Curly had been right about one thing: Jim wields the shovel with competence, making doubly sure that the match is extinguished before scooping soiled hay into a wheelbarrow. It's soothing, in a way, both the work and the steady scraping sound, broken only by the whinny of a horse.

He pauses, a small smile curving his lips. She really is quite pretty. It wouldn't be such an awful thing to see her eyes flash green fire at him again.