Page 1 of My Cowboy Trouble
1
KENZIE
"No,Gerald, I don't care if our vegan influencer is having a meltdown about the canapés. Tell her the mushroom pâté is locally sourced and—" I press my phone harder against my ear, trying to block out the coffee shop racket surrounding me. "Gerald? GERALD?"
Dead air. Just. Great.
I stare at my phone, which had decided this was the perfect moment to run out of juice. Because of course it did. And it had nothing to do with the fact that I am the biggest slacker in the world at recharging my phone.
Not ideal when you're running, or trying to run, your own business.
Every year, my New Year's resolution is the same—plug your goddamn phone in.
Blaming the phone is so much easier.
And now, my biggest client is probably screaming into the void. His launch party is in three hours. I am nowhere close to wrangling the influencers I promised would deliver him top-notch publicity. In fact, they are rebelling like the spoiled, entitled little shits they are.
I finally find my phone charger and plug it into the outlet just next to my table, like I should have done an hour ago.
I could just hide out in this coffee shop for the rest of the day. No one knows I am here. 'Course I'd lose my top client, not be able to pay my rent, nor afford my shoe habit, nor continue to pay six dollars for a freaking latte at a place that never gets my name right and where the baristas are borderline hostile.
"Triple-shot oat-milk latte for Katie!" the barista screams above the clamor.
Close enough. I grab my second cup coffee of the day and cell phone, now loaded with a five percent charge, and weave through the crowd of people who have nothing better to do at two o'clock on a Thursday than camp out with their laptops and judge my visible panic.
The phone buzzes just as I reach the door. Not Gerald calling back—that would be too easy. Instead, it's a video call request from someone named Henry Phelps.
I answer because honestly, my day couldn't get worse. At this point, I'd rather speak to a scammer than get yelled at by my client.
I force some pep into my voice. It does not work. "Kenzi here," I say with a sigh as a picture of my caller comes into view.
"Ms. Rhodes?" A man in a bow tie blinks at me through thick glasses. "I'm Henry Phelps, your great-aunt Maybelle's attorney."
Great-Aunt Maybelle. The one who sent me a birthday card every year with a crisp five-dollar bill and a note about finding myself a "good strong man with rough hands." I'd met her exactly twice in my life, and both times, she'd told me I needed to eat more bacon.
"I'm calling about her estate," Henry continues, shuffling papers as if computers and tablets were never invented. "She's left you something rather... substantial."
I sputtered and dribbled latte down my chin and onto my white blouse. "Substantial like a collection of ceramic cats, or substantial like actual money?"
I wasn't a beat-around-the-bush kind of girl.
"Ms. Rhodes, she's left you the Dusty Spur Ranch. Two hundred acres in Montana, including livestock, equipment, and all structures therein."
I stop in my tracks, blocking the sidewalk. Passersby throw me the stink eye as they step aroundme. "I'm sorry, did you just sayranch? Like with cows and... hay?"
"Cattle, technically. And yes, hay. Among other things." He clears his throat. "There is, however, a condition, Ms. Rhodes."
Acondition. Also known as acatch. Because of course. Nothing in my life comes easily or is unaccompanied by some sort of stupid drama. Or in the case of my business, detailed contracts drawn up by rich lawyers.
Ever.
"What's the hitch, Henry?"
He sighs.
Damn video calls. Pretty sure he just caught me rolling my eyes.
"That's what I'm getting to, Ms. Rhodes. You must live and work on the ranch for thirty consecutive days. If you leave before the time is up, the property transfers to the Willis County Cattlemen's Association."
