Rural Hearts

The calf was backward.

Zoro knew it before he got both hands on it, knew it from the angle, from the heifer’s blown-out panic, from the slick wrongness of one hind hoof where he should have had two feet and a nose. The wind cut sideways through the barn gap and slapped rain against the back of his neck. Cold mud had worked through the knee of his jeans an hour ago. His hands were numb to the wrist.

“Come on,” he muttered.

The heifer bawled and tried to lurch up again.

Zoro leaned his shoulder into her flank before she could get the idea all the way into her body. “No. Stay down.”

She didn’t care what he said. Cattle never did.

He got the chain set, swore when his fingers slipped, set it again, and braced his boot in the straw. His right shoulder burned. His left hand had a cut across the knuckles from the gate latch, still bleeding when he flexed. Outside, the old barn tin rattled hard enough to sound like it was coming loose.

The calf didn’t move.

Zoro pulled again.

The heifer strained. The chain bit into his palm. For a second, nothing happened except noise – rain, wind, cattle, his own breath shoved through his teeth.

Then the calf shifted.

“Yeah,” Zoro said, low and rough. “C’mon.”

It took another twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Time had gone loose somewhere around midnight, when he’d found the first calf half-frozen near the south tank and carried it into the mudroom of his house under his coat. This one came out slick and heavy and too still for too long.

Zoro dropped to one knee, cleared the nose, rubbed hard with a towel gone stiff with cold. “Breathe.”

The calf gave nothing back.

He rubbed harder. “Breathe.”

The heifer rolled an eye at him, exhausted and stupid with pain.

Zoro hooked two fingers under the calf’s jaw, tipped the head, cleared more fluid, and rubbed until his arms shook. The calf’s ribs hitched once.

Then again.

Then it coughed.

Zoro sat back on his heels and let his head hang for one breath. 

The calf made a thin, offended sound.

“Yeah,” Zoro said with a short, ragged laugh.

By the time he got the pair settled, checked the calf in the mudroom, walked the fence light along the near pen, and made sure the other heifer wasn’t starting, the sky had gone a flat, ugly gray. Morning, technically. It didn’t feel like morning. It felt like the night had given up and changed color.

His truck clock said 6:42 when he parked by the house.

Zoro sat there with both hands on the wheel. The engine ticked. Rain hit the windshield in uneven taps. The porch light was still on because he’d left it on. Same as always. No one had turned it off. No one had turned on the kitchen light. No one had made coffee, or told him he had blood on his sleeve, or asked if the calf lived.

He had maybe twenty minutes before he needed to go back out. Maybe less. 

He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Dark circles under his good eye. Mud streaked across the scar through the other one. His green hair was plastered wetly to his forehead beneath his battered ballcap, the brim bent from when the wind had taken it off his head and thrown it into the mud. His three gold drop earrings looked dull in the thin morning light.

He stared at himself for another moment, then got out of the truck.

Inside, the house felt cold. He kicked his boots off by the door and missed the mat. Mud smeared across the tile. He looked at it for a second, then kept going.

The calf in the mudroom lifted its head from the pile of old towels and blinked at him.

“Don’t start,” Zoro said.

It blinked again.

He made coffee because lying down would be worse. Lying down meant getting up again, and he didn’t trust himself to do it. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink until the water ran pink, wrapped the cut with a paper towel and electrical tape because the first-aid kit was in the truck, and stood there while the coffee maker coughed itself awake.

The satellite router blinked green on the shelf by the window. It was new enough to still annoy him.

For years, the internet had been useless. Spinning circles, dropped pages, messages arriving six hours late. A good excuse, if he’d needed one. Now the damn thing worked.

Zoro took the coffee black, too hot, and carried it to the desk in the corner of the living room. He draped his coat over the chair. The laptop was still open from two nights ago. He’d meant to check the weather. Maybe calf prices. Maybe mineral order forms. He couldn’t remember.

The screen woke under his hand. A half-finished profile stared back at him.

Rural Hearts

He stared at the name, then at the empty boxes below it.

Looking for:

He had written serious relationship in the box three weeks ago and closed the laptop.

Zoro stared at the screen and drank coffee. It burned his tongue. He now remembered he’d pulled this site up again at four in the morning two nights back, after he lost two calves in a row and had no one to share that grief with.

Outside, one of the cows bawled. Just a complaint, not something that needed his attention.

He should close the laptop. Check the barn again. Eat something. Wrap his hand properly. Sleep standing up against the wall.

Instead, he put his fingers on the keys.

About me:

Cattle rancher in East Blue. Remote place.

He typed slowly because his hands were stiff and his brain felt packed with wet sand.

What to know:

Long roads. Bad service past the house. Cattle don’t care if you’re tired. Neither does the weather. 

He stopped. It sounded like a warning. Maybe it should.

Looking for:

Serious relationship. 

He looked toward the kitchen. One mug. One plate in the sink from yesterday. One chair pulled out because he never used the other one. Mud on the floor where nobody would complain about it. Coffee burning in his stomach. Rain against the windows. A calf asleep in the mudroom because there was no one else to tell him it was a bad idea.

He looked back at the screen.

I’m not looking for an employee.

The sentence sat there, plain and ugly and true. He could hire help. He knew where to find help. That wasn’t why he was sitting there dead tired in wet clothes, filling out a relationship profile before dawn. 

He breathed out through his nose. Then he kept typing.

I can handle the work. I’m looking for someone to share my life with. Someone who wants quiet, distance, animals, bad roads, and to stay. I want someone who notices when I’m bleeding before I do. 

He stared at that last line for a long time. 

The cow outside bawled again. This time, sharper.

Zoro saved the profile before he could think too hard, shut the laptop, and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. The coffee stayed on the desk, half-finished and steaming. 

At the door, he paused long enough to look back at the computer. “Stupid,” he muttered.

Then he went back into the rain.

Usopp had told him about the rural dating site after seeing one of those farmers-only commercials.

Zoro had driven out to Gecko Hills – four hours round trip – for vaccine supplies, mineral tubs, and a new float valve for the north tank, and to catch Usopp on his lunch break at the university extension office. The trip took him down miles of open range and pale highway, past fence lines, dry grass, wind-scoured draws, and the occasional cluster of cattle standing with their heads low against the sun. 

They’d been friends for over twenty years now, since East Blue University. Koshiro had made Zoro go because Zoro had been set to inherit the ranch as soon as he graduated. Rangeland management with a minor in animal science had been the compromise – enough cattle to keep Zoro interested, enough land and water science to keep Koshiro happy.

Usopp had a long mane of textured curls, an even longer nose, and scraggly patchwork he called a beard on his chin. They’d had several rangeland ecology classes together and struck up a friendship over field labs, native grass quizzes, and Usopp’s habit of talking until Zoro answered just to make him stop. Now Usopp worked at the Gecko Hills extension office, where people brought him dying plants, mystery bugs, bad soil tests, and questions they expected him to answer for free. 

They sat in a diner off the highway that had the worst burgers but the best chile cheese fries. The place had cracked vinyl booths, a row of sun-faded rodeo photos over the register, and a swamp cooler that rattled every time the compressor kicked on. Truckers came in and out. Two old men argued over coffee at the counter. In the kitchen, a cook kept slapping the service bell as orders came up.

Zoro and Usopp sat across from each other in a booth by the window, shooting the shit and catching up, when Usopp brought up the commercial.

“You need your own Kaya,” Usopp said, popping a fry into his mouth. “Then I won’t feel so bad when I humblebrag about her every time I see you, because you got your own to humblebrag about.”

Zoro had this conversation at least once a year. He reached for his cola and watched dust move across the parking lot outside. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Yeah, but don’t you want someone?”

Usopp said it offhandedly, almost too casually, but it struck hard. Zoro looked down at his plate of fries. The cheese had gone glossy over the chile, and one fry had fallen off the pile onto the paper liner. Of course he wanted someone. He had wanted someone for years, in a quiet way that showed up at odd times – over coffee, in the truck, in the empty half of the bed. But he was gay, lived in the middle of nowhere, and ran a ranch that took everything from before sunrise to well after dark.

“Kinda hard to meet anyone when I have to drive five hours one way just to find a gay bar.”

“You should try one of those dating websites,” Usopp said. “I saw a commercial for a FarmersOnly one. Everyone wore boots and looked too happy about fences.”

Zoro gave him a flat look. “A dating website.”

“Yeah.” Usopp picked up another fry and waved it around. “There’s gotta be one for gay cowboys.”

“I’m not a cowboy.”

“You raise cows. You’re a boy. Ergo, you’re a cowboy.”

Zoro sighed and took a swig of his cola. The ice had melted enough to make it watery. “I’m not using a dating site.”

Usopp whipped out his phone. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then his thumbs flew over the screen. “There’s County Line Singles, Open Range Dating, Rural Hearts, Heartland Match – no, that one’s for West Blue. Lemme add plus gay to see which one would work best.”

“Usopp,” Zoro said.

“Rural Hearts has the best gay reviews. Very open minded. They reference that movie Brokeback Mountain.” Usopp clutched his phone to his chest and took on an anguished face. “‘I wish I knew how to quit you.’”

“Usopp,” Zoro said again.

“Great movie. Heartwrenching. Cried for days. Went through a thousand boxes of Kleenex.”

“Usopp…”

“So we’re going with Rural Hearts.” Usopp bent over his phone again, already too deep into it. “We gotta come up with something catchy. ‘Somewhat handsome – but not as good looking as his best friend – gay cowboy seeks his own Brokeback Mountain but with a happy ending.’”

“Usopp!” Zoro raised his voice, drawing attention from the two old men at the counter and the waitress refilling coffee near the pie case. He hunched his shoulders self-consciously and glared at Usopp. “No.”

Usopp sighed heavily and set his phone down on the table. His dramatics slipped a little, leaving something more earnest behind. “I only want you to be happy, like I am with Kaya.”

“I’m okay by myself.”

Usopp gave him a somewhat sad look. “But you shouldn’t have to be.”

Outside, a semi rolled by on the highway, loud enough to rattle the window in its frame. Zoro looked away first. He hated when Usopp got like that, when all the jokes and stupid voices dropped off and he said something Zoro had no easy answer for.

What Usopp said stuck with him over the weeks that followed. It came back while Zoro was checking the fence, while he was hauling feed, while he stood under a cold sky tracking the weather. It came back in the house, too, in the quiet after dinner, when the chores were done enough to sit down and the rooms felt bigger than they needed to be.

Then calving season hit properly, and the night he lost the two calves, he opened the browser and looked up the site. Satellite internet made it possible, when before he would have gotten stuck waiting for a page to load until he got annoyed and shut the whole thing down. 

Now, during another hard, exhausting night, he had gone through with posting a profile. In the cold light of day, after he got some sleep, he thought about deleting it.

He left it up.

Shimotsuki Ranch covered forty-eight hundred acres, part inherited land and part grazing lease. It sat off the highway, then off a county road, then off a ranch road that turned into two pale tracks across open range. Shells Town was the closest town, where his address was listed and where he picked up his mail, but even that was thirty-five to fifty minutes from the ranch, depending on the weather.

Zoro ran a cow-calf operation. He kept mother cows, bred them, raised the calves, weaned them, then sold the calves. His main yearly income came from selling weaned calves, with the occasional cull cow added in when an older cow, open cow, or problem cow needed to leave the herd. He had a couple of bulls, a few horses, chickens for eggs, barn cats, and livestock guardian dogs with the cattle.

One of those dogs barked somewhere beyond the barn, sharp once, then settled. Zoro listened long enough to decide it was nothing. Probably coyotes moving at a distance, or one of the calves getting too close to the fence. He made a note to check that side on his next round.  

Shimotsuki Ranch had been family owned and operated for generations before Zoro took over. It would have stayed directly in the family if Koshiro’s only daughter, Kuina, had lived. She died in an accidental fall, and by then Koshiro’s wife had already passed. Koshiro had no interest in continuing the legacy alone. He was content to pass the ranch on to Zoro, knowing it would be in good hands.

Koshiro had been Zoro’s guardian until Zoro turned eighteen. Zoro’s parents and the Shimotsukis had known each other, and Koshiro and his wife had been named Zoro’s godparents. After both of Zoro’s parents died when he was young, Koshiro took him in and raised him from age eight onward. Zoro and Kuina had been part friends, part rivals, and they had planned to run the ranch together when they got older.

The ranch had been theirs in the way kids claimed a thing before they understood the cost of it. Kuina had wanted to run the horses and argue about breeding records. Zoro had wanted the cattle, the land, and whatever work proved he belonged there. After she died, wanting it had turned into something harder. He had vowed to run the ranch in her honor, and he had built his life around keeping that vow. 

He didn’t regret being a rancher. He liked the work. He liked taking care of the animals, liked the challenge, and liked the steadiness required to keep a place like Shimotsuki Ranch alive. He had poured literal blood, sweat, and tears into keeping it running and profitable enough that he could live comfortably. The house was big enough for a family, even though he was the only one rambling around in it. He hired ranch hands when he had to, but he preferred doing the work himself. 

It was tiring, though. The ranch wasn’t something he could set down and leave behind for a vacation. A trip to Gecko Hills took most of the day. Driving down to Loguetown meant leaving at dawn and getting home close to midnight. Grand Line was even farther. Most of the time, Zoro’s only company was cattle. 

On nights outside calving season – which took up roughly sixty days of his year – he checked prices, ordered supplies, paid bills, and handled whatever maintenance the house needed. Now that he had decent satellite internet, some of it went faster.

Tonight, none of the heifers seemed ready to go into labor. After the two he’d lost and the two he’d dragged through the night, he still had about thirty left to calve. The herd was quiet for the moment. Zoro finally took the time to check his email and pay a few bills he knew were coming due.

He didn’t expect his inbox to be flooded with notifications from Rural Hearts.

His inbox had thirty-two Rural Hearts notifications stacked between the feed invoice and the electric bill. Most of them looked automated – profile views, suggested matches, someone sending him something called a flirt. Others were previews of direct messages. 

Zoro stared at the number beside the search bar, then clicked the first one because it was probably an error. It wasn’t.

Rural Hearts: Someone likes your profile!

The email opened with RealCowboyZzz liked your profile and picture of a man in a black cowboy hat at what looked like a themed birthday party, grinning too wide beside an inflatable cactus. 

Rural Hearts: BigBull72 sent you a flirt.

Under that was a button that said Flirt Back.

Zoro closed it. He opened the next one.

Rural Hearts: New message from SaddleUpSteve

The preview beneath read, “Want to fuck?”

Zoro’s face went blank. He opened another one.

Rural Hearts: Someone favorited you!

It was a profile view from a man wearing a suit in front of a bank. His username was LatteAndLevis, and his bio said he was “rural-curious.” 

Zoro stared at that for a long second. “Rural-curious,” he said aloud.

The calf asleep in the mudroom made a wet little snort.

Zoro opened the next one.

Rural Hearts: New message from WeekendBoots

The preview read, “I bought boots once. They looked good on my floor. Bet yours would look better.” 

Zoro leaned back from the laptop. “What the hell?”

They kept going.

Rural Hearts: Your profile is popular tonight!

Body: “8 members viewed your profile in the last hour.” 

Rural Hearts: Someone sent you a flirt!

Body: “CountryGent77 thinks you’re worth saddling up for.” 

Rural Hearts: New message from HayThereHandsome

Preview: “Got some hay we can roll in?” 

Rural Hearts: New message from FenceLineFlirt

Preview “That much land, no neighbors, and a man who works with his hands? I can think of a few reasons to be interested.” 

Rural Hearts: New message from CityBoyCaleb

Preview “Is it weird if I say I’ve always wanted to ride a cowboy?” 

Rural Hearts: CowboiFker sent you a flirt!

Flirt back!

Rural Hearts: Someone likes your profile!

BrunchinBoots liked your profile.

Profile photo: a man on a rooftop patio, wearing a blazer, dark jeans, and boots that looked like they had come out of the box that morning. 

Zoro stared at the boots. Those cost more than his water pump.

The messages went on. One man wanted to know if Zoro could teach him to ride a horse. One asked if the ranch had “a hot tub and romantic sunsets.” One said he was tired of city boys and ready for “a real man with huge land,” which made Zoro pause for a moment. One admitted he was allergic to hay but “emotionally available.” 

Zoro clicked through them more quickly. He deleted all the flirts, profile likes, and favorites. The messages ranged from bad flirting to downright obscene. He was surprised he just didn’t get a string of dick picks. 

His hand paused over the mouse. Then he shook his head, deleted the obvious sex offers, and made a mental note to maybe check the website for the full messages later.

When he was done, he had four messages sitting in his inbox between the bills. One was a legitimate question: “How bad is bad service?” Two were simple introductions. The last one asked with underlying concern if he needed medical help. 

Zoro left those alone for a moment and paid his bills. Then he fetched a beer before settling back into the chair at his desk. 

He sat there for a minute, debating if he was actually going to open the full messages. Rain started pattering against the window above the desk. The calf in the mudroom snuffled. He thought about his day starting at four in the morning and the empty bed waiting for him tonight. 

He took a sip of beer, set it aside, and pulled up the Rural Hearts website.

After logging in, the message notification bell in the corner showed slightly higher than his email notifications had been. He ignored it, went back to his email, and clicked the link inside the first one. He answered the question about the service with “cell service and Wi-Fi die a hundred yards from the house.” Then he clicked on the concerned message, said he was fine, just a cut. 

He glanced at the healing lines across the back of his knuckles. Then he opened the first of the two introductory messages. 

Koza, 47
Environmental policy director. Divorced. No kids.

His profile picture showed a man about Zoro’s age standing in front of a dry riverbed with rolled-up sleeves, sun-browned skin, and blond hair that had gone silver at the temples. He had a serious face, but the smile looked real. Behind him, three people in hard hats were looking at a map spread across the hood of a truck.

The message was longer than Zoro expected.

Hi Zoro,

I hope this is all right. Your profile caught my attention because you were direct about what you wanted. That’s rare on here.

I work in environmental planning, mostly water use, drought response, conservation grants, and land-management policy. I’m in Arabasta most of the time, though I travel for work more than I’d like. I grew up around ranch country, but I won’t pretend I know your life better than you do. Most of my work happens in offices, meetings, field surveys, and arguments with people who all think the other side is wasting water.

Zoro snorted softly at that.

I liked what you said about wanting someone who understands quiet, distance, animals, bad roads, and someone who wants to stay. I understand distance. I understand bad roads. I’m still working on staying, if I’m honest. My job makes that complicated sometimes.

You seem grounded. I’d like to talk, if you’re interested.

–Koza

It was a good message. Normal. Respectful. Written by someone who knew how to use punctuation and probably knew about aquifer recharge. He lived in Arabasta, which was far but not insurmountable. He understood drought and land and the way everyone talked about water like there would always be enough.

It seemed like someone Zoro should reply to and his picture stirred enough interest. He stared at the reply box. The calf in the mudroom shifted in its sleep, one hoof thumping softly against the old towel Zoro had put down.

Zoro closed out the message, then opened the other introductory one.

Ideo, 47
Former boxer. Gym owner. Never married. No kids.

His profile picture showed a broad-shouldered man standing in a boxing gym with his arms folded over his chest. He had dark hair pulled back, a square bearded jaw, and dark eyeliner around his eyes. Behind him were heavy bags, a row of speed bags, and a ring with worn red ropes.

His message was shorter than Koza’s.

Zoro,

I read your profile twice.

Most men on here talk about what they want like they’re ordering off a menu. You didn’t. You said you wanted someone who understood quiet, distance, animals, bad roads, and someone to stay. That sounds less like romance and more like a test. Good. I prefer the straightforward type.

I boxed professionally for twelve years. I run a gym now. I train fighters, teenagers with too much anger, office workers who think hitting a bag twice a week makes them dangerous, and anyone willing to show discipline. I respect work. I respect people who keep their word. I don’t have much patience for whining.

I’d like to talk.

–Ideo

Zoro sat back and took a swig of his beer. This guy read the profile and took it seriously. He also sounded a lot like Zoro himself – disciplined, straightforward, with no patience for fools. He wasn’t bad to look at, either. 

They were just words on a screen, though, and Zoro didn’t know if he actually wanted to meet someone like this. 

He closed out the message, logged off the Rural Hearts site, and opened a game of solitaire instead.

By the end of the week, Zoro had eight more calves and over a hundred Rural Hearts messages. He figured out how to turn off certain notifications so he only got direct messages in his inbox.

He’d messaged back both Ideo and Koza. Ideo, he told the nearest gym was two hours away and the closest town had a population of less than two hundred if he was thinking of opening his own. Koza, he asked more about his work, gave him a rundown on the ranch specifics. 

The person who’d been concerned about medical care messaged again through the website. Still in one piece? I’m currently staying with a doctor. He said not to bother him.

Zoro snorted softly at the message and typed out a reply. 

Scrape on my forearm, bruise the size of a dinner plate on my thigh, stubbed my toe on the ATV. Nothing I can’t handle.

He responded to another genuine introduction from a guy named Braham, who was a former forestry agent currently working law enforcement for a National Park. He looked good in his picture, square jawed and built, though he favored a brown watchcap pulled low over his forehead. Zoro hadn’t put up a picture of himself when he’d made the profile. Usopp was the only one who had recent pictures of him, and he wasn’t about to tell Usopp that he’d put himself on the rural dating website. He’d never hear the end of it. 

A bit of curiosity made him wonder how people found the site. He’d gotten messages from people who lived in the city seeking the alleged quiet life to spiritual people wanting to commune with nature to people from the other side of the globe. Rural Hearts wasn’t Grindr. He hadn’t bothered to look for matches on the site himself because he didn’t see the point. He was seeking someone who wanted to live on his isolated ranch and anyone who responded at least knew that from the start.

Usopp could probably find out how people got on the site. Or would make up a crazy story guaranteed to entertain. But, again, Zoro would have to tell him that he’d put up a profile and he’d rather slip in cowshit than admit it.

Instead he texted Usopp: Twenty-two to go.

Usopp replied almost immediately: Kaya said they should try squatting. 

Zoro snorted, put away his phone, and logged off Rural Hearts for the night.

The bottle calf had been out of the mudroom for over a week now. Zoro had moved it to the barn, bedded it deep in straw, and hung a heat lamp high enough that it couldn’t kill itself with curiosity. It still needed bottles in the morning and evening. It still yelled every time it saw him. But it was warm, dry, and out of his house. 

The calf was standing when he came in, long-legged and bawling like breakfast would never come. It knew the sound of his boots now and treated Zoro like a milk cow with thumbs. Zoro fed it, checked its eyes and gums, made sure it had water and hadn’t found a new way to hurt itself, then moved on to the rest of the ranch.  

Outside, the sky had gone hard and pale over the range. The wind had dragged itself up before sunrise and kept going, pushing dust across the yard in low sheets. The barn creaked around it. At the chicken coop, a loose hinge knocked against wood with a steady, irritating clack.

He took the side-by-side because the north tank float valve had been sticking, and he wanted tools with him in case the new one fought back. The side-by-side coughed twice, clicked once, then died. He grit his teeth and turned the key again. The engine turned over on the next try.

The ranch spread out around him in dry grass, pale dirt, low brush, and fence lines that ran farther than most people understood. The side-by-side had a GPS mounted to the dash, loaded with the ranch roads, tanks, wells, gates, and fence lines, because things like to move on him. Zoro still got lost sometimes, but now at least the machine knew where he was. 

He drove the first track out past the lower pasture, where cows stood scattered in the morning light with their calves tucked close against them. Most of the pairs looked good. A red cow lifted her head as he passed, chewing slowly, calf pressed to her side. Two black calves chased each other in a short burst, then stopped like they had forgotten why they started.

Zoro slowed near the heifer pasture. Seventeen left. Seventeen more calves to hit the ground before he could stop counting every heavy belly, every lifted tail, every cow standing apart from the others like she was thinking too hard. Seventeen more chances for everything to go fine. Seventeen more chances for it to go wrong fast.

He watched a bald-faced heifer near the far fence. She stood with her back hunched slightly, tail loose, ears flicking. He marked her in his notebook and moved on.

The north tank was running, but the float valve was still sticking halfway. Water dribbled where it should have shut off. Zoro killed the line, crouched beside the tank, and worked the old valve loose. His knuckles stung when the wrench slipped. He paused, flexed his hand once, then kept going. 

The wind shoved at his ballcap. Dust got in his teeth. A cow watched him from fifteen feet away, then ambled over to do her best to be in the way.

By midmorning, he had the new float valve installed, one trough cleared of mud, and a note to order another spare because needing one meant needing two. He checked the mineral tubs after that, cut the plastic off a new one with his pocketknife, and dragged it into place while three cows were waiting for him to move.

The fence along the wash had taken damage from the last storm. A sagging stretch where water had eaten out under a post and left the bottom wire loose enough for trouble. He fixed it with two clips, a T-post, and a lot of profanity. 

At noon, he checked the livestock guardian dogs on his way back from the pastures, made sure they had feed and water, then came back to the barn long enough to check the bottle calf, top off its water, and make sure it hadn’t tried to hang itself on the panel gate. Zoro ate lunch over the sink, cold meat between two slices of bread, coffee gone stale, an apple with a bruise he cut out with his knife. He checked the market report on his phone while he chewed, frowned at calf prices, then frowned harder at a text from the feed store about delivery delays. 

The afternoon went the way afternoons went during calving season. One heifer needed watching. One calf needed tagging. One cow had gotten through a gate Zoro knew he had latched, because cows had a talent for making him doubt reality. The chickens had knocked their waterer sideways. The old diesel started rough, then settled. The side-by-side picked up a rattle somewhere under the seat that had not been there earlier and probably cost money. 

By late afternoon, the sky had dropped lower. The wind changed first. It came colder over the back of Zoro’s neck while he stood by the heifer lot, watching the bald-faced one paw at the ground. She took three steps, stopped, lifted her tail, and looked back at her own side as if she were annoyed. Zoro rubbed at his face. “Great.”

He moved her into the closer pen before full dark. She fought him just enough to make it personal, then went through the gate like it had been her idea. He shut it, checked the latch twice, and stood there while she circled the pen once, restless and heavy. 

He went into the house, washed his hands at the kitchen sink and saw a gash across the top of his wrist, probably from the stupid fence. He and fences didn’t have a good track record. He cleaned it, taped gauze over it, and went back to work.

The bald-faced heifer was still restless when he got back to the closer pen. She had worked herself into the far corner, sides moving hard, head low. When Zoro swung the flashlight over her, she stopped and stared at him. Her tail lifted again. A string of mucus hung dark and glossy in the beam.

He checked her from the gate because crowding her would only make her stupid. First-calf heifers had a way of turning worry into movement. Movement made them tired. Tired made everything worse. She needed to settle, push, and do the job, preferably without making Zoro put his arm anywhere.

The wind shoved dust against his face. He turned his head, spat, and watched her circle once more before she stopped near the strawed corner. Good enough for now.

He went to the barn and set out what he might need if it went bad: chains, handles, OB gloves, lube, towels, iodine, the old calf puller he hated using and kept anyway. He checked the flashlight batteries, then checked the backup because trusting one flashlight during calving season was how a man ended up swearing in the dark with a cow trying to kick his ribs in.

By the time he finished, the yard had gone dim and blue. The first stars were out over the east fence line, sharp through the moving dust. Cold came fast once the sun dropped. It slipped under his collar and through the damp spots in his sleeves, reminding him that he had been sweating most of the day and it might get worse later.

He fed the horses, checked the livestock guardian dogs again where they waited near the heifer pasture, scattered grain for the chickens, and fixed the loose hinge on the coop before the clack drove him mad. The screw holes were stripped, so he shifted the hinge half an inch, drilled new holes, and got it tight enough to last until the next thing broke. 

Inside the barn, the bottle calf started yelling again. Zoro ignored it long enough to haul a bale down and fork more straw into its pen. The calf tried to help by stepping on the fork, then tried to eat the handle, then head-butted his thigh when he moved too slowly with the bottle. It had gotten stronger. Strong enough to be a nuisance. Good. Expensive, loud, inconvenient progress. 

He fed it, checked the heat lamp, checked the cord, checked the clip, then checked it again because calves were born looking for ways to die.

The calf finished the bottle and nosed his bandaged wrist.

“Don’t,” Zoro said. It mouthed the gauze. He pushed its head away. “Said don’t.”

The calf blinked at him with wet, empty innocence.

Zoro stared back. “That face only works because you’re a calf.” 

He cleaned the nipple, rinsed the bottle, and set both upside down to dry. Then he made another round through the barn because leaving for the night without checking everything was how he got dragged back out ten minutes later. Feed room door shut. Tack room latched. Water off where it needed to be off. Barn cats fed, though he only saw one gray tail vanish behind the stacked mineral tubs.

Dinner was whatever required the least effort. Beans from the fridge, tortillas warmed straight on the burner, the last of the coffee reheated. He ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt dangerous. Sitting down meant his body might realize it had been moving since before sunrise and make demands.

The kitchen window had gone black enough to show his reflection. Mud on his jeans. Dust at his temples. One shoulder held lower than the other. Gauze taped over his wrist. The face looking back at him seemed older than it had that morning.

He looked away and finished the beans.

At eight, he checked the heifer. Still up. Still circling. More serious now.

At nine, she was down, then up again when he approached the gate. Her water bag showed briefly, pale in the flashlight beam, then disappeared as she turned.

He waited ten minutes, leaning on the fence with his hands tucked under his arms for warmth. She lay down again, grunted, pushed, then got up before anything happened.

Zoro exhaled through his nose.

First-timers.

He went back to the barn, checked the bottle calf, checked the close cows, then drove the side-by-side along the nearer fence line because a bad night liked company. The headlights shook over brush, wire, pale dirt, and the eyeshine of cows bedded down in the dark. Most stayed where they were. A few lifted their heads. One calf stumbled up, realized its mother had moved three feet away, and bawled like it had been abandoned.

The GPS glowed on the dash, the little marker crawling along the track. He knew this part of the ranch. He knew the wash, the broken cedar post, the old gate that dragged if he didn’t lift it. He still glanced at the screen when the dark flattened everything into the same stretch of dirt and brush. 

At ten, the bald-faced heifer had made progress. Two feet showed.

Zoro aimed the flashlight and crouched at the gate. Front feet. Soles down. Good. Nose should have been right behind them. He watched through another contraction, waiting for the muzzle to appear. The heifer strained, grunted, stopped, and lay there breathing hard.

No nose.

“Damn it.”

He waited through one more push to be sure. Same feet. No nose. Maybe the head was turned back. Maybe it was only slow. Maybe it was trouble.

He opened the gate. The heifer lurched up at once and swung her head toward him, wild-eyed. Zoro stepped aside, let her circle, then eased her toward the smaller catch pen. She wanted none of it. She shoved left, he cut her off. She tried right, he slapped the rope against the panel and drove her forward with more patience than he felt. Ten minutes later, she finally went through the gate.

He got her caught in the headgate on the second try. She kicked once, hard enough to rattle the panel. He waited until she settled, then pulled on gloves and got to work.

The calf’s head was there, but tucked wrong, just enough to make the birth stall. Zoro swore quietly, worked his hand in, found the jaw, and eased it forward between contractions. The heifer strained against him. His wrist burned under the gauze. His shoulder cramped. The cold lube ran down inside his sleeve.

“Come on,” he said through his teeth. “Help me out here.”

She pushed again. This time the nose appeared.

Chains on the front legs. Careful. Even pressure. Pull with the contraction, ease off when she stopped. He had done this before. He hated it every time. Too much force could hurt the calf. Waiting too long could lose it. Every decision had a cost, and calving season liked to make him pay fast.

The heifer pushed. Zoro pulled. The calf slid free all at once and hit the straw in a wet, heavy heap.

For one long second, it did nothing. Zoro dropped to one knee, cleared its nose, rubbed hard along its ribs with a towel, and shoved straw against its chest. “C’mon, breathe.”

The calf jerked. He rubbed harder. It coughed, shook its head, and dragged in a rough, ugly breath.

Zoro sat back on his heels, chest tight. He’d lost enough this season.

The heifer twisted in the headgate, trying to look back. Zoro released her once he was sure she could stand without trampling the calf on the way. She came around fast, sniffed the calf, then licked it with rough, urgent strokes. 

He stayed until the calf lifted its head. Stayed longer until it tried to get its front legs under itself and failed twice. The third time, it made it halfway up, folded, and flopped into the straw.

“Same,” Zoro said in commiseration. 

The heifer kept licking.

He dipped the navel in iodine, checked the calf’s mouth, checked the heifer’s back end, then backed out and latched the pen. He’d still need to make sure the calf got up and nursed. He’d still need to watch them. He’d still need to check the others. Seventeen had become sixteen, but sixteen was plenty.

Back in the barn aisle, Zoro stripped off the gloves and dropped them into the trash. His shirt sleeve was wet. His wrist throbbed. His lower back had started making an argument he had no interest in hearing.

The bottle calf yelled from its pen. Zoro ignored it and checked the clock. Almost midnight. 

He still had to make another round.

The side-by-side started on the third try and the sound from earlier had grown more pronounced. Zoro pulled his collar up, clicked the flashlight into the holder beside his knee, and drove out with the headlights cutting a narrow path through the dark. 

The wind had settled some, but the cold had gotten sharper. It sat low over the ground, silvering the dry grass and turning every breath thin. The tires bumped over ruts he knew by feel. Brush scraped the underside. Somewhere past the fence line, coyotes yipped in chorus.

Zoro checked the closer cows first. Most were bedded down, heavy bodies dark against the pale dirt, calves tucked tight beside them or folded into the grass like they had been dropped there and forgotten. He slowed near each pair, counting by habit. Cow, calf. Cow, calf. Cow standing alone, calf ten feet behind her asleep. Fine. A black cow lifted her head and glared into the headlights.

The GPS glowed on the dash. He glanced at it when he cut toward the wash, because the dark made distance slippery and he had taken the wrong track here twice even with the fence line in sight. The little marker crawled where it was supposed to. For once.

At the far edge of the close pasture, one heifer stood apart from the others. Zoro eased off the gas. This one was red, heavy, with one white sock and an attitude he recognized from three previous attempts to move her. Her tail lifted. She took two steps, stopped, and turned her head toward her side. 

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching through the windshield. She stood still. Shifted. Lifted her tail again. No water bag. No feet. Maybe early. Maybe nothing. Maybe she’d wait until he got back to the house and took one boot off.

He wrote her number in the notebook with stiff fingers. Red heifer. White sock. Watching.

The pen with the bald-faced heifer was better news. The new calf had found its legs and was nosing under her belly, searching with clumsy determination. The heifer swung her head back once, uncertain, then stayed put. Zoro leaned on the gate and watched until the calf latched. Its tail gave a hard little wag.

He stayed through another minute, making sure the heifer didn’t step away or kick. She only looked at him, eyes wide in the flashlight beam, then lowered her head to sniff the calf’s back. He checked the latch, checked the water, then moved on. 

The route back took him along the wash where he’d fixed the fence earlier. The repair flashed through the headlights – new T-post, bottom wire sitting where he’d left it. He slowed enough to look. It held. The coyotes yipped again nearby. He kept driving. 

He drove the loop back slower than he’d gone out. The side-by-side rattled under him. His back ached with every rut. The red heifer with the white sock had moved closer to the corner and was pawing lightly at the ground. 

He watched her for another five minutes. She circled, stopped, stood with her head low, then went still. Early, then. Probably.

He made a note to check her in an hour, which meant an hour of lying down would be useless and an hour of sitting up might be worse. 

Back at the barn, the bottle calf heard the engine and started yelling before Zoro even shut it off. “You’re fed,” Zoro called, climbing out.

The calf yelled again.

He checked it, didn’t feed it, got another yell. The new calf and its mother were settled. The bald-faced heifer was licking the calf’s ears with rough, possessive strokes. The red heifer was now on the list. Sixteen left, and one of them was thinking about making it fifteen before morning. 

Zoro shut the barn door against the wind and stood there a second with his hand on the latch. Almost one in the morning. Another check at two.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over his good eye, then headed for the house. Put a new pot of coffee on. He grabbed an apple from the bag on the counter and ate it while he waited. Once done, the apple core went in the compost bucket and he took his coffee with him to the computer. The side-by-side was going to need fixing again, but he should really get a new one. Or a good used one. He could get started pricing them out while waiting to go out again.

Instead he sank into his desk chair and checked his email. Nothing from Ideo, Koza, or Braham. More from people overseas. A handful of repeat flirts. And a message from his concerned medic again.

Injury tally, let’s hear it. I have a bet going. More than five gets me a laundry pass. 

A grin tugged at Zoro’s lips. They’d been messaging back and forth the past week, not every day, but close. He flexed his hand beneath his bandaged wrist, debated whether or not to count the ache in his shoulder and lower back, and typed a reply through the weblink.

Cut wrist. Couple aches. What do you have to do since you lost?

He hit send, leaned back in his chair, and sipped his coffee around his smile.

The red heifer with the white sock gave birth at quarter after three in the morning, and Zoro took a shower instead of crashing face-first into bed like he wanted. At four, he cooked himself up some eggs and toast, made more coffee, and headed out to work. 

He moved the heifer and her calf from the barn to the pasture, fed the bottle calf, checked the herd and counted heads. He poured feed into troughs, made sure water was flowing from the tanks, and forked clean straw into the barn, all before six. 

Chicken eggs got collected, the horses were checked, then Zoro did another round before trying to figure out what was wrong with the side-by-side. Tiredness tugged at him and he fought it with more coffee.

By lunch, he had one more calf born without difficulty. He fried up some bologna and went over to his desk. He’d gotten a message back already from his medic. Zoro clicked open the message link to the Rural Hearts website – which he didn’t bother to log out of now. 

I now must make meatsicles for the doctor’s husband. The doctor applauds you on not bleeding to death.

Zoro responded.

Meatsicles. Frozen meat on a stick? Is that even edible? Then again, I’m eating fried bologna for lunch.

Another two calves born. Fourteen left. Someday I’ll get to sleep.

He sent the message, finished his lunch, drank his coffee, and left the laptop open as he went back to work.

Exhaustion hit him around four in the afternoon. He downed more coffee and wondered if he’d get to sleep that night. None of the pregnant heifers looked ready to drop – no raised tails, no restless pacing, no one standing off by herself. He might have a reprieve. Might.

Zoro dragged himself over to the computer and unfroze the monitor. He’d gotten another message. 

Cooked meat, then I’ll flash freeze a layer of gravy over it. Just enough to have it set. Should be an interesting experiment. They didn’t teach this in the Navy.

Also, fried bologna? That’s it? The thought of that being all you’ve eaten makes my hands itch to make you something proper. Do I need to start doing a meal check on top of an injury check? 

Why does it matter how many calves are left? Why does it make you not be able to sleep? 

The doctor says he’s still not going to help.

Zoro smiled tiredly at the message. It was the longest one yet. His gaze flicked to the profile name: AllBlueCSCS. He hadn’t clicked on the profile, figuring this guy was just shooting the shit with him. He didn’t mind. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t Usopp or the guys at the feed store.

He drank half his coffee before he felt capable of stringing coherent words together. 

Let me know how it goes.

Navy? 

I eat. Can cook well enough, when not in calving season. 

I breed cattle and sell the calves. The ranch depends on them being born. Have to monitor to ensure it. 

Zoro ignored the doctor comment, as it was a kind of sign-off from this guy. He pressed send and watched as the confirmation popped up on the website. He opened a few of the other messages, checking for pic attachments before deleting them. Then he dragged himself out of the chair before he fell asleep and made a peanut butter and honey sandwich for dinner.

On his last round at eight, just before he was going to call it a night, one of the heifers had moved away from the others and was lifting her tail. Zoro closed his eye for a long moment, then went to put on another pot of coffee.

He didn’t trust himself to wait in the house. He took his coffee and stood out in the cold on his back porch. The chill helped keep him awake. He’d have to check the heifer every hour. It might be a forty-eight hour run for him. Not unusual. Calving season came once a year, for about sixty days, because Zoro kept a tight breeding window. But doing it himself meant nights he didn’t get to sleep. He saved hired help for sale week, when calves had to be gathered, sorted, loaded, and hauled. Calving season was harder to justify. Most of it was checking, waiting, and catching trouble before it turned fatal. He had a vet number taped inside the barn and two neighbors he could call if something went truly sideways. He avoided all three unless the choice was help or a dead animal. A man could waste money paying someone to wait beside him, or he could do the work himself and save the cash for sale week. 

Zoro checked the heifer at nine and again at ten. In between, he did some work on the barn and equipment shed – replaced a few boards, organized things that got dropped and left, nothing that required brain power or power tools. 

Stars covered the sky from horizon to horizon, bright enough that Zoro could see the pale wash of the galaxy. He leaned against the fence after checking on the heifer. He went over the things he had to do once the sun rose, things he could put off until he got some sleep. 

By one in the morning, he was punch drunk and dragging. He pulled his laptop out into the cold with him, sitting on the back step. He opened his Rural Hearts profile. He looked at what he had written about himself and what he wanted. Thought about adding a line: I’m lonely. 

He noticed the blank profile icon, with a small pencil tucked into the corner. He clicked it and got a picture upload window. One button read: Use computer camera. Zoro stared at it, then clicked. The site asked for permission. He allowed it, and his own face appeared on the screen – wan, worn, half-lit by the porch light and the laptop glow. His tattered ballcap did nothing to hide the scar through his eye. 

He took the picture. Let it upload. Closed the laptop again.

The calf came after four. No problems with the birth, but the heifer ignored it. 

Zoro gave her a minute. Sometimes first-timers needed that. They got up confused and sore and wanted to walk off. Sometimes instinct caught up. Sometimes the calf shook its head, made a sound, and the cow turned around like someone had flipped a switch. This one stepped away. 

“Hey,” Zoro said.

The heifer flicked an ear and kept walking, sides heaving, head low. The calf lay in the straw behind her, slick and dark and trying to breathe through fluid and its own surprise at being alive.

Zoro swore under his breath and went in. He cleared the calf’s nose, rubbed it hard with a towel, and dragged it closer to the heifer’s head. “That’s yours.”

The heifer sniffed once. For half a second, Zoro thought she had it. Then she backed up.

“No.” Zoro caught her before she could turn away completely, one hand up, voice low and hard. “You don’t get to do that.”

She did, because cattle did whatever they wanted unless made otherwise.

He got her into the headgate with more effort than grace. She fought him the whole way, wild-eyed and stupid with nerves, kicking once at the panel hard enough to make the whole thing jump. Zoro’s wrist lit up under the gauze. He ignored it, latched the gate, and went back for the calf.

The calf was breathing better now. Its ears were wet, its legs folded wrong under it, and its whole body shivered as the cold reached through the straw.

This was why he had to stay awake. Even though he’d waited hours for the heifer to finally give birth, if he hadn’t been there, he’d have another abandoned calf on his hands. Maybe one that didn’t survive. “Come on,” Zoro muttered, hauling it up against his knees. “You get one job right now.”

The calf’s head wobbled. He worked it toward the udder, one hand under its chest, the other guiding its mouth. The heifer kicked at the air, missed, and bawled. 

“Stand still,” he growled. She didn’t. Zoro tied one back leg just enough to keep her from landing a hoof in the calf’s ribs, then tried again. The calf nosed blindly, bumped the wrong place twice, and finally latched. Its tail twitched.

Zoro held still, bent awkwardly under the heifer’s flank, waiting to see if it would keep nursing. The calf sucked once, twice, then stronger. Colostrum. Good. It needed that more than it needed anything else in the world.

The heifer stopped bawling. Her head turned as far as the gate allowed, one eye rolling back toward the calf.

“There,” Zoro said, breath coming slowly through his teeth. “That’s yours.”

The calf kept nursing.

Zoro stayed there until his back cramped and his knees started to ache. Then he eased away by inches, ready to grab the calf if the heifer tried to kick again. She shifted, tense and uncertain, but stayed put. Good enough for now.

He’d keep them penned tight. Make her smell it, hear it, feel it bumping under her belly until instinct decided to show up or he forced the issue every few hours.

Zoro rubbed a hand over his face and looked toward the sky. Thirteen left.

The calf pulled off the teat, milk on its mouth, and wobbled hard against his leg. Zoro caught it before it folded.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he told it. “I’m already feeding one freeloader.”

The calf answered by pressing its wet nose into his sleeve.

Zoro shifted it back toward the straw and watched the heifer carefully. She stood tense in the headgate, sides still heaving, ears tipped back. She turned her head as far as she could, looking at the calf with suspicion rather than interest.

The heifer blew hard through her nose.

He left her caught a little longer. Long enough for the calf to nose around again, bumping clumsily against her udder, long enough for the heifer to feel it there and hear it breathing. The calf found the teat a second time with less help and latched on, tail twitching hard enough to make Zoro’s mouth pull at one corner.

He stayed crouched in the straw until his thighs started shaking. Beyond the open barn door, the sky was still black. The stars had faded some, or maybe his eye was too tired to hold them properly, but there was no dawn yet. The cold sat in the barn, in the panels, in the metal gate under his hand. 

When the calf finally pulled off again, Zoro eased the rope from the heifer’s back leg but kept the headgate latched. She shifted, tested her freedom, and stood.

He rubbed the calf down one more time, working warmth into its ribs and legs. It was steadier now, belly started, breath stronger. The heifer watched him with one rolling eye, still uncertain, still stupid with newness, but she didn’t kick when the calf stumbled under her again.

Zoro opened the headgate. The heifer stepped forward, stopped, and turned. For one long second, Zoro held still, ready to grab the calf if she swung at it. She lowered her head and sniffed along the calf’s back. Then she licked it once.

Zoro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “About damn time.”

He stayed another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Then another twenty because he didn’t trust her yet. By the time he checked the calf’s mouth, checked the navel, checked the heifer’s udder and back end, and shut them into the small pen where she couldn’t walk off, the dark beyond the barn had started to thin. 

She’d need watching. The calf had nursed, but Zoro wanted to see it nurse again on its own before he trusted her. He wanted to see her stand for it without the headgate. Wanted to make sure she didn’t get restless and pin the calf against the panel because first-timers had all the judgment of a loose gate in the wind. 

Zoro leaned against the pen rail and rubbed the heel of his hand over his good eye. His wrist throbbed. His back hurt. His head felt packed full of sand and coffee grounds.

The bottle calf yelled from the other pen. The new calf answered, small and confused. The heifer turned her head toward it, ears pricking, but she didn’t walk away. 

It was enough to let him leave for five minutes. Long enough to make more coffee, change his shirt, grab something to eat. Then he’d come back and check them again, because thirteen left meant nothing if the one already born got cold, hungry, or stepped on before sunrise. 

Zoro monitored the newest heifer and her calf, made his rounds, and watched thirteen become twelve without a hitch. He ate cold cuts out of the package because he was too tired to manage anything more. He drank enough coffee to push himself into that over-caffeinated, wired place where he started planning grand improvements he didn’t have time for and couldn’t afford anyway.

At lunch, he checked his email standing at the desk so he wouldn’t fall asleep while eating. A few new Rural Hearts messages had come in from names he didn’t recognize. One from Ideo. One from AllBlueCSCS.

He clicked through to the site and opened Ideo’s first. Ideo said he was doing a feasibility study on Shells Town, which surprised Zoro enough that he wrote back asking if there was anything he could do to help.

Then he opened AllBlueCSCS.

Meatsicles successful but disappointing. Now I’m trying to convince the doctor's husband that meat ice cream is not something he wants to try. I’m going to get revenge on the doctor for starting this.

As for me, I’m retired Navy as of two months ago. Senior Chief Culinary Specialist, which is a fancy way of saying I spent twenty-five years making sure thousands of sailors got fed three-squares a day. Been staying with the doctor until I decide what to do with the second half of my life. Right now I’m spending my time feeding his bottomless pit of a spouse, learning to ride one of their horses, and introducing myself into the civilian dating pool. Not sure which one of those three is the worst.

What’s the best thing you can cook for yourself? It better not be something fried.

Your job sounds made up. Thought animals just did their thing when they wanted and then you have babies. Why do you have to monitor? Don’t they know how to do it?

Wait. Are you a cow pimp?

Zoro saw the line and barked a laugh. The laugh kept going, too. He’d been awake for about fifty-five hours, and exhaustion had started making everything funnier than it had any right to be. By the time he managed to pull himself together, his eye was damp and his breathing had gone rough.

He read the rest of the message.

Saw you posted a profile pic. If those are the types of cuts you get, I was right to message you that first time. You’re probably the type who’d say “nothing happened” as you bled to death.

I know what it’s like to bleed when nobody cares.

Eat something. Get some sleep. Talk to you again soon.

Zoro stared at the end of the message for a long time. Something about it made his chest tight. 

He clicked the link to reply. 

Hope to find someone who cares.

A cow bawled outside, sharp enough to pull him back. Zoro hit send, shut the laptop, and dragged himself back to work. 

Zoro caught a break at six. The remaining heifers were bedded down and looked too lazy to move. The reluctant mom seemed to have gotten with the program. He fed the bottle calf, then set his alarm for midnight and crashed face-first on his bed. He slept hard until the alarm, checked on the heifers and the new mom and found them as he’d left them, then went back to bed until his usual alarm in the morning.

After a shower, some real food, and a fresh pot of coffee, Zoro felt human again. Early morning darkness still greeted him when he went out to check the heifers. None of them batted an eye at him. He mucked the horse barn, fed them, then took care of the bottle calf. When the sky turned gray, he headed out to tend the bulls, run the fence, and start his usual water check and feed routine.

No one seemed to be in the mood to give birth that day. Zoro got his morning work done, made himself lunch that wasn’t portable, and reviewed the random scribbles for improvements he’d made on too much coffee and too little sleep. Nothing implausible, but nothing affordable, either. He put it away in File 13, then woke up his laptop. 

He put in an order at the feed store for vaccinations as the barn cats were due soon. He added the other items on his list, hit submit, then checked the market prices. He didn’t sell until late October, but he kept up with the numbers. Occasionally, he’d haul a cull cow to the sale barn early – one that came up open, went mean, raised a poor calf, or looked like another winter would cost more than she was worth. 

He checked his email next. A reminder came from his propane supplier. He’d check if he needed a refill that afternoon. A donation plea from East Blue University, which he deleted. He’d given them enough money already with his tuition. Then there were the Rural Hearts direct messages, only a handful, some from the day before. He sorted through them, surprised by the comments on his appearance. Then he remembered he’d posted a profile picture in the middle of an exhausted night.

He dragged his hand over his face with a sigh. He supposed it might weed a few people out depending on what they wanted. He knew how he looked, and his face didn’t hold the only visible scar. If he went to a bar, he tended to attract men who wanted a rough ride and had a taste for Bad Boys. Zoro worked from before dawn until after sunset every day of the week. The only thing he did that might be considered bad was drink an occasional six pack in one evening. He had a high tolerance for alcohol, so even then it was nothing.

Koza wrote, and Zoro spent the time reading and replying. The guy seemed all right, but his work took him away a lot and Zoro was looking for someone who’d be there when he came in. He got another introduction letter from a man named Terry, retired CIA, who had an interest in raising kangaroos. Zoro never thought about kangaroo ranching and it piqued his interest enough to look it up. He wrote back asking about fencing, permits, and whether Terry meant to build that life where he was or come north. 

He looked at the opened message from AllBlueCSCS next with a frown. He knew he had read it yesterday, but most of it was a blur. He read it again, then laughed at the cow pimp line. The rest of the message sobered him a little. It felt personal, like the guy had meant the joke and the worry both. Zoro remembered what he’d sent back, too – the kind of honest thing that happened after fifty-five hours awake. He left that alone and opened a reply. 

Not a cow pimp. Bulls handle that part. I just pay for the consequences. 

Navy cook, huh? What happens if five thousand sailors hate dinner? 

Best thing I can cook is steak. Or green chile stew if I have time. I eat better when it’s not calving season. Usually. 

Zoro paused, collecting his thoughts before responding to the rest. 

Got caught by barbed wire snapping over the summer when I was twenty. Not the first time, either. Though the time before involved a hawk and a challenge I didn’t win. The time before that was a choice between barbed wire around me or the horse. 

I’ll try not to bleed on purpose. 

Got some sleep. Ate using a plate. Only twelve left. 

Zoro reread what he wrote, then hit send. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the confirmation until it disappeared.

The sensible thing was to get up. Check the calves. Wash the dishes. Get back to work. Instead, he sat there another minute, wondering when he’d get a reply. 

Twelve and eleven came the next day. Neither were first-timers and neither had any problems.

By noon, the wind had settled and the yard had dried enough to crust over. Zoro fed the bottle calf, checked the reluctant mother and her calf, topped off water, and made a note to order more mineral before the week got away from him. The mailbox in Shells Town was probably stuffed by now, but that could wait. Everything could wait until the last calf hit the ground and stayed alive long enough for him to breathe. 

He ate lunch at his desk, adding the mineral to his feed store order from the other day. He checked his email, saw a message from Braham, and opened it through the website. 

Braham’s message was polite and practical. He wrote about patrols, weather, lost hikers, and a slew of raccoons that figured out how to unlatch garbage cans faster than the campers. He asked how far Zoro was from town, whether he got many trespassers, and if he ever had problems with injured wildlife coming through the ranch. 

Zoro typed out a reply.

Remote enough that people don’t wander in much unless GPS hates them. Hunters sometimes. Lost drivers. One drunk cut a fence because he thought it was a shortcut. Mostly weather, cattle, coyotes.

He reread it. Stiff, but not rude. Braham seemed like the type who wouldn’t mind stiff. He sent it, then opened Ideo’s thread.

Ideo had responded to him about scouting out locations in Shells Town and what he might need. Zoro already knew what was there. Mail. Gas. A diner that sold good pie. A few houses. A church. A handful of empty buildings. If he needed feed, vaccines, mineral, parts, or anything more complicated than coffee and gossip, he drove to Gecko Hills.

Still, Ideo had sounded serious, and Zoro had been looking for serious. He wrote back:

Can’t get into Shells Town until calving’s done. When I go for mail, I’ll look around for you.

It’s small. You won’t get city money there. But a simple gym might work if you keep expectations realistic. Ranchers, truckers, school kids, deputies, firefighters, people passing through. Closest real gym is too far for regular use. If you kept it simple, it might work. You’d have to pull from the whole area, not just town.

I’ll ask about buildings when I’m there.

He reread it, then sent it. The rest of his emails were either Rural Hearts sex offers or regular spam. He cleared it out, finished his lunch, then went back to work. 

Calf number ten arrived at midnight, then nothing for the next two days. The closer Zoro got to the end, the slower it seemed to go. His tight breeding window meant he should see the rest within the week, two weeks tops. Every few years he had an outlier just to drive him crazy. He hoped there wouldn’t be one of those this year.

Friday afternoon, calves nine, eight, and seven decided to all come at once and all be difficult. Zoro was up to his eyebrows in lube, sweat, and fluids. His shoulders ached, he had a bruise from a kick, and his palms were rubbed raw from the chains. By the time night fell, all three heifers and calves were content and Zoro desperately needed a shower and a beer.

He fed the bottle calf, who’d been yelling for a while, did a last round with an extra check on the reluctant mother, who’d been holding steady all week, then headed to the house. 

He stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, then made himself a few chili dogs for dinner. He took his beer with him to the desk, waking up his laptop to check his email. Zoro grinned when he saw AllBlueCSCS in the mix. It had been a few days since Zoro sent his last response, but that wasn’t unusual. And it wasn’t like this guy had sent an introduction. They were still just shooting the shit, even if it got a little personal last time.

Zoro opened the full message through the Rural Hearts website.

How dare you imply my food is shit. My galley would earn three Michelin stars and make the inspectors cry. The sailors wept when I retired. I’d still be there if high-year tenure didn’t exist. At least you didn’t add insult to injury by saying your best meal was hot dogs.

Zoro glanced over at the unwashed plate sitting next to him with chagrin.

Since you’re not a cow pimp – which is sad, because I’d imagined you in a seventies era leisure suit and a lot of gold chains – what else do you do on that ranch besides wait for calves to be born and then sell them? Doctor’s husband – Meatsicle – wants to know if you have chickens. He’s been trying to get the doctor to let him get them. 

I’ve mastered the art of getting on the horse, getting off the horse, and not getting my balls crushed riding the horse. And I can muck out a barn so well the horses whinny odes to me.

Give me your new injury tally, and a meal count. Also, if I were there, I’d stick pool noodles over the barbed wire so you’d stop bleeding on perfectly good scenery. Doctor said he still won’t help.

The message ended there, and Zoro sat for a minute imagining the ranch fence line covered in colorful pool noodles. He snorted softly, then opened a reply. 

Injuries – bruised and sore

Meals – enough

Calves left – six

When it’s not calving season, my days run dawn to dusk. Check water. Check fences. Check mineral. Look over the herd. Fix whatever broke. I’m out here on my own, so it’s a lot of time and work. Branding, vaccinations, weaning, and sale week are hard work but planned hard work. Breeding season is watching bulls and hoping they do their job without tearing each other apart. 

There’s more downtime after sale week and before calving starts again. Late fall, early winter. Still work every day, but I can sometimes handle bigger repairs, catch up on paperwork, and leave the ranch without feeling like I’m asking for trouble. 

I go into town year-round, but trips take planning. Closest town with a feed store is Gecko Hills, four hours round trip, so I pre-order, make a list, but don’t go unless I can knock out most of it at once. During calving, I only go if I have to.

I’ve got horses, chickens, barn cats, and livestock guardian dogs to take care of, too. Haven’t gotten another dog for the house yet after the last one passed. Usually have to go down to Loguetown shelters to find what I want, and that’s a ten-hour round trip.

Tell the doctor that chickens are easier to take care of than dogs. Just need feed, water, and a place to roost and you can ignore them most of the time. Good for eggs and meat, if you want to butcher them. It’s a pain in the ass to defeather them. Easier just to buy packaged chicken. 

What’s high-year tenure? Sounds like you didn’t want to leave the Navy, but still retired?

Gotta make another pass through the heifers before I can call it. Talk to you again. 

Zoro clicked the send button, then weeded through his other messages on the Rural Hearts website before getting up to wash his dishes and head back out for what he hoped was the last pass of the night. 

The next morning, Zoro moved the reluctant mother and her calf into the close pasture. He still wanted to keep an eye out, but the heifer was letting the calf nurse, answering when it bawled, and keeping it tucked near her side. Another week of steady behavior, and he’d let the reluctant mother and her calf join the general herd. 

The bottle calf still had weeks left before Zoro could wean it, at least six to eight weeks of twice-a-day feedings. It ate into his time, but he hadn’t been able to graft him onto one of the heifers that had lost a calf, so it had to be done. 

None of the pregnant heifers appeared interested in giving birth, so Zoro did his rounds, then spent an hour looking seriously at used side-by-sides. He had an ATV, horses, and his truck, but the side-by-side was the workhorse of the ranch. It carried tools, feed, mineral, fencing supplies, and whatever else needed hauling across ground too rough or narrow for the truck. 

He saw that AllBlueCSCS had sent him a message when he checked his email. He clicked through immediately. 

Thank you for giving me my revenge on the doctor. Meatsicle now has ammunition for his chicken campaign. He’s also plastered chicken pictures everywhere. Possibly with my help.

Your work sounds extensive, and you do it all by yourself. Don’t know whether to be impressed or more concerned. 

High-year tenure is the Navy’s polite way of saying advance or pack your knives. Every rank has a clock on it. Senior Chief tops out at twenty-six years, and I was at twenty-five. 

You’re right, though. I didn’t exactly want to leave the fleet. I could’ve fought for a waiver, maybe gotten another year or two if the right people signed the right paper. There’s also a program where they let you stay longer if you agree to take whatever miserable billet they need filled. I could be land-locked in the middle of a desert or on a sub again. Did that once – it’s how I met the doctor – but going back down into a windowless, cramped steel tube with 130 people for six months would suck.

So I opted to retire when my time was up. It’s strange saying I’m retired when I’m only 46. Feel a bit at loose ends. Don’t know what I want yet, though. Except I think I’ll grow my hair out. 

Those meals of yours better have had more than one food group and required a plate. Doctor isn’t a nutritionist. He also doesn’t like bread, so I wouldn’t trust him about nutrition anyway. 

Zoro was surprised. He hadn’t realized AllBlueCSCS was the same age as him. He’d never clicked on the profile. He did that now. 

Sanji, 46
Retired Navy cook. Never married. No kids.

His profile picture showed a man with blond hair, lean, athletic build, and a sharp goatee. His eyebrows seemed to have a swirled pattern in opposite corners. He wore a casual yellow button down, sleeves rolled, two buttons undone at the collar. He was prepping something in front of him, long fingers gripped around a knife. A smile tipped the corners of his mouth as he glanced up at the camera. 

Zoro read the profile. Looking for: Anything. What to know: Do you have chickens and cows?

The profile ended there. It made him pause, because it read like one of those casual sex profiles, yet he didn’t get that at all from their messaging. 

Zoro glanced at the picture again. It hit the right buttons for him, but he wasn’t looking for casual. Good thing they were just shooting the shit. He still was confused, though, and when he replied, he brought it up. 

Retired at 46? Sounds fake. Also sounds nice right about now. These last six better come soon.

I looked at your profile. What were you making in the picture? And what’s with the chickens and cows question? 

Food’s meant to keep you fed. Some days it just takes too much time to make.

Find pictures of crested chickens and silkies and put them up. They’re not good egg layers, but they have personality.

Talk to you again. 

Zoro sent the message, then went back to the profile picture. “Sanji, huh?” 

He looked at it for another second before shutting the laptop and heading out to check the heifers. 

Important part first – I was making seafood paella. 

Now the story – Meatsicle did it. I found out afterward.

How it happened – Meatsicle came to the table reading something called Farmer Boy. It had a picture of a guy in flannel, jeans, and boots posing against a silo. Thought it was porn. Found out it’s a catalog of farm and ranch equipment they get because they own horses. Meatsicle said the adult section was in the back, showed me the ads for rural dating websites. He’d just gotten on his chicken kick. Said I should get on the website and meet someone who had chickens and cows so he could have all the meat he wanted. Have I mentioned he’s a glutton? 

Anyway, Meatsicle decided to take matters into his own hands and made me a profile. Or the doctor prompted him because the doctor can be a conniving bastard. When he showed me, I told him I wasn’t going to be his chicken pimp. He told me I was single anyway and now I could meet someone who could also have chickens. He set the filter for East Blue, chickens and cattle, around my age. Wasn’t actually planning on using the website, but your profile caught my eye and caused concern so I reached out. Now you know.

Food is meant to keep you fed? That sentence hurt me personally. Food is meant to keep you fed, comfort you, warm you up, and occasionally remind you life has flavor. You work from dawn to dusk. You need food that does more than technically keep the machine running. I’m going to attach some quick fifteen minute meals. You can prep them ahead of time, freeze them, then take them out in the morning to thaw for lunch or dinner. 

The crested chickens and silkies are hilarious. I’m cutting out headshots and taping them on things. Doctor wasn’t thrilled to find one wrapped around the toothpaste. This is the best revenge ever.

So I’m reading more on cow-calf operations and ranch work in general. You made it sound straightforward, but I understand better now that the cattle are only part of the work. I’m still surprised you’re doing all of this alone. There a reason? 

How do you decide which cows stay and which ones get culled? You mentioned open cows and problem cows, but I’m guessing there’s more judgment in it than that. 

Remember – pool noodles.

Zoro read the message once, then went back to the top and read it again. Chicken pimp got a laugh out of him. So did the idea of the doctor finding a silkie headshot on his toothpaste.

The food part amused Zoro. He hadn’t expected to get meals he could prep, freeze, thaw, and actually use. He clicked on the attachments and saw several recipes that looked easy and good. 

It was the reading comment that made Zoro pause. He was somewhat flabbergasted that someone would read up on his operations. The questions were pointed, too.

Zoro sat for a moment, rubbing the edge of his jaw. Then he opened a reply and began typing.

Culling is mostly asking whether she can do the job without costing more than she gives back.

A cow stays if she breeds back, calves, raises a good calf, keeps condition, and can be handled without making every job stupidly dangerous. I look at feet, teeth, udder, milk, mothering, temperament, and what kind of calf she puts on the ground. She has to work on this land, with this grass, this weather, and the way I run things.

Open cows usually go. Problem cows go if the problem is serious or keeps happening. Bad feet, bad teeth, bad udder, poor calf, won’t mother, too hard to keep weight on, too mean to handle. Age matters, too. Drought can make the decision before I want to make it.

There’s judgment in it. One hard year doesn’t always condemn a cow. First-calf heifers get some room. A good old cow might get another chance if she’s earned it. But I can’t keep one just because I like her. Liking her doesn’t pay for hay.

As for running it alone, there’s a lot of things that went into it. Wasn’t my ranch to start. It was family land. The plan was for two of us to work it. Then there was a death, and no one but me left for it. The owner passed it to me after college. 

Koshiro ran the ranch lean, and I learned it that way. Hard to keep hands this far out, too. People say they want quiet and distance until they get both. I hire help for sale week and big jobs. Day to day, I handle it. Been doing it mostly on my own for over twenty years. At this point, it’s how I know to run the place. 

I’ll use the recipes you sent. Let me know how Operation Chicken goes.

Zoro clicked send and watched the confirmation appear. Then, he went to check on his cows.

Calving season ended on a cold Tuesday morning with a red heifer dropping the last calf in the close pasture while Zoro stood beside the fence with a half-drunk coffee in one hand and no patience left in the rest of him. 

The calf came easy, thankfully. The heifer got up, turned, and started licking him before Zoro had even climbed through the fence. Zoro watched until the calf found the udder, latched, and stayed there. Then he marked the number in his notebook, scratched one line through the last name on his calving list, and stared at the empty space beneath it.

Done.

Mostly done, anyway. There were still calves to watch, pairs to move, the bottle calf to feed, cows to check, vaccines to schedule, mud to scrape, and all the things he had put off. But the season had turned. The countdown was over. 

By noon, he had slept for an hour in a chair and woken up with his neck stiff. By two, he had gone through the Rural Hearts messages he had been ignoring. 

Koza’s last message sat open on the screen for a while. It was thoughtful. That was the problem. Koza asked about drought plans, water rights, grazing pressure, and whether Zoro had ever considered putting part of the land into a conservation program. He remembered details. He understood distance. He wrote like a man who would try. 

Zoro liked him. He just didn’t want him. That made the reply harder to write.

You’re a good man, and I’ve liked talking to you. Don’t want to waste your time. I don’t think this is going anywhere romantic for me. 

He stared at that, added, Sorry, then took it back out. Koza didn’t need pity. 

He sent it.

Koza was a good man. Zoro could see that. He also knew the situation was more practical than romantic, and Koza’s work would keep pulling him across the map. Zoro respected it. He just didn’t want to build a life around waiting for someone to come back. 

Terry took less time. He’d been friendly, and the kangaroo ranch dream was interesting, but it wasn’t a fit. It felt like talking to someone with his own far-off place to build, not someone who might want to share Zoro’s. 

He wrote the same kind of message, changed enough that it didn’t feel copied.

I’ve liked talking to you, but I don’t think I’m the right match. Figured I should say that straight instead of letting it drag out.

Braham’s message was waiting under them.

Still on patrol this week. Found two lost hikers and one cooler torn apart by a bear. How’s the end of calving treating you?

Zoro read it twice. It still felt stiff. Not bad or fake, just stiff. Braham wrote like every sentence had passed inspection before being allowed out. Zoro could respect that. He also couldn’t tell if there was anything under it besides two practical men comparing weather, animals, and jobs that took too much time. He replied anyway.

Last calf hit the ground this morning. Easy birth. Calf nursed. I’m counting that as a win.

Bears sound worse than coyotes. Hikers sound worse than bears.

He paused, then added:

You ever get tired of finding people who didn’t plan well enough?

He hit send.

The next morning, with the last calf nursing steady and the first-calf heifers settled enough to leave for a few hours, Zoro went to Shells Town. He checked the bottle calf, filled extra water, latched the gate chains on the driveway side, and made sure the truck had enough fuel for the round trip. Then he gave the ranch one more look before leaving. The place sat under a hard blue sky, brown grass moving in the wind, cattle scattered across the close pasture with their calves tucked beside them. 

Shells Town was the kind of place people missed if they blinked too long. A few buildings along the highway, a diner, a post office counter tucked into the general store, fuel pumps, dust, two dogs asleep in the shade, and enough locals who knew his truck that three people lifted a hand before he parked.

He picked up his mail first. Bills, parts catalog, livestock newsletter, a replacement debit card he had forgotten was coming, and a handwritten note from the feed store in Gecko Hills confirming the vaccines he had ordered would be held until his next run in. He shoved it all behind the seat and walked the main strip with Ideo’s question in mind. Gym space.

It still sounded strange. A gym in Shells Town sounded unlikely. Still, Zoro could see why Ideo had asked. There was the old laundromat, closed for six years, with sun-faded signs still ghosting the windows. The roof looked decent. The parking lot had cracks wide enough for weeds, but the building had space. There was a former bait-and-tackle place near the fuel station, smaller but closer to the highway. A narrow storefront beside the diner had good windows and not much else.

Zoro took pictures of all three. Fronts, sides, parking, road access, the old For Lease sign in the laundromat window. He wrote down the number in his pocket notebook, then added a few notes for later.

Old laundromat – space, bad parking lot.

Bait shop – better highway access, less room.

Storefront by diner – maybe too small unless it was only weights and mats.

He’d send it to Ideo when he got home. For now, he put the notebook back in his coat pocket and went into the diner. 

Makino’s place smelled like coffee, grease, and pie crust. The lunch rush had thinned, leaving two old men at the counter arguing about a fence line that had been argued about since before Zoro was born. Makino glanced up from wiping the counter and smiled. “Calving done?”

“Last one yesterday.”

“Congratulations. You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“You eating?”

“Rhubarb pie.”

Makino cut him a thick slice and set it in front of him with a fork. “I’ll get your coffee.”

Zoro nodded his thanks and ate it at the counter with his hat beside his elbow. The filling was sharp enough to make his jaw ache on the first bite, sour and bright under the sugar, crust flaking under the fork. 

He made a mental note not to tell the cook this was lunch. 

With calving ended, and the ranch shifted into the next kind of work. Zoro moved pairs out of the close pasture a few at a time, keeping the younger heifers and the calves he wanted to watch nearer the house. Mornings started with checking calves for full bellies, scours, bad legs, weak nursing, and cows that decided motherhood was optional now that the hard part was done. The bottle calf kept yelling every time Zoro crossed the yard, but he had started nosing at grain. A week later, he was eating it like he’d never been on a bottle.

There were vaccines to schedule, ear tags to check, mineral tubs to haul, and a stretch of fence on the west side that needed three new posts. Zoro worked through it all. Chores first, then repairs, then the messages waiting on Rural Hearts once daylight had gone.

Ideo’s messages came slower than Sanji’s, but Zoro read them carefully. The pictures from Shells Town had helped. Ideo thought the old laundromat looked like the best option if the roof was good and the owner wasn’t asking a high price. He asked about parking, road traffic, access to gyms at the school, police station, and volunteer fire department, and closeness to other businesses. He asked about early hours, late hours, weather, roof condition, and whether women would feel comfortable there or if the place would turn into a room full of men claiming territory.

Zoro found himself asking around.

Julius knew the laundromat roof. Makino knew who owned it and the current asking price. Usopp knew too much about rural grants and sent Zoro enough information to make him regret asking. Zoro passed it along anyway.

Old laundromat roof is decent. Julius says it’ll need work in a few years but isn’t falling in. Owner lives in Gecko Hills. Makino gave me the number.

Parking lot needs work. County highway access is fine. School has basketball and track, no weight room worth mentioning. Deputies don’t have much. Firefighters use whatever they can fit in the station. Early and late hours would matter. Learned women would come if it's clean, well-lit, and has strict rules.

He paused, then added: It could work.

Ideo answered the next night.

I don’t need fancy. I need a place people can use without driving half a day. I’d start small. Free weights, mats, benches, bags, maybe a couple machines if I can find ones that won’t break. Classes if people want them. Boxing for kids if parents trust me enough. 

Zoro read the message twice. A lot of people on Rural Hearts talked about the ranch like it was the whole point. Quiet, distance, horses, stars, some idea of cows in the background and a hard-working man at the center of it. Ideo didn’t talk like that. He had his own work. His own plans. A way to build a life near Zoro without making Zoro’s ranch the only thing either of them had.

Same values, maybe. Same understanding that work mattered. Same need to have something under his own hands. Zoro liked that. He liked it enough to keep asking questions in town. Enough to remember the answers. Enough to look at the old laundromat differently when he drove past it again, not as an empty building, but as something that might become useful if the right man took it over.

The old side-by-side died the following week. It happened half a mile from the house with fencing tools in the bed, a sack of mineral wedged against the tailgate, and the wind kicking dust across the two-track. The engine cut out, caught once, then quit. Zoro checked the obvious things first, then the less obvious ones, then sat back on his heels and looked at it.

The repair list was too long. Starter, belt, wiring, tires, the cracked seat, and a sound in the engine he had been ignoring for months. He could fix it. He had fixed worse. But fixing it didn’t make sense anymore.

He walked back to the truck, unloaded everything by hand, and called about a used one in Gecko Hills that evening.

The used side-by-side was five years old, sun-faded, with a cracked seat and a worn winch cable, but the engine sounded steady and the frame was straight. Zoro talked the man down on the price, loaded it onto the small flatbed trailer behind the truck, and strapped it down. 

Since he was already in Gecko Hills, he’d arranged to meet Usopp at the highway diner before heading home. There were other places to eat in town, but the chile cheese fries were too damned good to pass up.

Usopp sat across from him, ranting about overseas conglomerates buying up water-lean land to grow alfalfa for foreign horses. 

“I’m telling you, it starts with alfalfa and ends with a man in a silk tie trying to buy the moon for irrigation rights,” Usopp said. “First they buy one ranch. Then another. Then somebody puts in a pivot where God clearly intended a lizard to sit undisturbed. Next thing you know, there’s a corporate office in a glass tower deciding our groundwater should become lunch for a horse named Lord Cinnamon Hoof the Third.” 

Zoro let him go on for a while, nodding occasionally and throwing in an “Uh-huh,” until there was enough of a lull for him to say, “I think I met someone.”

Usopp froze with a fry halfway to his mouth. “You what?”

“I think I met someone.”

The fry slowly lowered back to the basket. Usopp’s eyes went wide, then wider, then bright in a way Zoro immediately regretted.

“No,” Usopp said. “Wait. Don’t move. Don’t say anything else. I need to be emotionally prepared.”

Zoro shook his head with a sigh. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making it a thing. It is a thing. A big thing.” Usopp grinned widely. “Tell me everything, in detail. Who is he? What’s he like? Where’d you meet? How long has this been going on without you telling me about it?”

Zoro shifted in the booth and shrugged. “Name’s Ideo. He’s a former boxer who manages a gym. He’s thinking about opening one up in Shells Town. I’ve been helping him look into it.” He ignored the question about where they’d met. “Been over a month now.”

“Is it serious?” Usopp asked.

“We’re both serious,” Zoro said. “He’s like me in some ways. Disciplined. Practical. Values work. I respect that.” 

Usopp’s grin stayed, but it narrowed into something more thoughtful. “That all sounds good.”

Zoro looked at him. “But?”

“But you just described a man the way you’d describe someone you might hire for sale week.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Disciplined. Practical. Values work.” Usopp ticked them off on his fingers. “Shows up on time. Doesn’t complain. Knows which end of a gate to stand on.”

Zoro scowled. “Shut up.”

“Do you like him?”

Zoro looked down at the basket of fries. He liked that Ideo was serious about staying. That they seemed compatible. That Ideo was building something of his own instead of trying to make himself fit into Zoro’s life by force. It mattered. It made sense. 

They hadn’t shared much personal things yet. Most of their messages were work, plans, buildings, schedules, and what kind of life could actually hold. But Zoro liked the way Ideo thought. He liked that Ideo was serious.

“Yeah, I like him,” Zoro said after a few seconds. Enough to keep seeing where it went.

Usopp’s grin crept back. “Kaya’s going to be thrilled.”

“Why does Kaya need to know?”

“Because I tell my wife things. Also because she likes you and has been pretending not to worry.”

Zoro groaned.

“Relax,” Usopp said. “I won’t text her yet.”

“You want to.”

“Of course I want to. Inside, there is a parade. Drums, banners, off-key instruments. People throwing candy from trailers covered in papier-mâché.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It’s beautiful. You’re just emotionally unavailable to parade culture.”

Zoro snorted despite himself and pushed the basket of fries toward Usopp. “Finish those.”

“Deflection,” Usopp said, but he took one. “Cowardly, delicious deflection.”

On the drive home, Zoro thought about what he’d told Usopp. He liked Ideo. It was true. Maybe not in a way that made his pulse race or kept him looking for the next message, but true. Ideo was serious. Ideo could fit. 

By the time he reached the ranch, the light had started to thin. He parked near the equipment shed, then unloaded the used side-by-side. He parked the dead one beside the shed and moved the tools over. Fencing pliers, wire stretcher, hammer, staple puller, first-aid kit, GPS, rope, gloves, two loose ear tags. The old side-by-side would be used for parts until it was scraped for cash.

After that, he unloaded the rest of what he’d picked up in Gecko Hills: two mineral tubs, a stack of T-posts, a roll of barbed wire, fence staples, salt blocks, fly tags, vaccine syringes, and a fifty-pound bag of calf starter he hadn’t planned on buying until he saw it on sale. 

Groceries came last. Those he’d packed in two coolers and a box on the passenger-side floor. He’d stopped at the bigger store before leaving town, because Sanji had sent more recipes built around things that kept but needed more ingredients than Shells Town usually had. 

Sanji had stayed on him about proper meals, in between asking questions about how Zoro’s operation actually worked compared to what he’d been reading. He’d quizzed Zoro on what the Shells Town grocery carried, how far he had to drive for a real grocery store, and whether he had a vegetable garden.

Zoro used to. The fenced beds were still there, grown over with weeds. He’d let the garden go because it made more than he could eat and took more time than he had. One of these days, he should knock it down and repurpose the wood and fencing. 

Once the truck was empty, Zoro fed the bottle calf, checked the close pasture, and made the evening loop. The new side-by-side handled the ruts better than the old one had in years. 

He headed into the house as darkness settled in. He washed up, then took the time to make one of the new recipes with the fresh ingredients. It turned out good. He ate at the table paging through a FarmTrader he picked up at the feed store, then cleaned the dishes and went over to his desk. He woke up his laptop, opened the Rural Hearts website, and started a new message to Sanji.

Made the ginger chicken. Was good. Will try the pork and cabbage tomorrow. 

How’s the chicken war?

The last Zoro heard, Operation Chicken included an inflatable rooster that Sanji may or may not have had a hand in and a PowerPoint presentation that he definitely had. From what Zoro could tell, this had become more of a war between Sanji and the doctor than Meatsicle’s desire for chickens. Sanji had committed to the fight with enough spite and planning that Zoro had to respect it, ridiculous as the fight was. 

Got the new-used side-by-side. Drives good. Talked the guy down to a better price. Will still have to put off rebuilding the sorting pen. I’ll patch what I have and make it work for now. 

One of the barn cats had kittens in the tack room. Haven’t found where yet. I can hear them. Cold nights still, so I’ll have to keep an eye out. 

Saw my friend Usopp today. He was up in arms about alfalfa growers. Must’ve read the latest water conservation bulletin. You’d like him. He’d have all sorts of ideas for the chicken siege. Most of which would involve an army of six thousand chicken warriors and possibly some crazy invention, like a stuffed chicken thrower to snipe the doctor from a distance. 

Gonna get some work done around the house before I call it. Let me know how that trail ride of yours goes. 

Talk to you soon.

Zoro sent the message, checked the weather for tomorrow, then went to tackle cleaning.

Zoro finally found the kittens, made sure they were somewhere warm, moved anything dangerous far enough they couldn’t get to it when they started moving around. He did a head count, checked that mama was fine, and left them alone. 

The new side-by-side earned its keep before sunset. Zoro loaded the mineral tubs into the bed, strapped down a coil of wire, and took the west track slowly to see how it handled the ruts. It didn’t rattle like it was trying to shake itself apart. The brakes held on the wash slope. The bed latch stayed shut. 

Zoro finished the loop, checked the close pasture on the way back, and parked the side-by-side beside the equipment shed. The bottle calf yelled when he passed, more out of habit than need. Zoro checked his water, gave him a handful of grain, and got butted in the thigh for the trouble.

By the time he put the tools away, checked the kittens one more time, and washed the dust off his hands, the sky had gone dark.

He made dinner, sat at the table, and checked Rural Hearts while he ate. A handful of new messages. Overseas repeats. A new introduction from someone named Paulie. One from Ideo. He opened Ideo’s. 

I’ve talked to the owner of the laundromat. Seems like it might be a good fit. Only thing left is to come down and see it and Shells Town. And meet you. 

Zoro paused with his fork partway to his mouth. 

I’m going to schedule it for late next week. I’ll let you know the date and time. See you then.

Ideo signed off with his name. Zoro stared at it for a long moment before he ate the bite in his hand. 

Ideo wanted to meet. Logical. It was the next step. Zoro knew it was coming. He might’ve signed up on a sleepless night, but he’d kept his profile up for this very reason. He wanted someone in his life. Someone to sit at the dinner table with, to share about the day. 

Now that it was in front of him, he felt some reservations. Still, he had to do something. And he did like Ideo. It was a good choice.

Zoro set his fork down and typed a reply.

Sounds good. Look forward to meeting you. 

He clicked send and watched the confirmation hit. Ideo would give him the day and time. Zoro would show up. They’d talk. Look at the laundromat. Maybe eat at the diner. Maybe drive out to the ranch if it came to that. He could make time. That had been the point. He wanted someone in his life, so he had to leave space for a person to actually enter it.

Zoro ate another bite, chewed, and stared out the kitchen window at his own reflection in the dark glass. The house looked the same as always. One plate. One fork. One man at the table. Outside, the ranch waited in the dark.

He finished dinner and went through the rest of the messages. Paulie’s introduction was long, stiff, and full of talk about carpentry that might have interested him under different circumstances. He wrote back anyway, asking if Paulie had ever lived this far from town or if he only liked the idea of building in quiet places. The overseas repeats got deleted unread. Then he washed the plate, pulled on his coat, and went back out for the last check of the night. 

The next week and a half settled into continued post-calving work. Zoro checked cows, watched calves fill out, kept an eye out for scours, hauled mineral, patched fence, and kept the bottle calf on schedule. The chicken waterer cracked at the seam and leaked half its contents into the dust before Zoro noticed. He patched it once, watched it drip through the patch, then drove a screw into the plastic and sealed it.

One morning, the kitchen tap sputtered twice before running brown. Zoro stood there with his coffee mug under it, stared at the water, then went outside to check the pressure tank. The gauge was jumping wrong. He killed power to the pump, checked the switch, bled air from the line, and opened the outside hydrant until brown water ran into the dust. It cleared after a few minutes, but the pressure tank still didn’t sound right when he knocked it with his knuckles. He wrote pressure tank on a list of things he didn’t want to buy but probably had to.

He spent a clear afternoon walking the fence along the south pasture, replacing staples where the wire had pulled loose and cutting old tumbleweed out of the bottom strand. The new side-by-side idled beside the track with a roll of wire, post driver, and bucket of clips in the bed. Halfway down the line, he found a gate chain worn thin where it rubbed the post, so he replaced that, too. By the time he finished, his gloves were full of dust and his shoulders ached, but the fence held straight when he leaned his weight into it. 

He thought about pool noodles and packed up the side-by-side with a faint grin.

Braham messaged about trees and the weather. After several replies, though, the conversation still sat flat between them, practical and polite and nowhere else. Zoro knew that it wasn’t going anywhere, and said as much in his reply. Braham responded in kind, and they let it go. 

Sanji messaged about now being an expert trail rider, or at least one that didn’t balk or fall off the horse. He may have won Operation Chicken because he saw the doctor out by the barn with a builder friend. He asked about the practicalities of barn cats, what Zoro did with the kittens once they were old enough, and how Zoro decided what needed doing first when everything sounded like it mattered. 

The day Ideo was set to come, Zoro put on his nicer flannel and jeans, dusted off his boots, and left the ballcap on the hook by the door. He headed for Shells Town after the ranch was settled, aware of the tight, restless feeling under his ribs. 

They’d agreed to meet outside the old laundromat. The owner would come by with the keys to let them look around. 

Zoro pulled his truck into the lot and parked beside a silver SUV. Ideo stood in front of the laundromat window, tall and strong-shouldered, dressed in a black track suit with red stripes. His widow’s peak was more pronounced, the beard on his chin neatly squared. Zoro wiped his palms on his jeans and got out of the truck to meet him.

“Hey, I’m Zoro,” he said, extending his hand. 

“Ideo.” His grip was firm. He stood taller than Zoro, built from years in a gym instead of years on a ranch. Well-kept beard, direct eyes, good shoulders. Good-looking. The kind of man Zoro would have noticed across a bar and maybe gone over to talk to. Here, in daylight, outside the old laundromat, Zoro felt the fact of it more than the pull. 

Zoro dropped his hand and gestured around. “Well, this is Shells Town.”

“It’s definitely off the beaten path,” Ideo said. “I nearly drove past.”

“Most people do.” Zoro looked out at the short strip of stores, the church steeple poking up behind them. “Got great pie at the diner.”

“We’ll have to have a piece,” Ideo said.

An awkward silence fell. Ideo turned back to the laundromat window. Zoro shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and wondered if this was a mistake.

Another car pulled into the lot. A blue sedan that had seen better days. The owner of the laundromat got out, shook hands all around, then unlocked the door and turned on the light. “Been vacant for years now. I come by every now and then, check for damage, put out new traps. Place is still solid, though it needs some TLC.”

Ideo began walking the place, asking more questions, talking about needed upgrades and utility rates. Zoro stood by the door, reminding himself to give it a chance. Ideo came all the way out here to see if this could work. 

Ideo and the owner talked for a bit, then he thanked the man and they all left. The owner locked up and headed to his car. 

“What’d you think?” Zoro asked, as they watched the car start and pull out.

“It has ample room and solid structure for a gym,” Ideo said. “Needs some improvements, but the price is reasonable.”

Zoro nodded. “It’s been empty a while, like he said.”

The diner was within walking distance. They headed inside and grabbed a booth. Makino came by with coffee for Zoro immediately, a curious look on her face. She gave Zoro a second look, probably because he had come in wearing a shirt without a tear in it and his hair wasn’t shoved under a cap. Zoro looked down at his coffee like that would make him less visible. 

“Coffee?” she asked Ideo.

He turned his cup over with a nod. “Thank you.”

Makino filled his cup. “Menu’s there on the table. I’ll be back to take your order.”

She gave Zoro another look, then left.

The laminated menus were tucked in between the condiments. Zoro didn’t bother to look. He always got the same thing. Ideo perused the menu and asked, “What’s good here?”

“Pie.”

Ideo glanced up. “That’s it?”

Zoro shrugged. “Really the only reason to stop when I come to get the mail, get gas, or get groceries.”

Ideo hummed. “You don’t come to town often?”

“No. Every other week, thereabouts. Busy on the ranch,” Zoro said.

“How far’s the ranch again?”

“Thirty-five, forty minutes. Longer in bad weather.”

Ideo nodded, looking down at the menu again.

Makino returned, took Zoro’s order for a big slice of sour cherry pie, and Ideo’s order of a club sandwich. She left. Silence descended again.

Around them, the diner was sparse. A couple old timers in the back. A deputy at the counter. It was eleven on a weekday. Most of the locals who lived close were in school or at work.

Ideo looked toward the front windows, then back at the room. “This place busier in the morning?”

Zoro shrugged. “Some. More on the weekends than during the week. Don’t see many at lunch. Dinner’s up and down, depending if there’s a game or meeting.”

“People linger?”

“Old timers do. Families after church. Ranchers eat and leave unless they’ve got business.”

Ideo nodded like he was filing that away. “Good to know.” 

“For the gym?”

“For the gym. For everything.” He folded the menu and slid it back between the condiments. “A place like this, people know who belongs where.”

Zoro nodded in understanding. “Yeah.”

“Would they mind someone new?”

“Depends on the someone.”

Ideo’s mouth curved a little. “Then I’d better make a good impression.” 

Zoro leaned back against the booth. “Makino knows everyone. If she likes you, you’re halfway there.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then don’t open a business here.”

Ideo huffed. It might have been a laugh.

The silence after that was better. Still awkward, but less empty. 

Ideo looked out the window again. “You said you come in every other week.”

“Thereabouts.”

“That enough for you?”

Zoro looked up from the sugar packet he’d been turning between his fingers. “Enough?”

“Town. People. Noise.”

Zoro shrugged. “Usually.”

Ideo nodded. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“I ran a gym in a city for years. People in and out all day. Noise, sweat, problems, kids trying to prove something, adults trying to outrun something. I like people. I like helping them. After closing, I wanted my apartment silence.” 

Zoro watched him for a moment. It was the closest Ideo had come to saying anything personal since they’d started talking. “Makes sense.” 

Ideo stirred his coffee once, then set the spoon down. “What do you do when you’re not working?” 

Zoro thought about it. “Read. Play solitaire. Occasionally watch a game.”

“What game?” 

“Football, college basketball. Rodeo.”

Ideo’s eyebrows lifted a little. “Rodeo counts as watching a game?” 

“It’s a sport.” 

“You ever compete?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Zoro shrugged. “Had enough ways to get hurt at home.”

Ideo huffed softly. “Practical.”

“Usually.”

“You have a team?”

“Not really. Watch whatever comes in clear.”

Ideo’s mouth curved. “That’s one way to avoid disappointment.” 

“What about you?”

“Boxing, MMA.” 

Zoro half-grinned. “Should’ve figured.”

“Occupational hazard,” Ideo said.

“Still follow it?”

“Some. Enough to know who’s worth watching, not enough to yell at the television.” Ideo picked up his coffee. “I used to watch every fight I could get my hands on. Study footwork, timing, habits. These days I watch more for the kid in the corner than the fighter in the ring.”

“Your fighters?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it's just whoever’s being coached wrong.”

This was easier ground. Work. Sports. Things they understood without much being said. Zoro could sit across from him and see the outline of a life that could mesh with his. It made sense. Zoro just wished sense felt like more.

Their food came. Ideo’s club sandwich looked decent. The sour cherries were dark under the crust, filling sharp enough that Zoro’s mouth watered before he picked up the fork. 

Ideo glanced toward the deputy at the counter. “You think law enforcement would use a gym?”

“Deputies, yeah. Firefighters, too.”

“What do people do here besides eat pie and get mail?”

“Church. School. Work.” Zoro cut into the pie with the side of his fork. “This area is mostly ranches. That takes up most of the time.”

“That’s what you said,” Ideo said. “Still different seeing it.”

Zoro took a bite of pie.

Ideo looked toward the window, where the fuel pumps sat across the road and a dusty pickup rolled past without slowing. “It’s smaller than I pictured.”

“Told you it was small.”

“You did.” Ideo’s mouth curved faintly. “I believed you. Pictures still make a place feel bigger.”

“Laundromat’s wasn’t bad.”

“No,” Ideo said. “Better than I expected. Parking’s rough, but the front windows are good, and it’s close enough to the diner and gas station that people already know where it is. Building’s only part of it, though.”

“What’s the other part?”

“When people have time. When they’re too tired. When they’d drive in.” Ideo glanced toward the deputy at the counter, then the old men in the back. “In the city, people came before work, after work, lunch break. Here, I’m guessing lunch break means they’re already too far away.”

“Mostly.”

“So early and late.”

“Early for some. Late for others. Depends on weather, season, school, and cattle.” 

Ideo nodded. “So hours would have to change with the year.”

Zoro ate another bite of pie before answering. “Yeah.”

“I can work with that.” Ideo picked up his sandwich again. “Not ideal. But workable.”

Zoro nodded. It was a good answer. Practical. Thought through. Ideo wasn’t talking like a man who wanted the town to bend around him. He was looking at what was already there and figuring out where he could fit. Zoro respected that.

He took another bite of pie and waited for respect to turn into something warmer. It stayed respect. 

“What about you?” Ideo said after he had a bite of sandwich.

Zoro glanced up. “What about me?”

“If I opened here. Would you use it?”

Zoro hesitated. “Depends on whether I had time.”

“You ever make time for things off the ranch?”

Zoro ate another bite of pie before answering. “Sometimes.”

“A gym?”

“Maybe.”

Ideo nodded. “A person?”

Zoro looked up then.

Ideo held his gaze, steady but not demanding. “That’s what I’m asking.”

Zoro wanted the answer to be easy. Ideo had driven down. He’d listened. He’d looked at Shells Town like a place he might settle into. He was serious in every way Zoro had said he wanted. 

“I don’t know yet,” Zoro said truthfully.

“All right.” Ideo nodded. His expression stayed even, but his attention sharpened for a second before he picked up his sandwich again. 

The old men in the back laughed at something too low for Zoro to hear. Makino moved behind the counter, coffee pot in hand. 

“You came a long way,” Zoro said.

“I came because I wanted to see for myself.”

“And?”

Ideo glanced toward the window, then back at him. “The town might support it.” 

Zoro looked down at his plate. The last bite of pie sat in a smear of dark cherry filling. He could hear what wasn’t being said. “I was serious about wanting to make something work.”

“So was I,” Ideo said. 

Zoro nodded. 

Neither of them said more for a while. Ideo finished his sandwich. Zoro ate the last bite of pie, though the filling had gone too sweet in his mouth.

When Makino came back with the check, Ideo reached for it first. “I drove down.” 

“I can pay.”

“I know.”

Zoro let him take it. It seemed easier than arguing.

Outside, the day had warmed as they walked back to the parking lot. Dust moved low across the road, and the old laundromat front windows caught the sun. Ideo looked that way for a moment before turning back to Zoro. “Thanks for showing me around.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you know what I decide.”

Zoro heard both meanings and nodded. “All right.”

For a second, the space between them felt like it wanted a different ending. A hug. A kiss on the cheek. Something people did when a date had gone well enough.

Ideo offered his hand instead. Zoro took it. Ideo’s grip was firm. No hesitation, no show made of letting go.

Zoro watched him pull out onto the road, then stood there a moment longer than he needed to before heading for his own truck. He had chores waiting and some thinking to do.

Zoro wasn’t surprised by the message when it came. It didn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed. He hadn’t lied when he told Usopp he liked Ideo. He did. Ideo made sense on paper, and he’d been decent in person, too. If he opened the gym and stayed in Shells Town, Zoro could see something possibly growing with time. But he understood someone not wanting to upend their life without more of a spark. If Ideo didn't want to move for himself, then they may as well call it.

He spent a few days mourning something that hadn’t been anything yet, trying to ignore the heavy loneliness that followed him through the chores. He switched to the horse, saddled her up, and took the GPS from the ATV to ride the fence.

The ranch spread out around him in long, dry miles: four thousand eight hundred acres of grass, brush, rock, washes, and wire. From the saddle, he could see where the land dipped and rose, where cattle had worn trails to water, where old posts leaned and needed replacing. The house dropped out of sight behind him, and after that there was only the fence line, the horse’s ears, the scrape of brush against his jeans, and land running on farther than he could see.

He thought about texting Usopp, telling him it hadn’t worked out. Then he remembered how happy Usopp had been for him. Zoro didn’t want to admit it, but he’d really hoped this was going to be it. That he and Ideo would hit it off and they could make something of it. He wondered if he should’ve pushed. Suggested meeting up a few more times. Seeing if it clicked. 

But he, like Ideo, was too practical for that. He had the ranch, Ideo had his life elsewhere still. It made sense to end it.

It still left a hollow ache under Zoro’s ribs.

When he checked his email the next evening, the only Rural Hearts messages he had were from overseas. Koza was gone. Braham was gone. Terry and Paulie. Ideo. As time passed, introductions had waned. He’d have to look through profiles, reach out himself, or just let it go completely. Spend the rest of his life alone.

A message from Sanji popped up as he was deleting emails. He clicked on the link to open it.

VICTORY!

Meatsicle is getting his chickens. Egg layers and fancy ones. Turns out the doctor secretly liked the silkies, and he’s having a ridiculously large chicken condo built to house them. I’ve seen the plans. These chickens will live better than they do. Once they get here, the doctor has hired some sort of Chicken Whisperer to teach us how to keep them. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Why does every ranching guide talk about water like it’s just a dot on a map? From what I’m reading, where you put water changes where the cattle hang around, what they eat first, and what ground gets trampled into dust. And what about drought? If you’re putting the water down, don’t they have enough water? It keeps talking about destocking early like it’s obvious. How do you actually decide that? Because selling cattle doesn’t sound like tossing expired cans out of a pantry.

Attached some more recipes for you. These’ll take longer, but you can make bigger batches and freeze them for months. It’ll give you something to add into the mix. 

You bleeding anywhere? Or did you decide to take my advice and wrap yourself in bubble wrap before going out? Doctor said he won’t help, but he’d take the bubble wrap to pop when you’re done. Apparently, it’s very satisfying.

Zoro sank back against the chair, a faint smile playing over his mouth. He pressed reply and began typing.

Congrats. Victory was hard won. What do you plan to do with the inflatable chicken?

You’re right, water’s the first thing that tells cattle where to go. If there’s one tank in a pasture, they’ll keep coming back to it. They graze harder close to water, trail the same paths, beat up the ground, shit there, stand there, and leave the far corners alone if the walk is too much. You can have grass on the far side of a pasture and still not have useful feed if the cattle won’t travel to it.

So water placement matters, and you move tanks around to where you want the cattle to be in general. It’s not perfect. But it’s enough to keep one place from getting hammered while another place grows rank. 

Drought’s different. Having water to drink doesn’t mean there’s enough grass to eat. A tank can be full and the country can still be out of feed. If they eat it too short, the grass doesn’t recover right. Then the next rain runs off instead of soaking in, weeds take hold, and you’re worse off next year. Keeping too many cattle through drought can cost you the land.

Destocking early means selling before every other rancher is desperate and the market drops. It also means saving grass for the cattle you keep. Usually you sell the cull cows ones first, the ones you were planning to let go anyway. Then you look at pairs, bred cows, replacement heifers, what hay costs, what the forecast says, what the bank account can stand, and how much grass you need left when the rain finally comes. It's not like cleaning out a pantry. It’s selling good cows before you want to because waiting too long costs more.

Thanks for the recipes. I’ll try them out.

Zoro paused. Sanji had asked, You bleeding anywhere? Normally, Zoro would be factual but flippant. This time, the question sat differently. 

He looked at the darkened window above the desk, saw his own reflection in the pane with the light behind him. He drew one slow breath through his nose and looked back at the screen. 

I stopped seeing someone a few days ago. Well, not seeing, because it was through this site, but I thought it was going to be something. It’s not. I’m disappointed, I guess? I don’t know. Thought he was compatible. Trying to figure out if this is still worth it. 

Zoro read what he wrote. It sounded more honest than he’d meant it to. His finger hovered over the backspace key. Then he changed his mind and clicked send instead. 

He texted Usopp the next morning before he left the house: Boxer didn’t work out. Coverage dropped a hundred yards out, which was a coward move, but he didn’t want to answer questions or read Usopp’s overly cheery version of commiseration. 

He drove the new side-by-side out to the east pasture and checked the fence where the wash cut under it. Two posts had shifted since the last rain, and the bottom wire sagged low enough for a calf to think about being stupid. Zoro killed the engine, pulled on his gloves, and got to work.

By midmorning, he had the wire stretched tight again, three staples replaced, and one T-post driven in deep enough to hold. Sweat ran down the back of his neck despite the cool air. The work helped. It usually did. Wire didn’t care if he was disappointed. Posts didn’t need him to explain himself. Either the fence held or it didn’t.

The cows were spread across the lower pasture when he finished, calves sleeping in the grass or nosing after their mothers. Zoro counted them, checked the tank, and scraped algae from the trough with the old brush wired to the fence. One calf had dried manure under its tail, so he watched it long enough to decide it was still nursing and bright-eyed. Something to keep an eye on. 

At noon, he ate standing by the truck: jerky, an apple, and a bottle of water gone warm from the cab. Zoro could practically hear Sanji bitching. He took another bite of jerky anyway, then looked out over the pasture, where the calves had started chasing each other in short, useless bursts before collapsing back beside their mothers. 

He spent an hour clearing tumbleweed from the corner fence where the wind had packed it thick against the wire. The pile fought him the whole way, dry thorns catching on his gloves and jeans. By the time he dragged the last of it loose, dust coated his shirt and one forearm was scratched from wrist to elbow. He used the rest of the water from the bottle to wash it, then went on with his day.

When he got back to the house for the evening, he got a wall of text from Usopp that started with That sucks and ended with and then the dragon ate everyone and spent the next week picking body parts out of his teeth. It made Zoro laugh, reminding him why they were friends. 

He texted back: Maybe the knight should’ve used three swords. 

He saw Usopp read it, and dots popped up immediately.

Usopp: Where would that last sword go? Or is this a gay joke that I’m too uncool to get?

Zoro snorted and texted: The sword goes in the mouth, not where you’re thinking, pervert.

Usopp: How am I to know? And how would the mouth even work? Swords are heavy. You’d need a mouth of steel. 

Zoro: Or be gay.

Usopp: Oh, so now the gay joke is in play. I see how it is.

Zoro grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the top, and took a swig before texting again. 

Zoro: What’re you and Kaya up to tonight?

Usopp: We’re in the middle of a rousing game of Where Did I Put That? We’re looking for the remote. You’d think it would be somewhere in the den, but I found it once in the freezer, so who knows. I should go check the freezer. 

A few beats later and Usopp texted again. 

Usopp: Not in the freezer, but I did find a pair of scissors in there, so success?

Zoro chuckled and texted: I’ll let you get back to it. Tell Kaya I said it’s your fault.

Usopp: She already said it’s my fault. Except that it’s hers. It’s a common theme in a marriage. Something to look forward to one day.  And you WILL get to look forward to it.

Zoro: Yeah, yeah. Later.

Zoro stuck his phone back in his pocket and took his beer over to the couch. Calf roping was already on. He watched a few runs, horses breaking hard from the box and ropes snapping out under the arena lights, then finished his beer and got up to make dinner. Leftover steak and a can of beans. He ate at the kitchen table with one foot hooked under the chair, the house quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rodeo announcer carrying in from the living room. 

After he cleared the plate, he brought the laptop over to check his email, the weather and market report. He saw Sanji had replied. He clicked open the full message through the website.

I almost got married once. Not my choice, and the girl was way too young. Ran off and joined the Navy before the ceremony. Swore off ever being put in that position again. Stuck to it, too. Had short term things, kept it casual. Easier to do in the Navy when you rotate off a ship every four and a half years. So when I say you’re worth it, take it for what it is. 

Zoro stared at the message for a while. It was all he wrote. 

There were different ways to read it. Sanji was being kind. Sanji was telling him not to give up. Sanji was explaining why he knew what risk felt like. 

Zoro read the last line again and felt the words settle somewhere low in his chest, heavy and warm enough that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

They were just shooting the shit. Maybe Zoro was reading too much into it because he wanted something and Sanji was kind enough to keep answering. Maybe Sanji asked questions because he liked knowing things. Maybe retired Navy cooks researched everything with the same force they used to feed five thousand people.

But Sanji kept asking about the ranch like he was trying to understand the life, not just the man talking about it.

Or maybe that was just Sanji. Maybe he made an accidental friend and then tried to understand the whole of him, because stopping at the surface wasn’t something Sanji knew how to do. 

Zoro sat there for a few minutes longer, then closed the laptop. He left the answer for the morning. Night made too much room for guessing. 

The next morning, the pressure tank crapped out. 

Zoro turned on the kitchen tap, got one hard cough of air, then nothing. He stood there with his coffee pot in hand, listening to the pump kick on, kick off, kick on again in short, ugly bursts. He had no water. “Shit.” 

Zoro sighed loudly, set down the empty pot, and went out in the dark with his coat and a flashlight to see if he could fix it.

The well house sat beyond the mudroom, low and square, with the wind pushing cold through the gaps around the door. He kicked a rock out of the way, ducked inside, and swept the flashlight over the pressure tank, the switch box, the pipes, the gauge. The pump clicked again. The needle jumped, dropped, jumped, dropped. 

He killed power at the breaker before the pump burned itself out, then crouched beside the tank and tapped it with his knuckles. It answered wrong all the way down. No hollow ring at the top, no heavy sound at the bottom. Waterlogged.

He checked the air valve anyway. A thin spit of water came out instead of air. He sighed again. “Of course.”

He stood there a moment, flashlight tucked under his arm, breath fogging faint in the cold. New tank. Fittings, probably. Maybe a switch while he was at it. Trip to Gecko Hills unless the hardware store had one in Shells Town, which it probably didn’t. 

The pump clicked once more even with the power killed, metal settling in the dark. Zoro rubbed a hand over his face, then reached for his phone to check the time. Four thirty-five.

Store didn’t open until seven. The diner opened at six. That meant he could get the animals handled, drink somebody else’s coffee, and find out whether the hardware store had a pressure tank sitting in back or whether he was losing half the day to Gecko Hills.

He blew out a frustrated breath, went back into the house, and got ready to knock out chores early.

His luck was against him. The hardware store didn’t have the tank, so he had to make the trip to Gecko Hills. He texted Usopp because this deserved fries even at nine thirty in the morning. Usopp offered to drive out and help him put in the new tank, but he couldn’t get there until after one. Zoro thanked him and turned him down. He wanted the job done before then.

Of course, it didn’t work like that. It never did. The old tank fought him the whole way out. One fitting stuck. Then another. By the time he got the pipe loose, he was tired, pissed off, and pulling harder than he should have been. The tank shifted all at once, his wrench slipped, and he caught himself hard near his good eye.

For a second, he just stood there, bent over the pipes with one hand braced on the wall. Then blood ran hot down his cheek. His cursing went on for a good minute.

He got it cleaned up, slapped a bandage over the cut, and watched the skin around his eye start swelling anyway. Instead of finishing the tank, he had to sit in the kitchen with a cold pack against his face, five minutes on, five off, five on again, while the new tank sat outside waiting.

By the time the tank was installed and the regular chores were finished, he’d missed lunch, had a stabbing headache, and his eye had narrowed to a slit. He wanted a hot shower, aspirin, a beer, and sleep. His day wasn’t over yet, so he took the aspirin, ate enough to count, and got back to work. 

Darkness settled over the ranch as he finished the last bottle feed, checked the kittens, then checked the last gate for the night. He trudged into the house, kicked his boots off by the door, popped a beer, and dragged himself into the shower.

When he got out, he snagged his laptop, climbed into bed, opened Rural Hearts, and did what he’d wanted to do since the ice pack. He messaged Sanji.

Water died. Had to go to Gecko Hills for a replacement tank. Bashed myself getting the old one out, so now I’ve got a bandage on my head and one eye swelled almost shut. Water’s working again, but between the pressure tank and the side-by-side, cash reserve’s running thin. Usually this shit comes in threes.

Send bubble wrap.

He hit send, shut the laptop, drained what was left of his beer, and went to sleep.

Sanji responded by morning.

Don’t know whether to laugh at you or cry. Doctor said eye injuries are no joke. If it’s still swollen, get it checked out. Better solution – stop hurting yourself, dumbass.

Zoro huffed a laugh at the message. He was already up and dressed, eating eggs and bacon at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee beside the plate. He’d brought the laptop out of the bedroom to check his email before heading out, and seeing Sanji’s name there had surprised him. Pleased him, too. He clicked through to Rural Hearts. 

The swelling around his eye had gone down overnight, but the bruise had come in purple and ugly. With the bandage over the gash, he looked like someone who’d lost a fight with more than a pressure tank.

Sanji’s message went on.

Had to look up what a pressure tank was. You have well water? Internet says it tastes different. Wonder how it affects cooking. What other old-timey utilities do you have? Tin cans with string? Paper newspapers? There’s this newfangled thing called the internet where you can look up how to install a pressure tank without bashing your face in. It also has plenty of first aid information. Have a feeling you need it.

Inflatable went to the coop builder for reasons I don’t want to know. He’s set to start building this week. 

Bubble wrap in the mail c/o the accident-prone idiot with the three earrings. 

Zoro was smiling by the time he reached the end. Sanji’s messages had a way of doing that. He took the time to type out a reply.

Eye’s okay. Can see fine. Your bedside manner needs work. 

I have internet, moron cook, or else I wouldn’t be talking to you. Got satellite internet back in November. Works really well most of the time. 

The ranch runs off well water, propane gas, standard electric, and a septic system. Got backup generators for when the power goes out. Can’t tell you if the water tastes different because it’s what I’m used to. 

Also have a landline that runs to the house, because cell service only works through wifi out here. There’s towers along the county highway so there’s service from Gecko Hills to Shells Town. 

Got to head out. Talk to you soon.

Zoro sent the message, feeling light. He finished off his breakfast, downed the rest of his coffee, and went to work.

About two weeks passed after the pressure tank, and the third thing came in the form of a rear tire blowing on the truck halfway back from Shells Town. It proved Zoro’s theory about shit coming in threes.

He’d been messaging with Sanji regularly. Sanji updated him on the chicken coop and the Chicken Whisperer, asked a few more questions about the ranch, and talked about Navy life and how slow everything moved in the real world. Then somehow they got onto high school, old music, and how many cassette tapes and CDs they used to own.  All easy conversation. All comfortable. 

Comfortable enough that logging in to Rural Hearts had become part of his nightly routine. Chores, dinner, dishes, then the laptop at the kitchen table or at the desk or on the couch. He deleted what needed deleting, skimmed the rest, and looked for Sanji’s name.

Sanji was there more often than not. Sometimes with a recipe. Sometimes with a complaint. Sometimes with a question that made Zoro explain a piece of the ranch he’d never had to put into words before.

Chicken Whisperer says I have good hands and no respect for poultry politics. Slander. The rooster started it.

Also, if I send you a slow-cooker pork shoulder recipe, do you have a way to get the spices without driving four hours, or am I about to learn more than I ever wanted about rural delivery logistics? Does anything come to the ranch, or does everything stop in Shells Town and wait for you to remember mail exists?

Zoro had answered that most packages went to his post office box in Shells Town or got held at the feed store in Gecko Hills if they were ranch supplies, and anything that came straight to the ranch had to be worth the driver hating him. Sanji sent back a list of shelf-stable spices anyway, along with instructions for the pork shoulder and three separate threats about overcooking it. 

Zoro worked, answered messages, made the food Sanji kept sending, and deleted the overseas introductions without reading past the first line. The occasional sex message still came through, too. Men who apparently thought remote rancher meant no hello, just something filthy. The pics were good, though.

That night, after the chores were done and the house had settled around him, he ate chicken adobo from one of Sanji’s recipes at the kitchen table, opened Rural Hearts, and found a new introduction waiting. 

Saga, 46
Ranch hand. Looking to settle. No kids.

His profile picture showed a man Zoro’s age at a working chute, one boot on the bottom rail, a coil of rope over his shoulder. Long silver hair fell loose around a face cut sharp by sun and weather. Behind him, a horse stood saddled by the fence, and the alley was full of red cattle waiting their turn through the gate.

Zoro,

Your profile caught my attention because you didn’t dress the life up.

I’m forty-six. I’ve worked cattle most of my adult life, mostly beef operations, mostly big outfits where you ride herd, fix what breaks, and keep your mouth shut unless something needs saying. I know long days, bad weather, dust, calving, doctoring, shipping, weak fences, mean cows, and people who think ranch work looks romantic from a highway.

I’m looking to settle down somewhere smaller. I don’t need a town close. I don’t need entertaining. I know how to work, and I know the difference between being part of a place and just passing through it.

I’m not looking for a job from you. I’m looking for a man who understands the life and wants someone beside him in it.

If that sounds worth talking about, I’d like to hear from you.

Saga

Zoro stared at the message, then read it a second time before he sank back in his chair and swigged his beer. The guy was attractive, no doubt. He sounded exactly like someone who would fit into Zoro’s life with ease. Ranch hand. Steady work history. No city fantasy in the way he talked about land. A month ago, Zoro would have answered this message first.

While he didn’t need a hand, he wouldn’t say no to someone wanting to do the work. Saga knew cattle. He knew bad weather, long days, weak fences, and the difference between living on a ranch and liking the idea of one. That mattered. It should have made responding simple.

He rubbed his jaw and looked off into the living room. It was a good-sized room, meant for families. He’d inherited the furniture with the house. Off and on over the years, he pictured coming in for the evening to someone waiting in there, sitting down beside them, watching whatever was on. Maybe a kid or two, who’d want to take over the ranch when they were older. 

He tried to picture Saga in there, cuddling up beside him on the couch. It was difficult, based on a picture. He didn’t even know if Saga was the cuddling type.

He read over the message again. Thought about how right it sounded. How Saga fit. How easy it would be to answer, how reasonable. 

Except now the other thing he’d been ignoring had taken a seat across from him at the kitchen table and gave him an exasperated look.

He hadn’t wanted to think about it because what if it was nothing? Or what if it was something, but then it didn’t work? 

He liked Sanji. Liked this back and forth they had. Liked the jokes and the jibes and the naturalness of conversation. Liked that he felt he could say something serious and get a real response. Liked the real questions and food suggestions and the underlying care. 

So what was he going to do?

Zoro took another drink of beer, reading Saga’s introduction again. Then he closed the message and opened a different one.

Is this something? Us?

He stared at what he’d typed, AllBlueCSCS in the To: bar. 

Then he got up, took his plate of chicken adobo, and went to eat on the couch in front of the TV. 

The message was still sitting there when he woke up the computer an hour later, unadorned and unsent. He always prided himself on being someone who met challenges head on. The worst that could happen would be that Sanji said no, he was just being friendly. Then they could continue on as friends, and Zoro could respond to Saga and maybe get his serious relationship after all. 

But the thought of pressing send made his stomach knot up. 

He didn’t want Sanji to say no.

Zoro braced his hands on the back of the kitchen chair, gripping the wood until it creaked. This was stupid. He was being stupid. He needed to address this and get it over with. 

He took his phone out of his back pocket and texted Usopp: Tell me to press send.

Usopp responded a second later: Press send. 

Zoro took a short breath, then clicked the button. It was gone. Out there. In Sanji’s Rural Hearts inbox already. 

His phone pinged with a new message from Usopp.

Usopp: You press it?

Zoro texted back: Yeah.

Usopp: Regret it?

Zoro: Maybe. We’ll see.

Usopp: Gonna tell me about it?

Zoro: No.

Usopp: Then let me tell you about this guy who came into the office with a bag of rocks, dumped them on the counter, and asked me which one was real gold. Not just big rocks. Tiny rocks. Rocks that scattered everywhere. Rocks that I had to pick up, one by one, and examine because he was one of THOSE guys. Half of them weren’t even pyrite. And I’m not a geologist. I know plants. Bring me a bag of plants and drop it on my counter and I’d be a happy botanist. Or grass. I’m okay with grass, too. But not rocks. So. Many. Rocks.

A faint grin pulled at Zoro’s mouth, and his shoulders eased while Usopp went on and on. He closed his laptop, grabbed another beer, and texted as he went back to the couch. 

Zoro: Bet next time it’s a bag of mineralized cow patties.

Usopp: Don’t put that into the universe. I do not want an office full of poop. Anyone shows up with poop, I’m giving them your address.

Zoro blamed the weather for not checking if he’d gotten a response from Sanji over the next two days. It was somewhat true. A system moved in, played havoc with the satellite reception, and generally made a mess of things on the ranch. Going out in heavy rain was one of Zoro’s least favorite activities. Wind liked to catch on panels and rip them free. Truck tires slipped in the mud and sometimes got stuck. He carried planks and chains in the bed for that reason.

Storm work meant doing the same chores slower, wetter, and with less room for mistakes. Zoro checked water because floats stuck and runoff muddied troughs. He checked gates because wind worked chains loose. He checked the lower spots in the fence because washes could rise fast, dragging brush and trash into the wire until a calf found the weak place. The cows bunched with their backs to the rain, calves tucked close and miserable, while the horses stood under the loafing shed looking annoyed. Everything took longer. Gloves got soaked, ropes got heavy, boots picked up enough mud to change the way he walked, and every trip back to the house left a trail across the mudroom floor. 

By the time the storm moved on, Zoro was soggy, mud-streaked, and tired of the sound of rain hitting tin. The lower wash had carried branches into the fence, one gate chain had worked loose, and the trough by the close pasture had filled with enough grit that he had to scrub it out before dark. He’d chased the bottle calf back under cover after the idiot decided rain meant freedom. The calf dodged left, Zoro stepped after him, and the mud took his boot clean out from under him. He caught the fence with one hand, swore, and sent the chickens scattering under the lean-to, puffed up and furious like the weather was his fault. 

The power flicked twice but held. The ranch road didn’t fare as well. Water cut a new rut across the low stretch before the cattle guard, deep enough that Zoro would have to bring gravel down when the ground dried. Rain poured off the mudroom roof hard enough to dig a trench beside the step, so Zoro had to drag flat stones into place and kick mud back against the washout until it stopped eating into the path. 

He told himself the satellite going in and out was a good enough reason to leave Rural Hearts alone. Every time he thought about checking, something needed fixing, clearing, scrubbing, or dragging back where it belonged.

He finally made himself check after he’d showered and changed into something comfortable, damp green hair curling over his forehead. He combed it back with his fingers, then stopped putting it off and opened his messages through the website.

A response from Sanji sat there between a flirt and a profile like. 

Zoro stared at it for a long moment, tension ratcheting under his skin, before he called himself an unflattering name and clicked on it. 

Could be. If you want. Otherwise, I’m either going to have to drop the online Rangeland Ecology and Management course or start my own ranch.

Warmth bloomed in Zoro’s chest, sudden and fast. The breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding left him in a rush, and a stupid grin tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. 

He almost answered immediately. Then he stopped, hands still over the keyboard. Ideo had looked right on paper, too. Maybe not like this, maybe not with the easy back and forth he had with Sanji, but enough that Zoro had thought it might turn into something. Good messages didn’t mean good in person. Compatible didn’t mean enough. Wanting something to work didn’t make it work. 

Zoro let that stop him for a minute as he thought about what he wanted to say, then hit reply. 

We should probably meet first. Messages are one thing. In person is another. 

Zoro included his personal email to make arrangements. Then he sent it off with almost as much trepidation as the last one.

There was nothing to be done, though. It was the next logical step. And either it turned out good or it turned out bad. At least he’d know. 

The morning Sanji was set to arrive, Zoro texted Usopp. 

Zoro: Might need chile cheese fries. Will let you know.

Usopp was quick to answer: I’ll be waiting hungrily.

Zoro looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. His hair was getting too long, brushed back but already falling loose over his forehead. The cut near his eye had healed to a small scar. He’d dug his black corduroy shirt out of the back of his closet, ironed it, and tucked it into his best jeans with his patterned leather belt. 

He was meeting Sanji at the diner in Shells Town at ten. Late enough that he could get the morning chores done, not so late that he couldn’t still drive to Gecko Hills. He had a list of things he could pick up so he could justify the trip. Misery still needed practicality.

He pocketed his phone and wallet, picked up his keys, and left his ballcap behind. The last time he did that, he was meeting Ideo. He tried not to think how that went as he started the truck and headed off the ranch. 

The house disappeared in the mirror before he reached the first cattle guard. After that, it was fence, grass, brush, and the pale tracks of the ranch road cutting through open country. The truck rocked over ruts left from the last storm, tires finding the higher ground where water had dried hard. A jackrabbit broke from the grass and shot across the road ahead of him. Zoro slowed for the wash, crossed it at an angle, and kept going.

Cell service dropped before the county road. The GPS still worked, though the roads were few and straight heading toward town. He passed the far pasture, the old windmill that didn’t pump anymore, the gate with the chain he needed to replace before it wore through. Usually, those things gave him something to think about. Fence. Water. The road. The wash. The chain on the gate. Things that needed doing. Today, every thought slid back to Sanji. 

Zoro tightened his grip on the wheel, then forced his hand loose again. The road ahead ran empty beneath a wide sky, the kind of empty that made every mile feel longer because there was nothing out here. He followed the ranch road to the county road, left the last stretch of Shimotsuki fence behind him, and pointed the truck toward Shells Town. 

As he drew closer, wanting to get there and wanting another twenty miles of road fought hard enough to make his jaw ache. 

When he hit the county highway, the GPS directed him to turn right. He followed the paved double-lane road through more open country, past fence lines, low brush, and the occasional mailbox standing alone at the end of a dirt track. Shells Town appeared ahead, a loose scatter of buildings along the highway after miles of nothing. 

The gas station came first, then the garage with one bay door open and a truck parked beside it. The diner was just past that, set close to the road with its windows facing the highway and a few vehicles parked out front. The rest of town sat farther back. Zoro caught glimpses of the post office, the small grocery, the hardware store, the laundromat, a row of empty storefronts, houses on dirt lanes, and the church farther in, its steeple rising above the low roofs.

Zoro turned into the diner’s lot, pulling into a space he didn’t have to back out of, and killed the engine. He stared through the windshield at the man standing out front. Around his height, blond hair falling over his forehead, dressed in a wine-colored suit with black shirt and white tie, leaning a shoulder against a post, hands tucked casually into his pockets, one ankle crossed over the other.

He looked expensive. He looked like a city boy. He looked hot.

Zoro climbed out of the truck, the slam of the door behind him loud in the quiet of the area. He shoved his keys in his pocket, smoothed down his shirt, then crossed the lot. 

Sanji straightened, a slow smile pulling at one corner of his lips. “Didn’t realize there was a patch of moss growing under that ballcap.”

Zoro’s heart thudded in his chest. “You look like a wine bottle with legs.”

Sanji threw his head back and laughed, a bright sound that echoed in the parking lot. 

Zoro grinned, and then he held out his hand. “Zoro.”

“Sanji,” Sanji said, shaking it. His hand was rough, not smooth, in Zoro’s grip. Working hands. Warm and firm.

The handshake lasted longer than it should have. Sanji held his gaze with steady confidence, blue eyes crinkling slightly in the corners. When Sanji let go, Zoro still felt it. 

“I hear the pie here is good,” Sanji said, his voice low with a rasp to it. 

“The best,” Zoro said. 

“Hn. I’ll be the judge of that.”

For a moment, neither of them moved toward the door. 

Then Sanji’s smile tilted. “Unless you plan to make me judge this pie from the parking lot.” 

Zoro huffed. “Right.”

He reached the door first and pulled it open. Sanji stepped past him, close enough that Zoro caught the faint smell of sharp soap and something expensive before the diner’s pie-and-coffee smell swallowed it.

Sanji talked the way he wrote – sharp, quick, and impossible to mistake for polite. He flirted outrageously with Makino, praised her crust with solemn respect, then turned back to Zoro and made the whole diner fall away by looking at him directly. Zoro felt a hum under his skin and a surge in his pulse every time Sanji smirked at him. 

Zoro had expected some awkwardness. Three months of messages didn’t mean the man himself would match what Zoro had built in his head. But Sanji did. He filled the pauses without crowding them, asked questions that made Zoro explain things he usually kept in his own head, and listened like the answers mattered.

By the time Makino came back to take their order, Zoro had stopped waiting for the conversation to go wrong. Zoro had a slice of tart lemon pie. Sanji had a sliver of each on display and judged them like a snooty chef. Then he admitted pastry wasn’t his forte with a wicked grin and licked the cherry filling from his fork. 

Sanji kept pulling small pieces of the ranch out of their messages and setting them into the conversation like they belonged there: the pressure tank, the new side-by-side, the gate chain Zoro still hadn’t replaced. He remembered them without making a show of it. He made them sound worth remembering. 

The last coffee refill sat cooling between them when Zoro said, “Want to come out and see the ranch?” 

Sanji’s eyes lit with delight, even as he said, “I don’t have a trunk full of pool noodles for nothing.”

Zoro barked a laugh, drawing attention from the usual old timers and the bank clerk on lunch.

They paid the check under Makino’s beaming grin and a look that told Zoro she was going to spread this far and wide. He was going to deal with razzing every time he came into town. At the moment, he didn’t care. 

“It’s a drive,” Zoro warned, as they headed into the parking lot. Sanji’s vehicle was a bright red Jeep with a straw hat painted on the back spare tire cover.

“I don’t mind,” Sanji said with a chirp of the lock. He got into his vehicle with a cheeky, “Just don’t get lost.”

Zoro snorted, even though occasionally that happened. Mainly if he was tired or distracted and not paying attention to the GPS. He got into his truck, started it up, and drove out of the parking lot.

The drive to the ranch seemed to stretch on, even though it took less than the usual time. Probably because Zoro was speeding a little. The only people who’d been out there were hired help, utility folks, Usopp and Kaya and their brood. He’d seen his nearest neighbors twice in twenty years, both times after a bad winter snowstorm. 

The GPS got him back to the ranch without any U-turns, and he tried to look at it through new eyes as he drove through the gates. It looked big. Open. Desolate. A bit rundown. The house was well back from the road, a mile and a half down a dirt track that crossed two cattle guards, skirted a dry wash, and passed the old equipment shed before reaching the yard. 

The house sat low and wide against the range, pale walls dulled by sun and wind, metal roof weathered to a flat gray. It was bigger than he usually remembered it being, built for a family instead of one man, with a long front porch, too many dark windows, and additions running off the back at slightly different angles. The yard didn’t help. Gravel, hard-packed dirt, a few weeds, a crooked clothesline, a stack of old panels, the propane tank set off beside the house, the barn farther out. The house itself looked maintained where it had to be and worn everywhere else, steps solid but scarred, paint faded, screen door patched, one shutter hanging a little off.  

He parked where he usually did around the back, by the mudroom. Sanji’s Jeep pulled up behind him. When Sanji got out of the Jeep, he looked even more out of place with his suit. But he had a grin on his face and didn’t seem to care that he was getting dust on his shoes. “This is nothing like I imagined. I thought it’d be big yellow grass fields with cows everywhere.”

Zoro chuckled. “This part of East Blue is open, but it isn’t flat. Hills, dry washes, rock, and cattle spread out where the feed and water are.” 

Sanji looked past him toward the nearest rise, then back at the yard. “So you don’t just look out the window and count cows.”

“Not unless they’re close enough to be a problem.”

Sanji turned in a slow circle, taking in the yard, the house, the barn, the track they’d driven in on, and the open range stretching beyond all of it. "Show me around?"

Zoro looked at Sanji's shoes. "I have a pair of boots you can borrow. "

"No need." Sanji opened the back door of the Jeep, took out a pair of sturdy lace-up work boots, then sat on the back seat to put them on. He tucked the hem of his pants in his socks, then the boots over them for protection. Then he took off his suit coat and tie, leaving them in the back of the Jeep, and pulled on a sensible denim jacket instead. He undid the top two buttons of his black shirt as he shut the Jeep door. "All set."

Zoro felt something lodge behind his ribs. Sanji had thought about this. Had come prepared. Knew that the ranch wasn't made for fancy shoes or suit coats.

He cleared his throat. "Let me grab my jacket."

Sanji nodded, and Zoro unlocked the mudroom and went inside. It gave him a second to collect himself before snagging his work jacket off the hook and heading back outside.

He showed Sanji the barn first. It sat close enough to the house that Zoro could reach it fast in the dark and far enough that the yard opened between them. The main doors faced the working pens. Inside, the air held dust, hay, leather, old wood, and the sharper smell of feed. Tools hung along one wall. Buckets were stacked by the door. A roll of wire leaned in the corner because Zoro kept meaning to put it somewhere better and never did.

The bottle calf heard them before they reached the small pen off the side of the barn. He lifted his head from the straw and yelled like he had never been fed in his life.

Sanji winced, then laughed. “You are certainly loud for veal.”

The calf yelled again, harder.

“He’s almost weaned,” Zoro said.

“Does he know that?” Sanji stepped closer to the rail, careful with his hands, watching the calf shove his nose through the gap. “I’ve fed sailors with better manners.”

From there, Zoro took him into the tack room. The barn cat had moved the kittens from the old saddle blankets to the corner behind the feed bins, where they were now old enough to climb over each other, wobble in wrong directions, and mew up a storm. Sanji grinned at them, but resisted picking any up. “If I do, I might not put it down.”

Outside, he showed Sanji the close pen, the alley to the working chute, the gate he used when he needed to bring a cow in fast, and the chicken coop set where he could see it from the house. The chickens came running when they saw Zoro, then stopped short when they realized he hadn’t brought feed. They stood around his boots instead, clucking and scratching at the dirt. 

“Much more sensible than the Super Deluxe Chicken Palace,” Sanji said. “No chandelier.”

Zoro stared at him. “No what?”

“Chandelier,” Sanji said. “Tiny one. Gold-colored.”

“For chickens.”

“The doctor gave the builder free rein and a big budget.” Sanji’s mouth tilted in a grin. “By the end, he was worse than his husband.” 

Zoro snorted. “Think you had a hand in that.”

“Oh, I won’t deny it. It’s some of my best work to date.” 

They moved on, scattering the chickens as they walked. Past the coop, the horse pen sat on the other side of the barn, with a loafing shed open to the south and a water trough set where the ground stayed firm. The horses lifted their heads when Zoro opened the gate, then went back to ignoring him.

Sanji watched them with interest. “Can we ride them? See the rest of the ranch that way.”

Zoro looked at him. “You don’t care about your nice trousers?” 

“They can be dry cleaned.”

Zoro studied him for another second. Sanji was dressed wrong for the place, but he wasn’t acting like the place was wrong for him. He shrugged. “Sure.” 

He caught the horses and led them to the rail by the barn. Sanji took the brush Zoro handed him and insisted he could handle his own horse. Zoro let him, but stayed close enough to watch.

Sanji brushed the dust loose, checked the horse’s back, picked up each hoof, and saddled up with only a few pauses to make sure everything sat right. He worked slower than Zoro would have, but he knew enough to be careful. The saddle pad was straight. The cinch wasn’t twisted. The bit sat right when he bridled. Zoro was impressed. 

“Those lessons of yours paid off,” he said. 

“Started paying more attention after a while,” Sanji said. His gaze stayed on Zoro long enough for the meaning to come through. 

Warmth hit Zoro low in the chest and climbed fast. He looked down at the cinch before Sanji could see too much of his face. 

He gave the tack one last check, more for something to do than because it needed checking, then unhooked the reins from the rail. The horses shifted in place, ready to move. Zoro made himself look at Sanji again. “Wait here.”

He crossed to the equipment shed and fetched the GPS from the ATV. When he came back, Sanji’s brow arched.

“The place is big,” was all Zoro said.

They rode out slowly, leaving the yard by the track that ran past the close pasture. The horses were quieter than the ATV would have been, hooves thudding soft over packed dirt and gravel. Zoro kept his horse beside Sanji’s instead of taking the lead. He wanted to see how Sanji handled the ride, but Sanji stayed loose in the saddle, shoulders relaxed, hands light on the reins.

Zoro pointed toward the pasture closest to the house. “Heifers stay there during calving if I need to watch them closely. Easier to bring one in if something goes wrong.”

Sanji looked over the fence at the grass, the shade line, the gate placement. “So if one starts having trouble, you can bring her in without chasing her across open pasture.” 

“Yeah.”

They rode past the water tank and trough, where the ground showed hoof marks dried hard from the storm. Farther out, one of the livestock dogs lifted his head from the shade, decided Zoro wasn’t doing anything interesting, and dropped it again. The other trotted along the fence for a few yards, watching Sanji.

They kept riding. The house shrank behind them, then dipped out of sight when the track curved around a low rise. From there, the ranch opened wider –dry washes cut through the grass, rock showed pale along the slope, and cattle spread in small groups where the feed was better and water wasn’t too far off.

Sanji went quiet for a while. Zoro didn’t rush to fill it. The ranch had its own sounds – hooves on dirt, wind through grass, a cow calling somewhere beyond the rise – and Sanji seemed willing to listen. 

Zoro checked the GPS from time to time, orienting himself. The late-morning sun had burned most of the damp off the grass, but the low spots still held dark mud where the storm had run through. Hoofprints dried in the track. Water glittered in the bottom of the wash, shallow enough to cross and muddy enough to leave a mark.

They rode at an easy pace. The horses picked their way over rock and hard clumps of grass, ears turning toward every sound. A meadowlark called from a fence post and lifted off before they got close. Farther out, a pair of calves kicked up their heels, then ran back to their mothers.

Sanji stayed quiet beside him, taking it in. Zoro found himself watching him as much as the land. The boots, the suit pants, the jean jacket, the careful way he kept his hands on the reins. He looked out of place and steady at the same time.

Zoro looked back toward the pasture before Sanji caught him staring. “There’s a tank past that ridge. Still close-in, for this place.”

Sanji followed the line of his gaze. “That’s close?”

“Yeah.” Zoro adjusted the reins. “We’re not seeing the whole ranch today.”

“How long does it take to ride the whole ranch?”

Zoro glanced at him. “You don’t. Not unless you’re trying to make life harder.”

Sanji’s brow lifted.

“For covering ground, truck’s faster. ATV or side-by-side if the track gets rough. Horse is for checking a section, riding fence, moving cattle, or going somewhere I don’t want wheels tearing up.”

Sanji looked out across the land again, quieter this time. “So we’re not seeing all of it.”

Zoro snorted. “Not even close.”

Sanji took a moment with that, thumb rubbing over the reins. “How do you know when there’s a problem, with the place being so big?”

“You don’t always,” Zoro said.

Sanji looked over.

“That’s why you check.” Zoro shifted the reins in one hand. “Water first. If a tank’s low, a float’s stuck, a line broke, or cattle are hanging somewhere they don’t usually hang, something’s off. Same with fences. Fresh tracks along a fence line, cattle bunched at a corner, wire sagging, brush caught in the bottom strand after rain.”

Sanji listened, eyes moving over the land like he was trying to match the words to what he saw.

“Cattle tell you things, too,” Zoro went on. “If one’s by herself, if calves aren’t where they should be, if the dogs are posted up wrong, if everything’s too quiet around water. You learn what normal looks like. Then you notice when it changes.”

Sanji nodded slowly. “So it’s less finding the problem and more knowing what shouldn’t be there.”

“Yeah.” 

Sanji looked down at the ground as the horses picked their way along the track. “Normal changes, though.” 

“It does,” Zoro said. “Season, weather, grass, cattle condition. What’s normal in April won’t be normal in August.” 

“But you learn the patterns.” Sanji shifted in the saddle. “Sounds like running a galley.”

Zoro glanced at him. 

“Not exactly the same,” Sanji said. “But close enough. You know the sound of the galley when everything’s moving right. Steam, vents, pans, people yelling, carts rolling. Then one sound changes and you know some idiot’s about to burn sauce, cut himself, or flood the scullery.”

“So Senior Chief meant more than cooking,” Zoro said.

Sanji’s smile shifted, smaller now. “A little more, yes.”

“Feeding thousands. People under you. Supplies. Timing. Things breaking.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Sanji said.

Zoro nodded once. “Makes sense why you ask the kind of questions you ask.”

“Among other reasons.” 

Zoro caught the meaning under it, and his chest went warm again. 

They rode on a little farther, slow enough that Sanji could look around without having to think too hard about the horse under him. The track curved around a low ridge and dipped toward a pasture where the grass had come in better after the storm. Cows were scattered in loose groups, calves tucked close, nursing, or stretched out in the sun. Zoro drew them up near the fence long enough to count pairs and check that no cow stood off by herself.

Past the next gate, farther out from the house, the bulls stood near a mineral tub: one black and broad through the neck, one red and heavier in the shoulder. Zoro kept the horses well outside the fence and let Sanji look from there. 

“When’s breeding season?” Sanji asked.

“May into June,” Zoro said. “Sometimes a little longer, depending on the year. I want calves hitting the ground in February and March.” 

“So coming up,” Sanji said. “Seems like you were just messaging about the calves.”

“Yeah.” Zoro shifted in the saddle. “Doesn’t stop. Calving ends, then I’m watching cows recover, checking who bred back, getting bulls ready, thinking about the market, sale week. You don’t get much space between.” 

“You ever just get to enjoy it?” Sanji gestured toward the land. “Being out here.”

Zoro looked over the ranch. The answer should have been yes. It was his land, his house, his cattle, his life. He liked the open range, the quiet, the way the grass came back after rain, the way calves ran for no reason except they were young and alive. He could probably make it true if he counted riding fence, checking calves, standing outside with coffee before the work started. 

“Not much anymore,” he admitted. 

The horses kept walking, tack creaking softly with each step. A soft breeze kicked up, rustling the dry grass. Zoro kept his eye on the ridge, and added, quieter, “Don’t have anyone to share it with.”

After that, he turned them back before the ride got too long for a first visit. Sanji didn’t answer right away. He only rode beside Zoro, letting the quiet stay where it was. Zoro was grateful for that. The horses took the return easier, knowing they were headed home, and the house came back into sight.

They took care of the horses first. Sanji handled the heavy tack without complaint, lifting the saddle down and carrying it to the rack. Zoro checked the horses over, turned them back out, and led Sanji toward the house. 

They came in through the mudroom. Boots came off by the door. Jackets went on hooks. Sanji untucked the legs of his suit pants from his black socks, brushed dust from the fabric, and followed Zoro into the kitchen in socks. 

The kitchen was the most used room in the house and looked it. The table sat near the window, scarred from years of meals, paperwork, parts catalogs, and whatever tool Zoro had set down there instead of taking back to the barn. The counters were old but solid, the cabinets plain wood and worn around every handle. A coffee maker sat ready beside the sink. A skillet lived on the stove because putting it away seemed pointless. Through the doorway to the living room, Zoro could see the corner of his work desk, the laptop, a stack of mail, and the filing box he kept meaning to sort. 

“Hungry?” Zoro asked, already reaching for the coffee.

Sanji leaned one hip against the counter, watching him. It had been close to three hours since Makino served their pie. “You plan on cooking for me?”

“Prove I’m not completely incompetent.”

Sanji’s mouth curved. “Then wow me.”

“Feel free to look around.”

Sanji took him at his word, which Zoro appreciated, and wandered through the doorway into the living room. Zoro could still see him from the kitchen as he stopped by the work desk first, taking in the laptop, the maps, the notes written on scrap paper, the coffee rings on old county forms. He moved on without touching anything, looking at the room the same way he’d looked at the ranch outside, like he was trying to understand how it worked instead of judging what it lacked.

Zoro took out the ingredients for Sopaipillas Rellenas and set them on the counter. Then he filled the coffee pot, measured without thinking, and tried not to keep glancing through the doorway every time Sanji moved. 

A minute later, Sanji walked farther into the house. Zoro heard the soft creak of floorboards, then the living room went empty in the corner of his vision. Down the hall, a door opened. 

Zoro turned back to the counter and made himself focus. He set the sopaipillas on a plate, pulled ground beef from the fridge, and gathered a can of refried pinto beans, an onion, sharp cheddar, and a container of green chile sauce.

He browned the beef with onion, cumin, garlic, and salt, warmed the beans, and slit the sopaipillas while the coffee brewed behind him. The kitchen filled with green chile, hot oil, and coffee. Down the hall, a floorboard creaked once, then settled. 

Zoro slit each sopaipilla along one side and filled them with beans, beef, onion, and grated cheddar. He set them on plates, spooned green chile sauce over the top, and slid them into the oven until the cheese melted.

Behind him, the coffee maker hissed. Zoro wiped his hands on a towel and tried not to wonder which room Sanji had found.

A few minutes later, Sanji came back down the hall, quiet in his socks. Zoro heard him before he saw him, then found him in the doorway, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers as he looked around the kitchen again. 

“It’s a nice house,” Sanji said.

Zoro washed the prep dishes in the sink. “It’s old.”

“I noticed.” Sanji stepped over to lean against the counter beside him. “Still nice.”

Zoro didn’t answer right away. He rinsed the skillet and set it in the rack. “Needs work.”

“Most good things do.”

That got Zoro to glance at him.

Sanji only smiled a little. “What are you making?”

“Sopaipillas Rellenas. They’ll be done in a few.” 

“Can’t wait to try it, see if you need any pointers.” Sanji’s attention shifted toward the oven, then back to Zoro.

“Can’t wait,” Zoro said flatly, earning him a chuckle.

The coffee maker clicked off. Zoro turned for the mugs and found Sanji closer than he’d expected. Close enough that the sharp soap and expensive cologne from earlier cut through the green chile and coffee. Close enough that Zoro could see the same look in his eyes he’d seen in the diner parking lot.

Zoro forgot what he’d opened the cabinet for. His pulse kicked. 

Sanji’s eyes stayed on his, the teasing from a second ago gone quieter. He didn’t step closer. He didn’t step back, either. 

The moment stretched, becoming more electric. Sanji’s gaze dropped to Zoro’s mouth. 

The oven timer went off. 

For a second, neither of them moved. 

“Food’s done,” Zoro said.

Sanji huffed a laugh and moved out of the way. “Yeah.”

Zoro opened the oven, heat rolling out into the kitchen, and pulled the plate. The green chile sauce had bubbled around the edges, the cheese melted down into the slits in the sopaipillas. He set them on the stove, shut the oven with his hip, and reached for the cabinet again. 

Sanji took the plates and silverware from him and went to set the table. Zoro poured coffee into two mugs, then brought both mugs over with the food. 

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Sanji cut into the first sopaipilla, took a bite, and chewed with a serious expression that made Zoro’s shoulders tighten despite himself.

Then Sanji swallowed. “Surprisingly not that bad.”

Zoro gave him a flat look. “I’ve been feeding myself for over twenty years.”

“And how many of those meals were sandwiches standing over the sink?”

Zoro didn’t answer immediately.

Sanji’s smug grin widened. “That many, huh?”

"Not as many lately. Some cook keeps sending me recipes." 

"Smart cook. Might be a keeper." 

The words were out there, and Zoro had an answer this time. "Might be." 

Sanji's gaze was warm, but he didn't press. They ate for a few minutes after that, the conversation settling into something easier as Zoro explained what had to happen before breeding season – checking bulls, looking over fences, making sure the cows were recovering after calving, watching grass and water, and hoping the weather held.

Sanji leaned back in his chair. “So no mood music? Candlelight? Romantic walks on the beach?” 

“I’ll put flowers on the bulls,” Zoro said dryly, earning another grin.

His phone chimed, and Zoro pulled it from his pocket. Usopp had texted.

Usopp: Still going for chile cheese fries?

“Gimme a sec,” Zoro told Sanji, and texted Usopp back: No. Things are going good.

Usopp: Things?

Zoro: Tell you later.

Usopp: Would’ve been better to be told over chile cheese fries.

Zoro’s mouth curved and he tucked the phone away. 

Sanji glanced at him curiously, and Zoro told him, “My friend, Usopp.”

“Rescue text?” Sanji said with amusement. 

Zoro met his gaze. “Nothing to be rescued from.”

A slow smile spread over Sanji’s lips. “Good to know.”

They finished eating with the ease of people who had found a rhythm and liked it. Sanji asked more about breeding season, less like he needed the information and more like he liked hearing Zoro explain it. Zoro told him about sorting cows into breeding groups, watching the younger heifers closer their first year, keeping notes on temperament and calf size, and counting back from the calving window so the worst of winter didn’t catch him with too many births at once.Sanji listened with his chin propped on one hand, asking questions that made sense and making the occasional filthy remark about cattle reproduction that Zoro refused to dignify, which only made him grin wider. 

When they finished, Sanji helped with the dishes without asking. Zoro washed. Sanji dried. It should have felt strange, having someone else in his kitchen with a towel in his hands and socks on Zoro’s floor, putting plates away after one look at the cabinet Zoro opened. It didn’t. It felt like something Zoro had been waiting for.

The afternoon moved on while they stood there. The light through the kitchen window shifted lower, catching dust in the air and turning Sanji’s hair gold at the edges. He checked the time on the stove, then again on his phone, and the small pause told Zoro before he said anything. 

“Damn,” he said quietly.

Zoro knew before he explained. “Long drive.”

“Yeah.” Sanji looked back at him. “If I’m getting back to Laugh Tale tonight, I should leave soon.”

Zoro dried his hands on the dish towel. The house felt too quiet all at once, even with Sanji standing right there.

Sanji took the towel from him, folded it, and set it carefully on the counter. “For the record, I don’t want to.”

Zoro’s chest went warm again, slower than before. “For the record, I don’t think I want you to.”

Sanji went still. The kitchen was quiet around them, the midday light low through the window, the clean dishes stacked in the rack, the air still smelling faintly of green chile. 

Zoro moved first, stepping closer, hand coming up to press against Sanji’s cheek. He saw Sanji’s eyes darken, his lips part, chin tilting a fraction. 

One of them closed the distance. Or both. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling of Sanji’s mouth against his, the heat that sparked, and the way Sanji kissed him back like he’d been waiting all day. His hand slid to Zoro’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and Zoro stepped closer until there was no polite space left between them. 

When they finally broke apart, Sanji stayed close, forehead nearly touching Zoro’s, breath warm against his mouth. 

“Stay,” Zoro said.

Sanji’s eyes softened. “All right.”

That was it. Two words, and the afternoon changed. Zoro stepped away from the counter, took Sanji’s hand, and led him down the hall while the house settled around them. 

The sun was slanting lower through the bedroom window when Zoro finally forced himself to move. As much as he wanted to stay in bed with Sanji for the rest of the day, the ranch still had work waiting.

Sanji opened one eye and peered at him across the pillow. “Leaving already?”

“Chores,” Zoro said, grabbing his briefs off the floor.

“Shit. Right.” Sanji stretched, then sat up. “Give me a few minutes to clean up and I’ll come with you.”

Zoro looked back at him. “You don’t have to help.”

“Maybe I want to.” Sanji climbed out of bed, the light catching the long line of his back and the swell of his bare backside. “Be right out.”

Warmth came back, settling in Zoro’s chest. He got dressed, then looked at Sanji’s good clothes where they lay discarded over the chair. After a second, he dug out a pair of jeans and an old flannel work shirt from his dresser and left them on the bed with Sanji’s boxers.

Zoro had coffee poured when Sanji came into the kitchen. The jeans fit well enough, which Zoro tried not to notice too much. The flannel was another matter. It hung loose through the chest and shoulders, the sleeves pushed up over Sanji’s forearms. Zoro’s mouth twitched. 

“Say anything, and learn firsthand how I get revenge,” Sanji said. “You read how that worked out with the chickens.”

Zoro handed him a mug. “Not saying a word.”

Fortified with caffeine, they put on their boots and jackets and headed out. Zoro walked Sanji through what needed doing: calves and heifers in the close pasture, water troughs, gates, and a few repairs in the pasture the cows would rotate into next. After that, they could deal with the gutter over the mudroom and look over the ATV, which had been sitting wrong when Zoro went to get the GPS earlier. The bottle calf would need feeding toward evening, and the dogs and horses would get checked before they hopefully headed in for the night.

“Hopefully,” Sanji repeated dryly.

Zoro shrugged. “Never know what might crop up to bite you.”

Sanji tugged the borrowed shirt back into place. “Then we’d best get to it.”

Zoro found that Sanji’s help both sped things up and slowed them down. He had to explain more than he would have alone, but Sanji listened, asked the right questions, and picked things up fast. He was unafraid of hard work, though he insisted on work gloves.

"Got to protect a chef's hands," he said.

The afternoon rolled into evening. The ATV took the longest. Zoro had thought one tire needed air, but when he crouched beside it, he found a rear suspension mounting bolt had rusted through and left the machine sitting crooked. He dug through the spare parts in the equipment shed until he found something that would work. He kept scrap from old vehicles for exactly this reason. With Sanji holding the light, handing him tools, and making pointed remarks every time Zoro cursed at the bracket, they got the bolt replaced without turning it into a disaster. 

Sanji didn’t complain about the work, the time, or the dust. He mentioned things he’d read in his ranching book, told stupid puns, made innuendo out of anything that gave him half a chance, and made the hours pass faster than they should have. Zoro liked the company. By the time they headed in for the night, he liked it enough to show Sanji exactly how much. 

The next morning, the alarm went off at four. Sanji cursed up a blue streak, and Zoro kissed him quiet with morning breath. 

Sanji made breakfast, which was ten times better than anything Zoro ever made for himself. Then he shoved Zoro toward the mudroom and told him he was retired and going back to bed. Zoro laughed, kissed him again, and went to work. 

He returned to the house around eight, knowing Sanji needed to leave soon if he wanted to make the long drive back. Sanji was dressed in his own clothes again, not as pristine as he had been when they met at the diner, but still looking expensive. He sat at the kitchen table with a near empty coffee mug in hand, a pot warming on the maker. He looked up from his phone and smiled when Zoro came in. 

Zoro could get used to that.

He poured a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. “You heading out?” 

“Yeah. Law, the doctor, texted and said his husband invited half the county over to check out the Super Deluxe Chicken Palace and begged me to come back and save him.” Sanji’s mouth tilted. “Well, threatened eviction is closer to the truth. He wants me to cook, but I read between the lines.” 

Zoro chuckled. “You’re gonna have to send me a picture of this chicken palace.”

“I will.”

Zoro paused, then said casually over the rim of his cup, “Might be easier if we exchanged numbers.”

Sanji’s grin grew. “Might be. If you think you want to hear from me more often.”

“Think I’d like that,” Zoro said, his smile softer than before. 

Sanji typed something into his phone, stood, walked over, and handed it to Zoro. “Put your number in.”

Zoro set his coffee aside, took the phone, and looked at the screen. A new contact was open with Zoro’s name at the top. He added his last name, then his number, before handing it back.

Sanji glanced at it. “Roronoa, huh? I was going to put you under Accident Prone.”

“Funny,” Zoro said flatly.

Sanji typed on his phone, and Zoro’s phone chimed a second later. He pulled it from his pocket.

Sanji Vinsmoke. You plan on kissing me or standing there like an idiot?

Zoro huffed a laugh. He didn’t even take a step before Sanji was in his arms, mouth against his.

They broke apart slowly. Sanji straightened the collar on Zoro’s flannel shirt. “I’ll text when I get there.”

“If you don’t hear from me, I’m out on the ranch,” Zoro said, hands at Sanji’s waist. “No service.”

"I'll wait."

Zoro was reluctant to let go, but he did anyway. Sanji rinsed his empty mug in the sink, then headed into the mudroom. Zoro picked up his coffee and followed.

Sanji put on his boots and jacket, then took his keys from his pocket. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“No guarantees.”

Sanji snorted and went out the door. Zoro stepped into his slip-ons and followed. 

He waited in the driveway as Sanji got into the Jeep. Sanji started it up, made the turn around, lifted a hand, then drove out. Zoro stood there with his coffee, watching the red Jeep follow the ranch road until it disappeared beyond the rise. 

When Zoro got back to the house that evening, Sanji had already texted that he’d made it to Laugh Tale. There were follow-ups after that, most of them about cooking for the impromptu chicken-palace viewing party. 

Then came pictures. Zoro stood in the kitchen, still dusty from the day, staring at the Super Deluxe Chicken Palace in disbelief. It had a chandelier. It had roosts shaped like gilded sofas and ornate beds. It had trim. It had French doors. It had paint colors no chicken needed.

Zoro texted back immediately: That's the dumbest thing I've ever seen.

Sanji: Just wait. They’re installing a custom three-tier water fountain with spitting cherubs. 

Zoro: For chickens. 

Sanji: At this point, I think the chickens are incidental. 

Zoro laughed to himself, then set the phone down and started dinner.

Zoro ate, washed his plate, and opened his laptop at his desk. He had invoices to check, a mineral order to confirm, and an email from Usopp about soil samples that somehow turned into three paragraphs about grasshoppers. He answered what needed answering and deleted two equipment ads. Mixed in with all of it were Rural Hearts notifications. 

Zoro stared at them for a moment. Looking at the notifications felt strange. They belonged to before Sanji’s Jeep parked in the driveway, before borrowed clothes and morning coffee and a phone number saved in his contacts. Now they were just something left open, like a gate hanging loose after he already knew which pasture the cattle belonged in. 

Zoro clicked through to the site. Saga’s message sat near the top. He opened it and wrote a short reply. He thanked Saga for reaching out, told him he had met someone and wanted to see where it went, and wished him luck finding what he was looking for. 

After that, he downloaded his messages with Sanji. All of them. The stupid ones, the careful ones, the ones about calves and pressure tanks and recipes and the vulnerable ones. When the files were saved, he sat there for a moment with his hand on the laptop, looking at Sanji’s very first message sitting open on the screen. 

From: AllBlueCSCS

Are you actually bleeding, or a teenage girl writing poetry? 

Let me know if I need to send an ambulance or a black journal with a broken heart on it. 

Really, though – are you okay?

Zoro huffed a quiet laugh. He remembered reading it the first time, buried in the mess of flirts, likes, and sex offers. Even under the sarcasm, he could still see the same underlying concern – Sanji wanted to know if he was all right.

AllBlueCSCS had been a stranger then. Now Zoro had Sanji’s number in his phone and the memory of him standing barefoot and sleep-disheveled in Zoro’s kitchen like he belonged there.

Zoro checked that the files had been saved where he could find them again, then went back to Rural Hearts. The notifications were still there, waiting with everything else he hadn’t cleared. New messages. New matches. Flirts and likes. People who might have been possibilities if Sanji hadn’t already become the one Zoro wanted. He looked at them for a moment, then deactivated his Rural Hearts account. 

A review popped up before the page closed.

Zoro almost skipped it. Then he put his fingers back on the keys and typed: Met someone on the site. Thanks.

He submitted it, shut the laptop, and picked up his phone when it chimed again.

Sanji: I forgot to mention before, the chandelier has a dimmer switch.

Zoro stared at the message.

Then he laughed hard enough that the empty house didn’t feel empty at all.

The calf slid the rest of the way free just after midnight, hitting the straw in a wet, heavy rush.

Zoro stayed crouched at the heifer’s back end for a second longer, one hand braced on his knee, breath fogging in the cold barn air. The heifer lurched up, turned, and started licking hard enough to make the calf’s head wobble. The calf jerked once, shook its ears, and dragged in a breath without the wet rattle Zoro hated hearing. Another breath came easier. The nose was clear. The tongue was pink. No fight there.

“Good,” Zoro muttered, and shifted back before the heifer decided she wanted more room.

His knees cracked when he stood. His hands ached from the pull. The left sleeve of his coat was damp past the cuff, and his shoulders had that deep, tired burn that meant he’d been moving too long in the cold. He waited until the calf lifted its head again, then dipped the navel in iodine, checked the heifer for bleeding that looked wrong, and watched the two of them long enough to make sure the new mother kept cleaning instead of wandering off.

Across the barn, number twenty-three stood apart from the others in the close pen, tail lifted, sides tight. She pawed once, turned a circle, then stood with her head low and her ears angled back.

“Yeah,” Zoro said under his breath. “Saw you.”

Not yet, but soon. Tonight, probably. Maybe before dawn.

He checked the time, marked the birth in the notebook in his pocket, and gave the new pair one more look. The calf worked its front legs under itself, wobbled hard, and tried again. The heifer licked over its ribs, steady now.

Zoro latched the pen, killed the extra light, and stepped out into the night.

The following February had teeth. The cold hit the wet places on his sleeves first, then his face. The stars were sharp over the yard, the barn roof rimmed pale where frost had started to settle. He crossed to the house with his shoulders hunched, boots grinding over frozen dirt. The close pasture made its usual small noises, cattle shifting, a calf calling low, the creak of wood, the rustle of straw.

He came in through the mudroom, kicked off his boots, and left them crooked by the mat. His socks were damp at the toes. His hands smelled like iodine, calf, and cold metal. He stripped off his coat, hung it on the hook, and headed for the kitchen to wash up and get coffee.

Sanji was already there. He stood by the counter in thermal socks, jeans, and a dark sweater. A knit cap covered his hair, though a few blond strands had escaped around his ears and fell over his eye. The coffee maker was full. Two mugs sat beside it. The kitchen light was low, warm against the dark window over the sink.

Zoro stopped in the doorway. Sanji looked him over once, taking in the wet sleeve, the tired set of his shoulders, the straw stuck to one knee. “Calf?”

“Fine,” Zoro said. “Breathing good. Mom’s on it.”

“And twenty-three?”

“Getting close.”

Sanji picked up one of the mugs. Zoro reached for it automatically. Sanji moved it out of reach. “No.”

Zoro blinked at him.

“Go sleep.”

“Got another one coming.”

“I know.” Sanji set the mug back on the counter and pointed toward the hall. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Zoro frowned. “I should check her again in–”

“I know,” Sanji said again. “You told me. Twice. Tail up, restless, pawing, gets serious when she lies down and stops getting back up every three minutes. I was listening.”

Zoro opened his mouth.

Sanji narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

Zoro started anyway. “It’s my–”

“Our,” Sanji said.

The word hit harder than it should have for something said in a kitchen at midnight with calf slime drying on Zoro’s sleeve.

Sanji’s face softened a little, but his voice stayed firm. “You’ve been up since four. Go sleep for an hour. I’ll watch her. If she moves fast, I’ll wake you. If she takes her time, you’ll get more than an hour. Either way, you should sleep.”

Zoro stared at him, stubbornness rising on habit alone. He had protested this the first time. And the second. And each time after that. 

He had lost every one.

Sanji folded his arms. “Bedroom.”

Zoro grumbled something that wasn’t an agreement.

Sanji’s mouth twitched. “That sounded like yes.”

“Sounded like shut up.”

“Close enough.”

Zoro looked at the coffee, then at Sanji. Fully dressed. Awake. Ready to go out into the cold because the heifer needed watching and Zoro needed sleep. The kitchen was quiet around them, but it wasn’t empty. Not anymore.

He dragged a hand over his face. “Wake me if she starts pushing.”

“I will.”

“If the calf presents wrong–”

“I wake you.”

“If she goes down and doesn’t–”

“Zoro.”

He stopped.

Sanji stepped closer and pressed a hand to the side of his neck, thumb warm under Zoro’s jaw. “Go sleep.”

Zoro let out a long breath. “You’re annoying.”

“I know.” Sanji turned him by the shoulder. “Bed.”

“I can make my own decisions.”

“You made one. You picked me. Now go to sleep.”

Zoro huffed, unable to argue with that, and then leaned in. Sanji kissed him once, brief and warm, then shoved him toward the hall.

Zoro went.

He made it to the bedroom, stripped down enough to avoid ruining the sheets, and fell onto the bed with the kind of exhaustion that had sent him to Rural Hearts last calving season. This year, the house had other sounds in it – Sanji moving in the kitchen, the soft clink of a mug, the back door opening and closing a few minutes later. 

Someone else was watching the close pasture.

Someone else knew which heifer was next.

Zoro closed his eye and slept.

End