Page 16 of My Cowboy Trouble
"See those posts?" I point to several that are listing like drunk sailors. "Cattle like to scratch against them. Eventually, they work them loose. Then one good storm or one determined bull, and you've got livestock everywhere."
"And that's bad?"
"Depends. Do you enjoy chasing cattle through Clara Mae's vegetable garden at two in the morning while she shoots at you with rock salt?"
"That's oddly specific."
"Voice of experience. Clara Mae's got good aim for someone who claims she needs glasses."
"Sounds like a true Montana girl," Kenzie says with a surprising twinge of hope.
Interesting.
WatchingKenzie try to hammer in a nail is like watching a toddler try to perform surgery while wearing oven mitts. She's got determination, I'll give her that, but her technique is completely wrong. The hammer looks awkward in her grip, like she's never held anything heavier than a champagne flute—which, according to Trent, she hasn't.
"You're choking up too high," I tell her after she bends her fourth nail in a row. The poor nail looks like a question mark.
"I'm choking something," she mutters, attacking another nail with the kind of violence usually reserved for ex-boyfriends' photos. This one bends into an S-shape before she even gets it halfway in.
"Also, you're swinging from your shoulder. It's all in the wrist."
"If one more person tells me it's all in the wrist—" She swings again, and this nail doesn't just bend—it launches itself sideways like a tiny missile, whistling past my ear and disappearing into the grass.
"Okay, that's it." I move behind her, covering her hand with mine on the hammer. "Before you kill one of us. Or both of us. Or some innocent cow just minding its business."
She stiffens when I press against her back, every muscle going taut. But she doesn't pull away. "I can figure it out myself."
"Sure you can. But I like my eyes where they are. And my insurance doesn't cover death by nail projectile." I adjust her grip, my arms bracketing hers, my chest against her back. She's warm from the sun, and this close, I can smell something vanilla mixed with her shampoo. "Looser here. Let the weight of the hammer do the work."
"Easy for you to say. You've probably been hammering things since you could walk."
"Earlier, actually. Trent's dad gave me my first tool set when I was two. Real tools, not the plastic kind. Said a man needs to know how to fix what he breaks."
"That's either really progressive or really dangerous."
"Both. Still have the scar from my first saw." I guide her hand through a practice swing, keeping my voice low and instructive. "See? Smooth motion. Don't fight it."
We swing together, and the nail goes in clean. One smooth motion, perfectly straight.
"Holy shit, I did it!" She sounds so genuinely excited that I can't help but laugh.
"You did. Only took five sacrificial nails to get there."
"Don't ruin my moment." But she's relaxing against me now, letting me guide her through another swing. "This is actually kind of satisfying."
"Wait until you learn to use a nail gun."
"Is that the thing that attacked Billy's thumb?"
"Allegedly. Though knowing Billy, his thumb probably attacked the nail gun." Another swing, another perfect nail. My mouth is right by her ear now, close enough that I can see the goose bumps rise on her neck despite the heat. "You're getting good at this.”
"I have a good teacher." Her voice has dropped to something softer, breathier.
"Just good?"
"Don't fish for compliments. It's unbecoming."
"Everything I do is becoming. Ask anyone."
