Good thing there aren't any ladies about, then. Just Grace, who is singing the Oklahoma fight song under her breath, one hand shoved in the pocket of her tight jeans, the fingers of the other trailing over stall doors as she saunters along. She takes it all in: the feel of warm wood; the smell of hay, horses and musty feed buckets; the soft give of the shavings under her boots; and the familiar stable sounds all but drowned out by the curses coming from Jack. It almost feels like home. Grace smiles to herself, expression nearly dreamy...

I'm a Sooner born
And a Sooner bred,
And when I die,
I'll be Sooner dead.

...and stops right behind him.

"Problems, Cowboy?"

(Oh, who can bother to count?)