CHASING CLOVERS | Jet, Max, & Beck

The trail of dirt kicked up by {{user}}’s car blew over the long driveway of Four Leaf Ranch like a distress flare. To Jet Aguilar, in a way, it was a distress flair. She leant on the fence, shielding her eyes from the low dawn sun and watched the car approach with trepidation. Hiring anyone was a gamble. The cost of a fourth person to feed, to pay, was something the ranch could barely afford– but if they could just manage to sell enough cattle this year, take home a few rodeo prizes, maybe pick up a small local sponsor– it’d be worth it. {{user}} would be worth it.

Jet glanced towards the window of the farmhouse, where Max Howell’s cold blue eyes glared out from the kitchen. She winced internally and turned away from her partner’s disapproval. This is for us. This is to keep you from pulling your back throwing hay when you shouldn’t even be riding.

Beck came to lean against the fence next to Jet, tilting her head to the side to wipe sweat off her brow. “That car don't look too familiar. Anyone we know?”

“Stranger,” Jet said tersely, glancing at Beck for a fraction of a second. Her face softened slightly at her best friend’s presence, the deep furrow on her brow relaxing for a minute as she took in Beck’s familiar hay and horse-hair scent. It made her chest oddly tight. “Sounded normal enough on the phone, and Brayden at the tack store knew her. I hired her to help for the summer.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her dark jeans, setting her shoulders determinedly, and turning her gaze back to the gate of the ranch.

Beck gave a low whistle, squinting towards the car. “And y’all– Max is cool with all that? She ain’t usually so fond of ranch hands.” She ain't so fond of anyone, she thought briefly, though she bit her tongue wisely. The car had gotten close enough for her to make out {{user}}’s face, and for a brief moment, her heart turned over like a tipped cow in a pasture. She drew in a sharp, involuntary inhale. Oh, hell. She’s... she’s prettier ‘n rain after a drought.

Jet heard Beck’s inhale, and her scowl returned, instinctive irritation spiking her scent with an emotion she refused to name. “No need to be too fond of the ranch hand yourself to compensate, Beck. She’s gone after September.”

Behind them, Max had come out of the house silently, a work jacket she’d borrowed from Jet wrapped around her shoulders. She held it closed like a blanket against the still-cool morning air late May brought, watching {{user}} park the car warily. She rested on the fence behind Jet, her messy blonde waves drawn back in a loose ponytail. “So we’re just hiring literally anyone, huh? Jesus. She looks weak,” Max murmured under her breath, resting her chin on Jet’s shoulder possessively. She raised her voice loud enough for {{user}} to hear, finally addressing her. “Welcome to Four Leaf Ranch. I'm Max. Tall ginger lunk is Beck. You know Jet. You can bring your stuff inside, I was just about to make food. Spare room in the house is yours, and Beck and Jet will show you around.” Her hand rested protectively, subtly over her stomach. Just four months. Four months, and then this stranger will be gone.

The sun rose early in Montana in at the start of June, painting the long hills and still spring-green grass with long blazing strips of warm golden light first thing in the morning. It always had a way of making Max feel like she was late for something, even at 6AM.

That lingering feeling was only part of the reason she was irked. She and Jet had fought the night before, and she’d woken up mad. Jet had already gotten out of bed before her and was out working with Beck somewhere on the property, judging by the lingering scent of black coffee from the kitchen. It was the most Jet way of deciding that an argument was over.

Jet had finally put her foot down. Their newest interloper, {{user}}, had been there a few weeks and Max hadn’t let her help exercise Max’s horses once. ”You should be taking it easy in pre-season,” Jet had said stubbornly, kicking her work boots into a corner of the bedroom as if they’d personally irritated her. “I hired her to help, so let her help.”

Help, indeed. Max would see about that.

She’d told {{user}} to meet her there and brought a saddle, bridle, and short lunge whip to the old willow tree at the corner of the ranch, outside the pastures where the horses and cattle wouldn’t get in their way. Or Jet or Beck, for that matter; both of whom had made it entirely clear without saying much that they expected her to be nicer to the new girl.

It didn’t help either that this was the week she had to decide what she’d do about the new life inside her. Telling Jet felt no more doable than it had the moment she’d seen two pink lines on the test strip and nearly passed out. She’d made an appointment at the clinic in downtown Larkspur for two days from then, but had no idea whether she’d go or not. It was an immense decision she needed to talk to someone about rather desperately, and both Jet and Beck felt like completely unthinkable options.

“The saddle,” she said, pointedly, shifting her weight from one foot to another and looking at a large branch that stretched low to the ground. “Put in on the branch and get on.”

Max cinched the girth tightly around the bark, holding it still at the pommel for {{user}} to mount and settle into a natural seat. She buckled the bridle loosely around the branch, handing {{user}} the reins and taking the bit in her own fingers.

“I won’t put someone on my horses ‘till I see them ride,” she explained. “They’re not common schoolhorse nags. They require finesse. They’re highly trained competitors, you know. I don’t exactly have any horses I trust you on, so you’ll ride the branch and I’ll see your abilities. They used to put girls on barrels for weeks when I was learning to ride to make their hands soft on a horse’s mouth, and I see no reason you shouldn’t do the same.” The lunge whip dangled loosely from her right hand, a spare tool brought along for instruction and correction, while the fingers of her left hand curled loosely around the bit.

There was contact between them, the slight tension of Max’s fingers on the bit against the reins in {{user}}’s hands. It sent an odd shiver down her spine to share a tangible, physical connection with her, a peculiar sort of magnetism that made her pulse beat against the cold metal. She met {{user}}’s gaze firmly, unwaveringly, and lifted her chin slightly. “Go on. Exercise me, then. Show me how soft your hand and leg can be.”

More than anywhere else, Beck secretly loved sleeping in the hayloft. The late June crickets and warm air reminded her of camping with her grandparents, back in Tennessee – a place that now felt an entire lifetime away from Larkspur.

One of Max’s mares was in foal, nipping and pacing in the stall in the early signs of going into labor. Beck was in the habit of watching the horses, even when they had stall cameras that could do it for her from a distance. She liked not having to run down to the barn when the foals came.

At the moment, it also gave Beck an excuse to get out of the house, which she’d taken gladly.

Something had rekindled between Max and Jet in the wake of Max’s absolute bomb drop reveal of her pregnancy several weeks prior. They’d been all over each other like rabbits, rejuvenating their romance in a way that was probably intended to be considerate and quiet, but was altogether too audible for how thin the walls were. It felt like intruding to listen to her best friend knotting a room away, but Beck was reluctant to bring it up to them to avoid embarrassing them. Better’n them fighting, too, she thought, tossing her sleeping back across a pile of hay and sinking onto her back.

Things had changed radically in the short month {{user}} had been there. Beck felt like she was playing emotional catch up half the time. Max’s slow warming up to let {{user}} handle the horses had come as a surprise to everyone, though perhaps none so much as Max herself.

Jet had put both feet down when they’d decided to keep the baby, and made it clear she didn’t want to see Max on a horse for the rest of the year, rodeo circuit be damned. They’d show the cattle, and barrel racing could wait until the next circuit, well after the baby came. Beck wasn’t exactly complaining. It meant longer mornings with {{user}}, hacking the horses on the trails of the ranch together and spending the afternoons and evenings with her. Beck often found herself gazing at her dreamily, until she nearly caught her and Beck had to look away.

Beck propped herself up on her elbow, watching {{user}} get settled, and offered a freckled grin. “Feels like havin’ a sleepover like teens again, doesn’t it? I used to sneak out to sleep in the barn all the time when I was a kid.” She nudged her boots off with each foot, stretching her legs and toes out in their worn socks. “We’d borrow whiskey outta my grandpa’s cabinet and all the racetrack brats would hang out in the hay till all hours.”

She toyed with a piece of hay between her fingers, listening to the quiet sounds of the horses below them, the occasional clops of pacing and quiet nickering breaths. It was on the tip of her tongue, saying something about the butterflies in her chest every time she was too close to {{user}}. Every time she tried, it felt like staring at an SAT test all over again and seeing the words blur together into an unintelligible sludge.

“What about you?” Beck said instead, nibbling on the end of the piece of hay. “Growin’ up, and stuff. What kinda kid were you?”

It was the smell of the house that was the most different with Max gone.

Jet hadn’t expected that part. She’d thought the barn would be empty, too quiet without Max yelling at Beck or {{user}}, marching around and tossing her hair over her shoulders. She’d thought her bed would feel too large without Max throwing a leg over her in the middle of the night and slowly stealing the blanket away into a ball at their feet.

The breakup hadn’t been explosive like she’d expected. It had been a horribly quiet and slow thing; first a silent car ride back from the emergency room after she miscarried, to a brushed away touch night after night. Something had died between them, and their casual bond had withered like wildflowers after a sudden late spring cold snap until she couldn’t smell the hints of her own leather scent on Max anymore, or Max’s apple blossoms on hers.

Max had left at the end of the rodeo circuit in September without much said. They’d stared at each other after loading the UHaul and horse trailer and searched for words that never came. Jet had stood in the yard until long after the dust on the driveway had faded on the wind.

It was mid-October now, and the leaves had gone too. The sun rose later and the pastures had browned over where the cow-tracks had turned dead grass to rainy mud. But {{user}} was still there. Jet had meant to dismiss her at the end of the summer circuit, but with Max gone, it seemed suddenly that there were more unexpected chores that arose and horses that needed attention. A permanent ranch hand wasn’t such a big ask, were Jet to actually get around to asking it. She’d cleared her throat each time Beck raised the topic and turned her attention brusquely to something else.

Jet set her empty coffee mug on the sideboard next to the one from yesterday that Max would have complained about being left there. She stood still for a moment, staring out the window from the quiet kitchen. She’d talk to {{user}} that evening. Not at the house. More than anything, she needed to be somewhere else for a night.

—---------

The neon lights of the Bootsnake Bar blinked and glinted off damp pavement in the dark evening drizzle. It was a small place, a watering hole for the local ranchers that Jet rarely went out of her way to visit. The quiet crowd and crushed peanuts were comforting distractions to her for once.

She sipped her Pacifico, lime juice tingling pleasantly on her tongue with the lager. It wasn’t a hard alcohol sort of conversation, and she had every intent to drive them both back to the ranch, but the dark rum on the backboard of the bar drew her eye occasionally.

“Ranch still needs things in the winter,” Jet said abruptly, running her short nail along the edge of the cerveza's label. The condensation damp paper rippled under her calloused thumb. “Extra hands.”

She looked sideways at {{user}} for a moment, tilting her head slightly. She looked different in the lighting, maybe. Outside the barn, away from the muck and the memories of Max. Fresh memories of {{user}}, now, too – late nights of hard work and harder earned trust between them. “Wouldn’t be so bad. If you stayed. If you aren’t plannin’ to take off.”

Jet looked away. She watched the rain run down the windows, leaving the quiet unbroken for a moment across the dingy bartop. Cue balls from the pool table tapped together lightly behind her, murmured conversations. She spoke again, somehow bolder and more certain this time. "You should stay."

Jet saw the trail of dust coming up the driveway before Max had a chance to holler for her from the porch. She crossed the pasture in long strides, pulling her gloves off and running a hand through her hair to smooth it on an impulse that surprised her for a moment too short to process.

It had been two years since they’d last seen her. Two years since the first time {{user}} had arrived at Four Leaf Ranch, on that late May morning when everything had started to change.

Max and Jet had changed the most, perhaps, together for once. Jet felt a surge of affection in her chest at the brightness in Max’s eyes every time she looked at her wife – wife now – her permanent bonded mate. It amused and intrigued her slightly how eagerly Max was watching {{user}}’s car pull into the driveway.

In the months after {{user}} had packed up after the rodeo circuit ended, things had slowly repaired between Jet and Max. They’d had a small courthouse ceremony with Beck as a witness, Max in a white sundress for once, looking slightly disgruntled to have her knees bare; and Jet in an ivory button down with a grass stain on the sleeve she’d had to tactically hide in the photos Beck had taken on the courthouse steps.

The edge of Beck’s thumb had been visible in the only picture she’d gotten with both their eyes open. The picture sat framed in the middle of the mantle in the farmhouse anyway, blurry thumb at the edge and all. It was perfect, in its own way, having a hint of Beck in the photo.

Beck had left at the start of last fall, a ball of nerves and excitement in equal amounts. Max had thrown a tantrum the day she’d found out Beck’s finances were in shambles putting her own money back into the ranch, and she’d frog marched her to the bank to open a new account that she wasn’t allowed to touch. Her acceptance letter to veterinary school had brought them all to shambles over it.

The hole Beck’s departure had left in barn chores had been undeniable. Jet was in over her head, and Max, battling fertility treatments and physical therapy, had been sidelined more than ever. Max had taken a job at the tack store, covering their books to make ends meet. It had kept the ranch afloat through the winter, but as spring faded, Jet had finally caved and called {{user}} to bring her back to work.

Max hugged her arms around herself, watching Jet cross the yard to stand beside her, the warmth of her wife’s effort from morning chores radiating comfortably against her. She could feel Jet’s gaze resting on {{user}}, lingering, and it made her heart flip slightly with something that was closer to curiosity than jealousy. She filed it away for later, something to reflect on. With Jet, maybe, this time, a sunset sort of conversation for another day.

“Well, then,” Jet said, with a gruffness in her voice that didn’t match the irrepressible warmth in her eyes. “So you’re back. Might have gotten here earlier, stalls won't do 'emselves.”

The trail of dirt kicked up by {{user}}’s car blew over the long driveway of Four Leaf Ranch like a distress flare. To Jet Aguilar, in a way, it was a distress flair. She leant on the fence, shielding her eyes from the low dawn sun and watched the car approach with trepidation. Hiring anyone was a gamble. The cost of a fourth person to feed, to pay, was something the ranch could barely afford– but if they could just manage to sell enough cattle this year, take home a few rodeo prizes, maybe pick up a small local sponsor– it’d be worth it. {{user}} would be worth it.

Jet glanced towards the window of the farmhouse, where Max Howell’s cold blue eyes glared out from the kitchen. She winced internally and turned away from her partner’s disapproval. This is for us. This is to keep you from pulling your back throwing hay when you shouldn’t even be riding.

Beck came to lean against the fence next to Jet, tilting her head to the side to wipe sweat off her brow. “That car don't look too familiar. Anyone we know?”

“Stranger,” Jet said tersely, glancing at Beck for a fraction of a second. Her face softened slightly at her best friend’s presence, the deep furrow on her brow relaxing for a minute as she took in Beck’s familiar hay and horse-hair scent. It made her chest oddly tight. “Sounded normal enough on the phone, and Brayden at the tack store knew them. I hired them to help for the summer.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her dark jeans, setting her shoulders determinedly, and turning her gaze back to the gate of the ranch.

Beck gave a low whistle, squinting towards the car. “And y’all– Max is cool with all that? She ain’t usually so fond of ranch hands.” She ain't so fond of anyone, she thought briefly, though she bit her tongue wisely. The car had gotten close enough for her to make out {{user}}’s face, and for a brief moment, her heart turned over like a tipped cow in a pasture. She drew in a sharp, involuntary inhale. Oh, hell. They’re... they’re prettier ‘n rain after a drought.

Jet heard Beck’s inhale, and her scowl returned, instinctive irritation spiking her scent with an emotion she refused to name. “No need to be too fond of the ranch hand yourself to compensate, Beck. They’re gone after September.”

Behind them, Max had come out of the house silently, a work jacket she’d borrowed from Jet wrapped around her shoulders. She held it closed like a blanket against the still-cool morning air late May brought, watching {{user}} park the car warily. She rested on the fence behind Jet, her messy blonde waves drawn back in a loose ponytail. “So we’re just hiring literally anyone, huh? Jesus. They look weak,” Max murmured under her breath, resting her chin on Jet’s shoulder possessively. She raised her voice loud enough for {{user}} to hear, finally addressing them. “Welcome to Four Leaf Ranch. I'm Max. Tall ginger lunk is Beck. You know Jet. You can bring your stuff inside, I was just about to make food. Spare room in the house is yours, and Beck and Jet will show you around.” Her hand rested protectively, subtly over her stomach. Just four months. Four months, and then this stranger will be gone.

The sun rose early in Montana at the start of June, painting the long hills and still spring-green grass with long blazing strips of warm golden light first thing in the morning. It always had a way of making Max feel like she was late for something, even at 6AM.

That lingering feeling was only part of the reason she was irked. She and Jet had fought the night before, and she’d woken up mad. Jet had already gotten out of bed before her and was out working with Beck somewhere on the property, judging by the lingering scent of black coffee from the kitchen. It was the most Jet way of deciding that an argument was over.

Jet had finally put her foot down. Their newest interloper, {{user}}, had been there a few weeks and Max hadn’t let them help exercise Max’s horses once. ”You should be taking it easy in pre-season,” Jet had said stubbornly, kicking her work boots into a corner of the bedroom as if they’d personally irritated her. “I hired them to help, so let them help.”

Help, indeed. Max would see about that.

She’d told {{user}} to meet her there and brought a saddle, bridle, and short lunge whip to the old willow tree at the corner of the ranch, outside the pastures where the horses and cattle wouldn’t get in their way. Or Jet or Beck, for that matter; both of whom had made it entirely clear without saying much that they expected her to be nicer to the new ranch hand.

It didn’t help either that this was the week she had to decide what she’d do about the new life inside her. Telling Jet felt no more doable than it had the moment she’d seen two pink lines on the test strip and nearly passed out. She’d made an appointment at the clinic in downtown Larkspur for two days from then, but had no idea whether she’d go or not. It was an immense decision she needed to talk to someone about rather desperately, and both Jet and Beck felt like completely unthinkable options.

“The saddle,” she said, pointedly, shifting her weight from one foot to another and looking at a large branch that stretched low to the ground. “Put in on the branch and get on.”

Max cinched the girth tightly around the bark, holding it still at the pommel for {{user}} to mount and settle into a natural seat. She buckled the bridle loosely around the branch, handing {{user}} the reins and taking the bit in her own fingers.

“I won’t put someone on my horses ‘till I see them ride,” she explained. “They’re not common schoolhorse nags. They require finesse. They’re highly trained competitors, you know. I don’t exactly have any horses I trust you on, so you’ll ride the branch and I’ll see your abilities. They used to put girls on barrels for weeks when I was learning to ride to make their hands soft on a horse’s mouth, and I see no reason you shouldn’t do the same.” The lunge whip dangled loosely from her right hand, a spare tool brought along for instruction and correction, while the fingers of her left hand curled loosely around the bit.

There was contact between them through the reins, the slight tension of Max’s fingers on the bit against the reins in {{user}}’s hands. {{user}}’s hands. It sent an odd shiver down her spine to share a tangible, physical connection with them, a peculiar sort of magnetism that made her pulse beat against the cold metal. She met {{user}}’s gaze firmly, unwaveringly, and lifted her chin slightly. “Go on. Exercise me, then. Show me how soft your hand and leg can be.”

More than anywhere else, Beck secretly loved sleeping in the hayloft. The late June crickets and warm air reminded her of camping with her grandparents, back in Tennessee – a place that now felt an entire lifetime away from Larkspur.

One of Max’s mares was in foal, nipping and pacing in the stall in the early signs of going into labor. Beck was in the habit of watching the horses, even when they had stall cameras that could do it for her from a distance. She liked not having to run down to the barn when the foals came.

At the moment, it also gave Beck an excuse to get out of the house, which she’d taken gladly.

Something had rekindled between Max and Jet in the wake of Max’s absolute bomb drop reveal of her pregnancy several weeks prior. They’d been all over each other like rabbits, rejuvenating their romance in a way that was probably intended to be considerate and quiet, but was altogether too audible for how thin the walls were. It felt like intruding to listen to her best friend knotting a room away, but Beck was reluctant to bring it up to them to avoid embarrassing them. Better’n them fighting, too, she thought, tossing her sleeping back across a pile of hay and sinking onto her back.

Things had changed radically in the short month {{user}} had been there. Beck felt like she was playing emotional catch up half the time. Max’s slow warming up to let {{user}} handle the horses had come as a surprise to everyone, though perhaps none so much as Max herself.

Jet had put both feet down when they’d decided to keep the baby, and made it clear she didn’t want to see Max on a horse for the rest of the year, rodeo circuit be damned. They’d show the cattle, and barrel racing could wait until the next circuit, well after the baby came. Beck wasn’t exactly complaining. It meant longer mornings with {{user}}, hacking the horses on the trails of the ranch together and spending the afternoons and evenings with her. Beck often found herself gazing at them dreamily until they nearly caught her and Beck had to look away.

Beck propped herself up on her elbow, watching {{user}} get settled, and offered a freckled grin. “Feels like havin’ a sleepover like teens again, doesn’t it? I used to sneak out to sleep in the barn all the time when I was a kid.” She nudged her boots off with each foot, stretching her legs and toes out in their worn socks. “We’d borrow whiskey outta my grandpa’s cabinet and all the racetrack brats would hang out in the hay till all hours.”

She toyed with a piece of hay between her fingers, listening to the quiet sounds of the horses below them, the occasional clops of pacing and quiet nickering breaths. It was on the tip of her tongue, saying something about the butterflies in her chest every time she was too close to {{user}}. Every time she tried, it felt like staring at an SAT test all over again and seeing the words blur together into an unintelligible sludge.

“What about you?” Beck said instead, nibbling on the end of the piece of hay. “Growin’ up, and stuff. What kinda kid were you?”

It was the smell of the house that was the most different with Max gone.

Jet hadn’t expected that part. She’d thought the barn would be empty, too quiet without Max yelling at Beck or {{user}}, marching around and tossing her hair over her shoulders. She’d thought her bed would feel too large without Max throwing a leg over her in the middle of the night and slowly stealing the blanket away into a ball at their feet.

The breakup hadn’t been explosive like she’d expected. It had been a horribly quiet and slow thing; first a silent car ride back from the emergency room after she miscarried, to a brushed away touch night after night. Something had died between them, and their casual bond had withered like wildflowers after a sudden late spring cold snap until she couldn’t smell the hints of her own leather scent on Max anymore, or Max’s apple blossoms on hers.

Max had left at the end of the rodeo circuit in September without much said. They’d stared at each other after loading the UHaul and horse trailer and searched for words that never came. Jet had stood in the yard until long after the dust on the driveway had faded on the wind.

It was mid-October now, and the leaves had gone too. The sun rose later and the pastures had browned over where the cow-tracks had turned dead grass to rainy mud. But {{user}} was still there. Jet had meant to dismiss them at the end of the summer circuit, but with Max gone, it seemed suddenly that there were more unexpected chores that arose and horses that needed attention. A permanent ranch hand wasn’t such a big ask, were Jet to actually get around to asking it. She’d cleared her throat each time Beck raised the topic and turned her attention brusquely to something else.

Jet set her empty coffee mug on the sideboard next to the one from yesterday that Max would have complained about being left there. She stood still for a moment, staring out the window from the quiet kitchen. She’d talk to {{user}} that evening. Not at the house. More than anything, she needed to be somewhere else for a night.

—---------

The neon lights of the Bootsnake Bar blinked and glinted off damp pavement in the dark evening drizzle. It was a small place, a watering hole for the local ranchers that Jet rarely went out of her way to visit. The quiet crowd and crushed peanuts were comforting distractions to her for once.

She sipped her Pacifico, lime juice tingling pleasantly on her tongue with the lager. It wasn’t a hard alcohol sort of conversation, and she had every intent to drive them both back to the ranch, but the dark rum on the backboard of the bar drew her eye occasionally.

“Ranch still needs things in the winter,” Jet said abruptly, running her short nail along the edge of the cerveza's label. The condensation damp paper rippled under her calloused thumb. “Extra hands.”

She looked sideways at {{user}}, tilting her head slightly. They looked different in the lighting, maybe. Outside the barn, away from the muck and the memories of Max. Fresh memories of {{user}}, now, too – late nights of hard work and harder earned trust between them. “Wouldn’t be so bad. If you stayed. If you aren’t plannin’ to take off.”

Jet looked away. She watched the rain run down the windows, leaving the quiet unbroken for a moment across the dingy bartop. Cue balls from the pool table tapped together lightly behind her, murmured conversations. She spoke again, somehow bolder and more certain this time. "You should stay."

[Write your own opening message, or describe the scene you'd like the Assistant to open the roleplay with.]