Page 128 of My Cowboy Trouble
"We'll see," all three of us say at the same time.
"Okay. We'll see," she squeals, the hope in her expression impossible to extinguish.
And looking at the determination in her eyes, I have a sinking feeling we might actually end up with paying guests sooner rather than later.
We're halfway backto the house when Asher catches up and steals Kenzie right out from under my arm, spinning her around and kissing her like she just solved world hunger instead of staying on a horse for five minutes.
"That was incredible," he says.
"It was just a few barrels and a crazy rooster," she protests.
"It was you being fearless and stubborn."
Before she can respond, Trent's there too, pulling her away from Asher for his own kiss.
"Proud of you," he says when they break apart.
"For staying on a horse?"
"For not breaking your neck."
I watch this little display and realize that three months ago, none of this existed. We were just guys trying to keep a ranch running and barely making it work, and she was a city girl who'd inherited a property she didn't want.
Now, she's planning to turn us into a tourist destination and we're actually considering it. Sort of.
"My turn," I announce, moving in to claim my own kiss.
Her mouth tastes like victory and trouble, which pretty much sums up everything about her.
"So," I say when we break apart, "think you can survive another thirty days?"
It's a callback to the original timeline, back when she was supposed to decide whether to sell the place and go back to her old life. Before she started making business plans and color-coding feed bins.
She grins. "I think I can manage. But you better ask me again in thirty days. Just to be sure."
"Deal."
Because thirty days from now, we'll still be here. Probably arguing about whether city folks should be allowed to pay money to shovel horse shit and whether Sir Clucks-a-Lot counts as a legitimate tourist attraction.
And thirty days after that, when she's probably figured out how to turn the whole operation into some kind of ranch resort complete with sunset cattle drives and authentic cowboy experiences.
Hell, maybe she's right. Maybe there are people stupid enough to pay good money to do our jobs. Wouldn't be the first time I underestimated what city folks will throw money at.
But tourist or no tourist, guest ranch or working ranch, she'll still be here. Still trying to improve everything, still making charts, still wearing our shirts and stealing our coffee and making us all a little crazy with her big ideas and bigger smile.
Sir Clucks-a-Lot chooses that moment to come strutting around the corner, looking for someone to terrorize. He spots the four of us and puffs up his feathers like he's personally offended by our happiness.
"Think he knows he's going to be famous?" Kenzie asks.
"Think he's plotting his next attack," Trent says.
"Think he's planning his retirement from show business," Asher adds.
"Think he can plan all he wants," I say, pulling Kenzie closer. "We're not going anywhere."
And as we head toward the house, arguing about whose turn it is to cook dinner and whether rooster attacks qualify as dinner entertainment, I realize this is it. This is what we've got now—a working ranch, a woman with big ideas, and a psychotic bird who might just end up making us all rich.
Stranger things have happened. Though not many.
