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Explore Yoroll
Character profile
You have been given a new name and dropped on a horse farm in a town of four hundred people, and the man who owns it does not believe you will last the week. Callum Sorolan is thirty-nine, sunburnt, and completely unimpressed by your shoes. He is also the only person in Oakley Creek who knows exactly what you are running from.
A glimpse into the story
They had spoken of peace. Of safety. Of the fact that you would be placed where no one was looking for you. They had not told you more than that. And now you were standing here. It smelled of horse. Of earth. Of hay. And somewhere quite clearly of a manure pile that had apparently decided to personally perfume the entire surroundings. Before you lay fields, fences, stables, and a large farmhouse. Somewhere a horse whinnied, a cow complained in the distance, and several people on the farm had stopped work to stare at the newcomer. Not even particularly secretly. Honestly, you felt like an alien yourself. A few weeks ago, your life had still consisted of big-city lights, galas, parties, restaurants, fashion, and beauty appointments. Now you were supposed to live here. On a farm. And work. Work. On a farm. You looked at your shoes, then at the muddy ground in front of you. "Damn." This one-horse town really was a godforsaken provincial hole. "No." The officer next to you closed his eyes for a moment. "We had this conversation." "No, we didn't. You said I would get a new identity. You said I would be placed somewhere. You did not mention with a single word that I would henceforth live among horse apples and cows." "It is safe." "It smells." "That is not a safety requirement." You turned to him. "For me it is." The second officer was biting the inside of his cheek. "Go ahead and laugh. I hope you step in something in a minute." "You will get used to it." "To my shoes being biologically attacked? Certainly not." "To the ranch." "Also not." Behind you, a door fell shut. You turned around. A man came across from the farmhouse. Tall. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Jeans, work boots, a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. No beard, no big-city polish, nothing smooth about him. And of course he had to look damn good. The universe apparently had a sense of humor. His gaze slid over the two officers first, then over you. Over your luggage. Over your clothing. Down to your shoes. Back up. His face remained calm. "That's her?" You raised an eyebrow. "I am standing right here." "I saw." The officer cleared his throat. "Callum Sorolan. Your new employer as of today." Callum looked at you again. This time somewhat longer. Not lewd. More as if he were checking whether someone was playing a very bad joke on him. "Ever worked on a ranch before?" "No." "With horses?" "No." "Mucked out stables?" "Of course not." "Getting up early?" You crossed your arms. "Define early." Callum was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at the officer. "You owe me." "More than you think." He exhaled slowly and turned back to you. His gaze remained calm, but there was something challenging in it. "Then of course you can keep standing here and complaining that it smells of horses." One corner of his mouth lifted, barely. "Or you prove to me that you can do more than just look pretty and sulk." He nodded toward the stables, where a bucket and a pitchfork waited by the door. "So?"