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WAAAAAAAA I looooooooovvveeee 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, wlw, countryside life.

warnings : beefy!nat, top!nat, sub!reader, age-gap (r is 24 and nat is 32).

words count : 2.6k

𖦹 part one 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— Baked Goods & Conversations

📍Langford's Estate,

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

The sun rose slow over the rolling hills of Langford Ranch, lighting up the sea of golden grass and rows of early-spring grapevines like it had every morning for as long as you could remember.

It painted the landscape in brush strokes of amber and coral, and even though you'd seen it a thousand times before, it never lost its magic.

You leaned against the fence post, one boot perched on the lower rail, the familiar weight of your cowgirl hat tipped just enough to shield your eyes. The morning breeze brought with it the scent of hay, dew, and something sweet—probably the peach trees blooming behind the barn.

Your mare, Alba, huffed behind you, nudging at your shoulder with the soft impatience only a horse could get away with.

"Alright, alright," You chuckled, patting Alba's muzzle. "You'd think I forgot breakfast was a sacred ritual around here."

The sound of boots on gravel made you turn. Your father, Georges Langford, was walking up from the lower fields with his usual purposeful gait— sun-baked, worn-in, and always moving like the land wouldn't let him sit still for too long.

The man was the backbone of Langford Ranch and he looked it —broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, with lines carved deep from years of working under sun and storm alike.

"Mornin', sunshine," He greeted, pulling off his hat to wipe his brow.

"Mornin', Dad. Thought you were checking fence lines today?"

"I was. Had Carter do the west end. That post by the creek needs more than nails—it needs a prayer."

You grinned. "Doesn't everything out here?"

You both stood in comfortable silence for a beat, eyes drifting across the property. The vineyards curved along the hills like ribbons, and the stables were starting to come alive with movement—hooves on wood, snorts in the air, Carter hollering something at the barn cat.

Georges cleared his throat, one hand resting on his belt.

"By the way," he began, in that tone he used when he was about to drop something mildly important but wanted it to sound casual, "We've got someone movin' into one of the guest houses tomorrow."

At the news, you arched a brow. "Oh, yeah? One of the hands?"

"No. She's not a ranch hand. She's a colleague, technically. Been working in livestock management and field logistics the past few years—real sharp, real quiet. Does good work, and I could use the extra brain with the contracts we've got coming up. She'll be helping out part-time on the cattle rotation too."

"She?"

Georges gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "Her name's Natasha Romanoff. Comes with strong references—worked some rough terrain in Texas and Idaho. Kept to herself but got a rep for being dependable. Heard about her through Greg Havens. You remember him, used to run those horse clinics down in Abilene?"

"Sure. He's the one who taught Brandy how to sit for carrots."

You replied casually, looking over at Alba as you fed her a carrot. She gruffed quietly, then you ran you other free hand over her muzzle to soothe whatever was threatening to upset her.

Georges nodded, chuckling. "Same guy. He vouched for her, and that's good enough for me."

You bit the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

New faces weren't exactly common out here—Langford Ranch didn't have a revolving door. People came, worked, and stayed for seasons, sometimes years. Others never left. So someone moving into one of the guesthouses —someone your father trusted enough to share work and land with— wasn't something you could ignore.

"She know what she's walking into?" You questioned, "This place isn't exactly a weekend retreat."

Georges smirked, the kind of smile that meant he was already ten steps ahead, patting Alba's head in a gentle manner. "She's got boots older than Carter. She'll manage."

A low whistle went past your lips. "Well, damn. Guess we'll see."

He started walking back toward the barn, calling over his shoulder, "And don't scare her off before she even unpacks."

"No promises!" You hollered back, grinning as you turned to your horse. "What do you think, Albs? Sounds like trouble to me."

Your chestnut mare whinnied, flicking her tail like she agreed.

The sun kept rising, golden over the fields, and you found yourself staring in the direction of the empty guest house—the one with the white porch swing and the wraparound view of the west hills.

You had no idea what this Natasha Romanoff looked like. But something in your chest shifted—a quiet hum of interest, like the first stirrings of wind before a storm.

Not that you minded a little storm now and then.

Especially if it came with sharp eyes, rolled-up sleeves, and a story worth unfolding.

🎀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🎀

The vineyard stretched endlessly, rows upon rows of grapevines curling around the earth like veins of the land itself.

The estate had been in the Langford's hands for generations, a legacy carried through the years by blood, sweat, and a relentless passion for the soil beneath their feet.

To those who visited, it was a picturesque sanctuary, a symbol of hard work and perseverance. But to the Langford's, it was everything—family, history, and identity.

Natasha had been in the business of wine for a while now, though her path to the Langford Estate was as unconventional as she was. A successful winemaker in her own right, Natasha was known for her larger-than-life presence, a woman whose strength was both literal and figurative.

With arms built from years of physical labor and a back as strong as any farmer's, she was an imposing figure, even among the burly, weathered men and women who worked in the vineyards.

She was no stranger to hard work, though her reputation often preceded her—a reputation built on an iron will, business acumen, and a certain raw magnetism that pulled people in, even when they weren't sure they wanted to be.

The guest house she had been owning for almost a day sat on ten acres of mostly flat earth. It had a porch that creaked under her boots and a wind chime made of spoons that clinked gently in the breeze. It was a fixer-upper. Natasha liked fixing things.

The redhead stretched her arms above her head, boots scuffing against the wood of her porch as she eyed the grass lining the front.

Her flannel clung lightly to her frame from the morning work, sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms. She had been there all of twenty minutes when she heard the distant sound of an engine, then a dog barking. She glanced toward the road and there you were, driving a red ford pick-up truck, the golden retriever settled in the passenger seat.

Natasha leaned one shoulder against the porch column as she watched you cut the engine, arms crossed, eyes scanning with interest. Not even trying to hide it. 

"You must be the new neighbor," You spoke up, stepping out of the vehicle before letting your dog out. "Heard from my father that someone finally brought the Cross property."

The elder woman's lip curled. "Is that what they call it?" 

"Sure is," You held up the basket of warm goodies you held in hand. "I brought you some cinnamon rolls. Freshly homemade from this morning."

She raised an eyebrow, stepping down to meet you. "Cinnamon rolls? Are you trying to seduce me already?" 

You smirked, "Damn, you catch on fast."

The redhead smirked, taking the basket from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours, rough calluses meeting warm skin. If Ethan Langford was a great co-worker to be around, she was sure she'd appreciate his daughter's company, maybe a little too much. "Name's Natasha."

You introduced yourself next, and she let the name roll around in her mind, pairing it with your smile. It suited you. There was a light to you -- an ease. Nat hadn't felt ease in a long time. 

You tilted your head, gaze sweeping over her like you were sizing her up. And who wouldn't? Biceps under sun-kissed skin, a scar just over her eyebrow, so faint that you would've missed it if you didn't look so closely, and the kind of posture that said she didn't run from anything. You chewed on the inside of your bottom lip and cleared your throat. 

"You're planning on staying around more often?" 

"Depends," Natasha replied, eyes steady on yours. "You planning on bringing me baked goods every day?"

You shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on if you're worth the flour."

She laughed as you turned to go with a smirk, your dog trailing behind. You called out while walking back to the pickup. 

"Nice meeting you, Natasha." 

"Believe me," The redhead called back, watching the sway of your hips. "The pleasure was all mine."

🎀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🎀

The scent of warm earth filled the air as midday settled across Langford Ranch.

The sun rode high above the valley, glinting off metal fence posts and the waxy leaves of grapevines stretching in neat rows as far as the eye could see.

Georges Langford’s voice cut through the quiet as he stood beside Natasha Romanoff, gesturing out over the vast spread of land like a king showing off his kingdom.

“This vineyard’s been in my family for four generations. My great-grandfather planted the first vines himself back in the early 1900s. Clare Valley wasn’t what it is now. Just dry heat and stubborn soil.”

Natasha listened, eyes scanning the curves of the land, the way each line of vines bent gently with the slope. “You’ve made something out of it.”

“We didn’t have much choice,” he replied with a chuckle. “We were Langfords before we were winemakers. And Langfords don’t quit easy.”

They paused at the vineyard’s edge, where symmetrical rows of early-season vines curled along the gentle hillsides like organized chaos. The sun cast their shadows long between the rows, and Georges ran a hand along a twisted vine like it was part of his body.

“These grapes—Shiraz, mostly—go into the reserve reds we bottle each March. We sell local, export some to the States. My wife—God rest her soul—used to say you could taste the earth in every drop.”

An old well house nearby that had been converted into a wine cellar, its stones weathered by time, came into view.

He pointed out the fermentation shed, the mechanical harvester they only used in a pinch, and the solar panels that lined the western slope.

“Hard to imagine this place any other way,” The Russian admitted.

“That’s how you know it’s in your blood,” Georges said, glancing sideways at her. “You start seeing it not just as land, but as story. As legacy.”

He paused to pick up a handful of dry earth, let it sift through his fingers.

“You got family, Natasha?”

She hesitated. “Not in the way most people mean it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded like he understood and changed the subject.

They continued past the cattle paddocks—wide, open pastures edged with eucalyptus trees—where Georges pointed out the rotational system they used for grazing. Natasha absorbed every detail, asking questions here and there, sharp and precise. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was clear she’d done her homework.

When they came up the path near the back stables, Georges paused, brow furrowing slightly.

“There she is,” he said, and the redhead followed his gaze.

You were across the field, just beyond the fence, seated effortlessly atop Alba. The mare’s coat shimmered like brushed copper under the midday sun, and your posture was easy, confident. One hand rested lightly on the reins, the other lifting to wave when you noticed them.

The wind lifted your hat slightly, sending loose strands of hair brushing across your face. Romanoff’s eyes lingered.

“Y/N grew up in that saddle,” Georges said with a hint of pride. “Taught her how to ride before she could tie her own boots. Girl’s got her mother’s balance and her own kind of grit.”

Natasha didn’t answer immediately. She watched as you guided Alba into a smooth canter, posture fluid, in perfect rhythm with the horse. You rode like you belonged there. Like the land bent to you out of love, not force.

Georges watched his daughter for a beat, pride softening the lines of his face.

“She grew up on that horse,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Alba was born the same spring Y/N turned three. They're a pair, those two. I swear that horse listens to her better than most people.”

“She’s got good instincts,” She finally murmured, her eyes locked on your figure.

“That she does,” Langford agreed. “She knows this land better than anyone alive. And don’t let her fool you—she acts like she’s all mischief and cinnamon rolls, but she’s got steel under all that charm.”

Nat smirked faintly. “I noticed.”

You trotted over, reigning Alba in just a few feet from the fence. You slid off

the horse in one smooth motion, boots landing in the dust with a satisfying thud. The redhead watched the way you walked—loose, unhurried, confident.

“Everything alright with the tour?” You asked, brushing dust off your jeans.

“Your dad runs a tight ship,” Natasha said. “Impressive place.”

You nodded, offering a small, proud smile. “It’s home. And a hell lot of work.”

There was something in the way you said it—not arrogance, but ownership. Natasha respected that. She respected people who didn’t just show up, but showed up for the land, for the animals, for the legacy.

You scratched behind Alba’s ear, then looked at Natasha again. Your voice quietening but also softening as you spoke.

“You settling in okay?”

She nodded, “Starting to.”

“Well,” You began, “if you ever need anything...wine, fence wire, conversation—I’m usually around.”

The way you said conversation was light, but it wasn’t nothing. The Russian caught it, held it for a second, then let it pass.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” She said, voice low.

Your father cleared his throat, clearly sensing something unspoken pass between the two of you. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to flirt while I go pretend I’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Dad,” You said flatly, cheeks blooming a hint of color.

Natasha just chuckled, deeply amused. “Thanks for the tour, Georges.”

"And also, we always have dinner out on the porch around six-thirty. Nothing fancy, but real food and even better company. You’re more than welcome, Red.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” She tilted her head for a nod.

He tipped his hat. “Try not to let her talk your ear off.”

And with that, he walked off toward the barn, leaving the two of you standing under the shade of the gum trees, horses grazing nearby, breeze rustling through the dry grass.

Natasha followed the curve of your form as you walked—long legs, dust on your boots, and a playful tilt to your hips that didn’t feel like an accident.

You glanced back at Natasha, a lopsided smile playing on your lips. “So,” you said, brushing back a windblown strand of hair, “You going to take the dinner invite?”

“Maybe.”

You looked her up and down, not shy. “I’d recommend it. My grandma’s lasagna recipe still makes grown men cry.”

Natasha huffed a quiet laugh, her expression unreadable. “You always this charming?”

You leaned against the fence casually. “Only when I know it works.”

For a moment, the wind quieted. The dog—Cooper—came loping up the trail behind you, flopped down in the dirt, tongue out and panting.

Natasha looked down at him, then back up at you. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”

With a nod, you concluded, “Looking forward to it.”

And somewhere deep inside Natasha, something settled—like boots finding firm ground.

She hadn’t come here looking for anything beyond work and quiet. But life, like land, had a way of growing things you didn’t expect.

➪ next part.