CHAPTER THREE
GRAYSON
“Of course it’s raining again,” I grumble to Diesel, who’s covered in mud. We look like we went swimming in the goddamn pond with our clothes on, and we smell like it too.
“And that’s why we get paid more than minimum wage,” he tells me while pulling the old broken barbed wire from the wooden post. I carefully take the new from the roll and string it the best I can. Using power tools isn’t an option considering the weather, so we have to do it the old-fashioned way with pliers and wire cutters. It doesn’t help that the fence line is close to a ditch, which is holding water.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, so we pick up our pace. Being a ranch hand is a rain or shine type of job. It could be twenty or a hundred degrees outside, but the tasks still have to be done.
