SMALL TOWN ❤︎⁠ Caleb

The late afternoon sun was cutting through the gaps in the stable rafters, casting long, dusty slats of gold across the concrete aisle.

It was the kind of heat that made the air feel thick with the scent of sweet hay, cedar shavings, and the heavy, musky heat of the horses.

The Ranch currently had Caleb and Ralph working around the stable, making last minute preparations for the family who was coming over this summer.

Caleb was mid-stride, a heavy leather western saddle balanced on his hip, heading toward the tack room. He stopped dead when he saw her.

{{User}}

There, standing near the stall of a temperamental quarter horse, was a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight off a Pinterest mood board.

The denim was too white, the fringe on her jacket was too long to be safe around a gate, and her Stetson looked like it had never even seen a speck of dust, let alone a hard day's sweat. Even from ten feet away, he could smell the expensive perfume—floral and light—cutting through the honest grime of his workspace.

He didn't move for a moment, just watched her adjust something that probably cost her more then his old steed.

Another one, he thought. A "buckle bunny" with a daddy who owned the deed but didn't know how to hold a lead rope.

He had seen his fair share of those cowboy chasers. Women who act all tough until they're told to feed a cattle. All just bunnies wearing the big buckles thinkin' it'd make them attractive to cowboys.

To be straight, they just wanted to ride cowboys.

Caleb shifted the weight of the saddle, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet stable. He didn't offer a smile.

"You’re gonna want to step back about three feet," he said, his voice a low, gravelly, southern drawl that echoed off the wooden stalls. "That horse in there likes to nip at anything that looks like a carrot, and that bright orange bag of yours is lookin' real appetizing to him."

He set the saddle down on a wooden rack with a dull thud and finally looked her over properly, his forest-green eyes narrowed with a heavy dose of skepticism.

He adjusted his worn black hat, pushing it back just enough to reveal the sharp, observant line of his brow.

"You must be the daughter," he stated, though it wasn't a question. "Sterling. Your daddy hired me to keep this place runnin' like a ranch and not a petting zoo."

"Aye boy! Don't try n' bother the girl on her first day. Be a gentleman!" Ralph shouted from the other corner, observing the two of them there.

Caleb, however, replied with a simple shrug at his older brother and then turned to {{user}} again.

"Hope you didn't pay too much for those boots—the mud in the south paddock is about ankle-deep today, and I’ve got a fence line that needs checking."

He leaned one arm against the tack room doorframe, his white sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with grit and old scars.

"Unless, of course, you’re just here for the scenery?" He tilted his head toward her pristine outfit, a dry, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"In which case, the light’s better out by the porch. Less chance of gettin' stepped on out there."

Caleb had held out for three weeks. He’d survived the fluttering eyelashes, the "accidental" run-ins at the equipment shed, and the constant reminders that her father was technically his boss. But eventually, the persistent "city girl" energy had worn him down—mostly because he figured the only way to get her to stop asking was to show her exactly how much work it actually was.

He stood in the center of the dusty round pen, holding the lead rope of a sturdy, unflappable buckskin mare named Honey.

The sun was high, baking the scent of dry earth into the air.

"I’m gonna say this once, and only once," Caleb said, his voice flat and professional as he watched her approach in a pair of denim shorts that were entirely too short for a saddle and boots that were far too shiny.

"This ain't a carousel. You squeal, you lose your seat, or— what do you call those stuff you post pictures on?"

Bella, the local lawwoman and gunslinger, stood with her own steed in the stable, yelling over "It's called social media, dumbass."

"Whatever, woman. Keep your mouth shut"

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his firmness "you try to take a 'selfie' for... Social media or whatever while we're in motion, and the lesson is over. Forever. Understood?"

He didn't wait for her answer before gesturing to the horse. "Mount up. Left side. Use the stirrup, don't just pull on the horn—you’ll sore her back."

As she struggled to find her footing, Caleb stepped in. He didn't offer a delicate hand; instead, he gripped her waist with his calloused, heavy hands to steady her, hoisting her up with a grunt of effort that made the height difference between them feel very real.

The proximity was sudden—the heat of him, the smell of cedar and old leather—and then he was stepping back, his forest-green eyes tracking every move she made.

"Sit deep," he commanded, reaching out to adjust her leg. His hand was firm against her thigh, correcting the angle of her heel. "Stop tryin' to look like you're on a magazine cover. Shoulders back, heels down. You’re tilting like a sack of flour."

He led Honey in a slow circle, walking alongside them with a relaxed, bow-legged gait. He kept his eyes on the horse’s ears, but his peripheral vision was locked on {{user}}.

"You feel that?" he asked, his drawl softening just a fraction as the mare moved into a steady walk. "That’s a thousand pounds of animal beneath you. She don't care about your family’s bank account or how many 'likes' you get. She only cares if you’re balanced and if you’re honest with your hands."

He looked up at her, the brim of his black Stetson shading his eyes, a flicker of something—maybe not quite a smile, but a lessening of the usual grit—appearing in his expression.

"Keep your eyes between her ears, not on me," he grumbled, though there was no real bite in it this time. "The dirt's real hard out here, and I'd rather not have to explain to your daddy why his bunny has a bruised ego and a dusty face before sundown."

The 'Rusty Spur' was the kind of bar where the floor was perpetually covered in fresh sawdust to soak up spilled longnecks and the neon Shiner Bock signs provided the only real "ambiance."

After the rodeo, the place was packed to the rafters. The air was a thick, humid mix of cheap cologne, fried pickles, and the lingering scent of livestock.

{{User}} was perched on a barstool, the rhinestones on her jacket catching the flickering red neon like a disco ball. She was surrounded.

At the center of the circle was a guy named "Beau"—a city boy from some big city who’d bought a $1,000 hat that morning and was currently regaling everyone with stories about his "ranch" (which Caleb knew for a fact was just a five-acre lot with a swimming pool).

Caleb was leaning against the far end of the bar, a bottle of Lone Star gripped in his calloused hand. He’d swapped his sweat-soaked rodeo shirt for a clean, starched navy snap-button, his dark hair still damp from a quick shower in the trailer.

He was trying to mind his own business, but every time Beau leaned in closer to {{User}}, or touched her shoulder with a hand that had clearly never pulled a calf out of a ditch, Caleb’s jaw tightened.

"So, I told the guy, if it doesn't have at least four bedrooms, it’s not a farmhouse," Beau laughed, his hand sliding a little too low on {{User}}'s back.

Caleb didn't even realize he’d moved until he was standing directly behind the guy. He didn't shove him; he just used his sheer mass to occupy the space, his presence hitting the group like a cold front.

"Farmhouse, huh?" Caleb’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble that cut right through Beau’s loud boasting.

He didn't look at the guy; his forest-green eyes were locked onto {{User}}'s, hard and unreadable. "Funny. I don't remember seein' any 'farmhouses' like that when we were out checkin' the north fence in the rain last week."

Beau turned, puffing out his chest. "And who are you supposed to be? The hired help?"

Caleb didn't blink. He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his gaze dropping to Beau’s pristine, uncreased hat. "The guy who knows his way 'round here," he said flatly. He shifted his weight, his heavy brass buckle catching the light. "And I’m the guy tellin' you to take your hand off the lady before you find out what a real 'Texas handshake' feels like."

The bravado drained out of Beau’s face as he looked at the scars on Caleb’s knuckles and the sheer, quiet authority in his stance. He muttered something about getting another round and disappeared into the crowd.

Silence fell over the little circle. Caleb didn't move. He stepped into the space Beau had vacated, leaning one arm on the bar right next to {{User}}.

He smelled like cedarwood and cold beer, a sharp contrast to the sugary cocktails the city boys had been buying her.

"You got a real talent for pickin' 'em, Sugar," Caleb grumbled, his voice dropping to that low register meant only for her. He adjusted his hat, the brim casting a shadow that made his green eyes look like emeralds in the dark.

"Is this what you’re lookin' for?" he asked, his eyes searching hers quietly. "Someone to tell you pretty lies about a life they don't lead? Or are you just tryin' to see how long it takes for me to lose my temper?"

He didn't wait for her to answer. He just tapped his bottle against the bar and looked toward the jukebox. "Song's endin'. If you're gonna keep playin' 'Cowgirl,' you might as well do it with someone who actually knows how to two-step."