Page 5 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Wade’s intense stare continues, and I can see the cogs in his mind turning.

“Fine. You sort it. You want the responsibility; you lead this. If it goes to shit, it’s on you.” His words echo through me. He is actually letting go of some control over the ranch. That’s a first.

But this is now more to me than just a shot at finding decent company. This is a chance to prove Wade wrong. And when have I ever passed up a chance like that?

I smirk. “Fine. Guess we’ll both get what we want then. You get to doubt me, and I get to prove you wrong.”

God, I am running on fumes.

The ranch immersion scheme has taken every spare second of my free time, which isn't much to begin with. All week, I have been up later than I would normally allow myself within my stringent routine, reading applications and organising interviews to accommodate different time zones.

Last night, after the usual tedious task of tending to the horses and checking the paddocks, I spent more hours than I’d like to admit on preparing for today’s interviews.

Six promising candidates, all from different backgrounds, each with something that stood out to me. Not just work ethic, but personality too. I need someone who isn’t another Wade, where having a conversation is like drawing blood from a stone. Especially since I’ll be stuck with ’em, side by side, sunup to sundown, training them.

And of course, Mr. Grumpy-Cowboy didn’t give me the day off so I could focus on recruitment, so I had to drag myself out of bed even earlier than usual to get ahead on the endless list of chores demanding my attention.

I yawn as I glance at the grandfather clock standing tall in the corner of the main house’s hall. The brass hands creep toward 10:15 a.m. Almost time.

The aroma of coffee drifts through the house, luring me into the kitchen. I am going to need a caffeine hit before I head up to the makeshift office that I’ve set up in the abandoned upstairs bedroom.

No one's lived in the main house since my mother left and my grandfather passed. Sometimes I walk through these rooms and feel their absence. Funny, really, considering these days the main house is the busiest building on the ranch. It’s more of a common area now, where the ranch hands grab their meals and coffee, courtesy of Mrs. Maggie Mae.

Mrs. Mae has been part of this ranch longer than I’ve been alive, and she’s the closest thing I have to a mother figure, even if she’s old enough to be my grandmother. I can go to her for anything, from patching up my worn clothes to receiving advice or calming down when my emotions get the best of me, which happens more often than I’d like to admit. I put it down to abandonment issues, but those conversations are reserved for my therapist.

I head toward the oversized kitchen and find lunch already laid out on the marble-topped pine island, a fresh pot of coffee waiting beside it. Perfect timing.

I pour myself a large mug, add three heaped spoonfuls of sugar, and pray the caffeine and sugar hit me hard enough to survive the rest of the day. I grab a slice of Mrs. Mae’s banana bread, the one everyone’s always trying to get the recipe for. Not that she has ever shared it.

With my hands full, I make my way into the main hall and start the creaky climb up the wooden staircase towards the office. My heart’s already kicking up.

Why the hell am I nervous?

Is it the weight of the responsibility?

Is it the thought of talking to someone outside of this town?

Or maybe it’s the fear of failing and Wade being right?

Pushing those thoughts aside, I slump into the large leather office chair that still carries the scent of newness. 10:23 a.m. Only seven minutes to go. I quickly devour the banana bread while skimming the first applicant’s file again.

This one was an interesting read, to say the least. And, if I am being honest, I shortlisted the 27-year-old out of sheer curiosity. When I first read her application, I laughed—it was chaotic, unfiltered, and refreshingly honest. Unlike other polished submissions, hers felt like a candid conversation, completed with self-deprecating humour and unexpected insights.

“Maeve Callaghan.”

Didn’t mean to say that out loud. Her name just slipped out, like I’d already been talking to her. I find myself nervously anticipating our conversation. So, I read her application again.

Application for Ranch Immersion Scheme

Name: Maeve Callaghan

Age: 27

Availability: ASAP

Allergies: Not to animals. Just my life in London.

Cover Letter: Right, so full transparency, I wasn’t planning on applying for this. I came across it at 1am while doomscrolling as a distraction from my life falling apart. But then I thought, what do I have to lose? I’ve worked in hospitality for most of my adult life. Coffee shops, bars, hotels, you name it. Basically, I’ve survived every version of the public at their worst. So, I reckon I can survive cows and some dirt. I’m applying because I’m tired of chasing places that never feel right for me. I want something real. Something that can provide me with a sense of purpose, and I think this scheme would allow me the opportunity to immerse myself in a lifestyle that might turn out to be my calling. I’m not pretending I’m God’s gift to ranch life. I don’t have farm experience but I learn fast and work hard. I have attached my CV for your viewing. I can also hold a decent conversation, even more so over coffee. If you give me a shot, I won’t let you down. (And if you don’t, that’s fair too, at least I can say I tried.) Thanks for reading this, even if it ends up in your digital bin.