Page 122 of My Cowboy Trouble
When we pull into the yard, Sir Clucks-a-Lot comes running over like he's been personally offended by our absence. I climb out of the truck and look around at the barn where we work together every day, the house where we eat dinner and argue about whose turn it is to do dishes, the pastures where we've built something real and lasting.
"You know what?" I say, turning to face three men who've become everything I didn't know I needed.
"What?" they ask in unison, which makes me laugh.
"I think my aunt would be proud."
"Yeah," Trent says, pulling me close. "I think she would."
And standing there in the yard of the Dusty Spur Ranch, surrounded by the men I love and the life we're building together, I know she would. Because this is exactly what she wanted for me. A place to belong, a purpose worth pursuing, and love that grows from the ground up like the strongest roots.
Messy, complicated, unconventional love that's worth every bit of trouble it took to find.
All of it.
18
GAVIN
Three weeks later,I'm sitting on the porch at six in the morning with a cup of coffee that, for a change, doesn't taste like motor oil, watching the sun come up over the best-run ranch in the county. It's a hell of a thing, seeing a place that was held together with stubbornness and prayer, turn into something that actually makes money.
The books are balanced, and not just barely but actually in the black for the first time since Trent's dad died. The fences are all solid, the equipment runs without making sounds like it's dying, and every animal on the property is healthy and accounted for. Even the damn chickens are laying better, though I suspect that's got more to do with Kenzie's threateningto turn them into Sunday dinner than any improvement in their living conditions.
Speaking of threats, I can hear Kenzie’s voice carrying from the barn, and it sounds like she's trying to reorganize Billy's entire feed schedule again.
"Billy, I really think we should color-code the feed bins so guests can understand?—"
"Guests?" Billy's voice is confused. "What guests?"
"The guests for my agritourism venture. I've been researching revenue streams, and authentic ranch experiences are hugely popular with urban demographics?—"
"Princess," I call out, loud enough to carry, "nobody wants to pay money to shovel shit."
"It's called 'authentic agricultural immersion,'" she calls back, and I can hear the sass in her voice.
"It's called work. That's why we get paid to do it instead of paying to do it."
Trent's voice cuts through the conversation, calm and practical. "Billy knows what he's doing with the feed. Leave him alone."
"But the efficiency improvements?—"
"The efficiency is fine. The cows don't care what color their food comes in."
There's a pause, then Kenzie's voice, considerably less business-minded. "Fine. But I'm adding it to my proposal."
I grin into my coffee. Three months ago, she would have argued or gotten pissy. Now she just rollswith it when one of us shuts down her latest scheme to turn our working ranch into some kind of theme park.
She emerges from the barn a few minutes later with a clipboard in one hand and what looks like a business plan in the other. She's wearing jeans with actual holes from work and one of Trent's old shirts, but she's got that look in her eye that means she's plotting something that'll probably cost us money.
"Morning, princess," I call out.
"Morning. You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep. Too much excitement about today's barrel race."
She laughs, shaking her head. "You and your barrel race. I still think you're all nuts."
"Says the woman who wants to charge people to muck stalls."
