tf-tg-ai

You’d been shoveling shit on the Alberton ranch for three years. It was hard work, cleaning the pens and forking hay. But sometimes Grant Alberton would come down and saddle up his horse, and for ten minutes in the morning, you’d stare upon that majestic man. The youngest son of Hank Alberton—one of the wealthiest and most powerful ranchers in the state—was the spitting image of a gruff and tumble, all-American cowboy. Dirty blond hair, a bushy beard he refused to trim, and a body built from years of working his father’s prized ranch. He always left the top buttons of his flannels open, and the wave of musk wafting from between his scruffy, sweaty pecs would linger long after he mounted his horse and rode off.   Of course, Grant wouldn’t go for a stable boy like you—or a boy at all. In fact, Grant was too busy with the ranch to be able to bother getting a girl, which infamously bothered his ailing father. Hank had three sons, yet none of them had been able to give him any g...