Page 10 of The Front Runner
I walk in through the big, sliding barn door and peer around. Usually, Gold Rush Ranch bustles with staff at this time of day, but this farm is pretty quiet. It’s a much smaller operation. I still kind of assumed there’d be people working.
“Stefan?” I call out into the echoey alleyway.
I stop and wait for a response but hear nothing, so I keep walking toward the tractor with a trailer full of soiled wood shavings attached at the end of the barn. As I pass by the dark-stained wood Dutch doors on the stall fronts, I see the odd shovel-full of waste flying out of one of the last stalls into the trailer—clearly someone is mucking stalls out down here. I’ll get them to point me in the right direction.
Except when I peer down into the box stall, I don’t see the staff member I was expecting to find. I see Stefan Dalca, wearing fitted black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a dark scowl on his face. AirPods are in his ears, and he obviously has no clue I’m here. So, I watch him for a minute.
Dark blond hair and golden skin gives him a glow. Long limbs, corded with muscle, move with a confidence most men try to fake. But on him it looks natural. There’s something alluring about his slightly dangerous vibe and the mysterious accent.
Everyone else sees Stefan all polished in an expensive suit at the track and thinks that’s his go-to look, but they miss the version of him doing the dirty work at his farm. Stefan tossing hay bales off a truck in a fitted T-shirt and jeans is a memory I have stocked away for rainy days. The way his arms rippled and sweat slid over his temples. Away from the public eye, this man is a farm boy, with glowing skin from days spent working in the sun.
“Are you having a stroke, Doctor Thorne?”
My head snaps up, surprised by the sound of his voice. His smug veneer has slid back in place perfectly. This is the version of Stefan I’m accustomed to. Quick-witted and sarcastic. Frankly, it’s easier to take than Sad Stefan. That was really doing a number on me.
I smile, though. Because I absolutely got caught creeping. Something has inexplicably drawn me to the way this man looks. “No. But I think I might have fallen asleep.”
He leans against the pitchfork in his hand, matching the way I’m leaning against the stall door, head tilting like he’s assessing me. Stefan Dalca is a bright man; you can tell by the way his green eyes spark when he talks.Nothing short with this one,as my Nana would say.
“What can I help you with?” He looks like some sort of farmer porn leaning on that pitchfork.
“Where is all your staff?” I gesture down the barn alleyway with one coffee cup.
“I sent them home. Needed to be alone.”
“So. You’re...mucking all these stalls by yourself?”
“Well done, Watson.”
“Dick,” I murmur, chuckling as I hand him the extra coffee.
“For me?” He reaches out for it slowly, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Yup.”
“Is it poisoned?” His green eyes go bright as they dance with dry humor.
And I find myself laughing and joking back, like a total traitor. Like when he asks me out and I brush him off with a stupid giggle. “Nope. Just black. Like your soul.”
His eyes drop as a wry twist takes over his mouth. I expected him to laugh at that, but it almost looks as if my words carried some weight. A heavy silence fills the stall, and I work to come up with something that might salvage this conversation. I can’t afford to blow this. I really need his help. That foal really needs his help.
“You, uh, want some help?” I gesture down at the pitchfork.
His brows pinch together. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m a good person,” I say brightly.
“Because you feel bad for me after last night?”
“Nope.” I pop the p, trying to sound extra convincing.
His head tilts in an almost feline way, like he’s got me totally figured out. “Because you want something from me?”
I sigh, frustrated with his ability to see right through my ruse. “Listen. Do you want the help or not?”
“Pitchforks are hanging by the feed room down the alleyway.” His chin juts out in that direction. “You can take the other side.” And then he gets back to sifting through the wood shavings and flipping the dirty ones skillfully into the trailer.
Saying nothing further, I grab the pitchfork and get to work. I grew up on a farm. My parents are blueberry farmers, but we still had some livestock. Chickens and goats, that kind of thing. So scooping shit isn’t exactly new to me. I go inward and get lost in the repetitive nature of the job. The scrape, the shake, the toss. It’s almost therapeutic. And I’m so tired that I’m pretty sure my brain departs altogether, letting my body and muscle memory take over entirely.
