Page 43 of Dirty Cowboy

I snatch a sheet of paper and scribble out a letter to corporate, officially announcing our engagement. This way, there’s no chance for my brothers to catch wind of it through the company’s network. Our fake relationship isn’t just about Eric getting his inheritance. I have my own stakes in this game, and I need to make sure I get my partnership before my brothers find a way to stall me again.

Just as I finish, Grandpa Albert yelling outside.

“Emma! I’m ready for breakfast!”

I glance out the window to where he stands on top of the hill, hat on his head and hands on his hips. I leave the pen next to the letter for Eric’s signature, slip on Annabelle’s sneakers, and head up the hill toward the Waters’ house.

The scent of fresh bread and pumpkin spice drifts through the air, wrapping around me like a warm hug.

“Good morning,” I say, inhaling deeply. “What smells so good?”

“Joanne put a pie in the oven,” Grandpa says, adjusting his hat. “I was hoping to talk with both of you this morning, but Eric rushed out a few hours ago.”

“He’s helping with a foal,” I explain.

Grandpa frowns. “A foal? That foal was fine yesterday.” He mutters to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s a different one.”

I link my arm through his, smiling. “Well, I guess you have me all to yourself today.”

He pats my hand, eyes twinkling. “Lucky me.”

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask.

“We’re going to town. Sheriff’s office.”

I nearly do a victory lap in my head.Finally.A chance to dig into John Huntz and prove to my brothers I’m more than a glorified intern at Silver Securities.

“Does a city girl know how to ride a bicycle?” Grandpa nudges a dusty old bike with his foot. Another one leans against the fence, its front basket looking suspiciously like something out of a 1950s postcard.

“You sureyoucan ride?” I ask, arching a brow.

"Don't let the gray hair fool you. I can still pedal circles around most folks half my age."

The way he kicks up the bike stand tells me he’s not bluffing.

As we set off, a cool breeze nips at my cheeks, and Grandpa Albert takes the lead like he’s training for the Tour de France. I pump my legs to keep up, my thighs burning, but I refuse to fall behind.

Fields of wheat stretch endlessly, the golden stalks swaying like ocean waves. The ride is peaceful in a way that makes my city-girl brain short-circuit.

Thirty minutes later, we roll into town, parking our bikes outside a red-brick building with a faded sign. I shake out my legs, pretending I don’t feel like I just completed an endurance race.

Inside, the Sheriff’s office smells like old leather and coffee, the walls lined with framed photos and case files. A man who could have walked straight out of an old western stands behind the desk—hat, boots, belt holster, the whole deal. His badge gleams, but the dust on his sleeves says he does more than just sit behind a desk.

“Albert!” His deep voice booms through the space. “Good to see you. And who’s this beautiful young lady?”

Grandpa grips his hand in a firm shake. “Simon, meet my grandson’s fiancée, Emma Silver.”

The Sheriff doesn’t bother with a handshake. Instead, he hauls me into a bear hug, his laugh hearty and warm.

“Congratulations, young lady.”

“Thank you,” I manage, smiling as he finally lets go.

“Emma’s a private investigator in New York,” Grandpa adds, and I swear there’s a hint of pride in his voice.

Sheriff Simon eyes me, intrigued. “Fred Silver’s daughter?”

“That’s right,” I nod.

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