painted the old church last spring?”
Another one, older with a sun-creased face, spits tobacco with precision. “Church wasn’t giving away a horse trailer. Plus George was a good man and helping restore this barn would mean so much to him.”
Laughter breaks like a wave, and I catch Ace’s eye. “Think we bit off more than we can chew?” he teases.
I shake my head, determination clinging to every word. “I’ve got a big mouth.”
The trucks keep coming, rattling in with loose chains and stubborn engines. It’s all dust and noise and barely controlled chaos. Serena hangs a bright orange banner off the side of her van that reads “FIXER-UPPER DAY!” She’s out as soon as the vehicle stops, blonde hair catching the light, and runs over to join me.
“We sure got ourselves a crowd!”
“Better than I hoped for.”
Serena hugs me, then dashes off to help Gavin. I watch him move through the crowd, every bit as easygoing as I remember. He’s scribbling names on his clipboard, all charm and chatter, checking in with folks like they’re lifelong friends, which most of them are. He knows how to make people feel important, a skill I envy and admire. He grins and waves as I walk by.
“This is some turnout, Liv!” he shouts over the noise.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
To them, I’m still that girl who thinks she could change the world. The Bougie Cowgirl, they called me. Back then, it felt like a slap, but now it’s a challenge, a dare to do things my own way. I stand at the center of it all, juggling hope and ambition like two live wires in my hands.
I make my way through clusters of volunteers, some faces familiar, others not. They’ve come despite their doubts, despite the whispers. A few old-timers gather around the coffee station. I catch snippets of their conversation, bits of local gossip spiced with a few jabs at my expense.
“So how much do you think this will set her back?” one says.
Another, with a quick glance my way, grins. “More than she plans, I’d reckon.”
I saunter over, arms crossed. “I hear talk of donations, boys. Your generous spirits never fail to amaze me.”
They chuckle, shaking their heads. One raises his paper cup in a salute. “You’ve got your daddy’s stubbornness, I’ll give you that.”
Ace’s voice cuts through the buzz. He stands atop a pickup. “Alright, folks! We’ve got a full day ahead. Paint crews by the barn, tool teams on the east side. Let’s show Olivia how it’s done in Lawson Ridge!”
The call to action ripples through the crowd, and I join him, taking the spot right next to the tailgate.
“Not wasting any time, are you?” I ask, watching him jump down to join me.
“Not with this many hands.”
Together, we run down the plan, passing groups of people who have begun to scatter toward their tasks. It’s real. It’s happening. I know the odds, but I also know myself. This has to work. Failure isn’t an option. I won’t let it be. As I stand beside Ace, facing a sea of volunteers and the old barn. This isn’t justabout saving a piece of property. It’s about staking a claim. A claim on my family’s legacy, on my own ambition, on the heart of Lawson Ridge.
“Let’s get to work!” I yell, and their cheers carry the day into motion.
Work like this is a dance. We circle each other, synchronized and precise, even when we pretend not to be. Ace shifts the ladder into place, and I catch the furrowed intent in his brow, the determination in his hands. Mine are already wet with paint, but I don’t mind the mess. We share this stubborn streak, wanting the work to be perfect. Ace takes the tools from Mabel, her voice and steps steady. “Pass me the drill,” he says. “Be sure to secure that beam,” she replies. Her soft drawl weaves through our clatter and footsteps.
“Watch that loose board,” I say, a little too quick, watching him sidestep my warning with ease.
“Seen worse,” he replies, his drawl lazy, his grin anything but.
I paint the long strokes, the steady ones, imagining what the old barn might have looked like when it was fresh and new. Layers of memory under each coat, traces of everyone who touched this place.
Ace moves in close, inspecting the beam, his hands working steady and sure. He doesn’t have to say much for me to know he wants this to work just as much as I do.
