Page 2 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Thirtydays? Did you saythirtydays? Orthreedays?" I laugh, but it comes out slightly hysterical. "I don't even camp. I consider it roughing it when a hotel doesn't have a spa. You want me to what—milk cows?"
Ohhell no.
"The dairy operation was discontinued in 2018," he says like that would make me feel better. "It's primarily a cattle ranch now. The current staff can assist with your transition."
Transition? Transition to what? Wearing plaid flannel shirts and Daisy Duke shorts? Hell, that's what I wore two Halloweens ago.
Andcurrent staff? Right. Because nothing says "welcome to your inheritance" like a bunch of strangers judging me for not knowing which end of a cow is which.
I snort. "When would I need to?—"
"Immediately, I'm afraid. The will stipulates you must take possession within seven days of notification."
I stand there on the sidewalk, holding my overpriced coffee and nearly dead phone, while some lawyer named Henry tells me I've inherited a whole-ass ranch. With cows. And hay. And thirty days of what will probably be my personal hell.
But also... two hundred acres. In this economy? That has to be worth something. Enough to save my company, pay off my credit cards, maybe even buy an apartment where the radiator doesn't sound like a death metal band.
"Ms. Rhodes? Are you still there?" Henry asks, probably praying I turn him down so the local cattle club, or whatever he called it, can swoop in and make his life easier.
"Yeah, I'm..." I catch my reflection in a store window—designer dress, Louboutin heels I snagged on sale, and hair that cost more to maintain than most people's car payments. "I'm thinking."
Which is a big fat lie. I already know what I’m doing. Because Kenzie Rhodes doesn't back down from a challenge, even if that challenge involves whatever the hell owning a ranch means.
"Send me the details," I say, already mentally making lists of what to pack. "I'll be there in three days."
Three days,two flights, and one rental car later, I am standing in a mud puddle.
Not next to a mud puddle. Not near a mud puddle.Ina mud puddle. One that has all but eaten my Jimmy Choo pump like it's offended by the fact that my shoes are from last season.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." I try to pull my foot free, but the mud slurps and sucks at my shoe, mocking me for even trying. That's when I realize my "country casual" sundress—so cute in the Bloomingdales' dressing room—is now splattered with mud as well.
Is this a trap, designed to teach me some sort of life lesson? I look around for cameras. They must be well-hidden.
The ranch, all two hundred acres of it, sprawls out in front of me like something from a movie, if that movie's about city girls who make terrible life choices. Mountains in the distance, actual tumbleweeds, and a collection of buildings that look like they've beenstanding since cowboys were an actual profession and not just a category on dating apps.
That's when I hear it. A sound that will haunt my dreams.
"BWAAACK!"
The demon appears from behind a fence post. I expected animals, obviously. Horses, cows, maybe some goats. But not a rooster the size of a turkey armed with the attitude of a serial killer.
It struts toward me with the confidence of something that's never lost a fight, its head bobbing like it's sizing me up for lunch. One of its eyes is slightly cloudy, which somehow makes it worse. Like it had seen some shit and lived to terrorize another day.
"Nice... chicken?" I try, still stuck in my mud trap. "Good chicken?"
It tilts its head, considering me with its one good eye, and lets out another ear-splitting crow that is definitely a warning.
So my first day on the ranch will also be my last. I could have just stayed in the big city where the biggest danger is getting run over by a speeding taxi cab. At least that kind of death would be quick. But being pecked to death by a grumpy chicken?
"Hey. Everything okay over here?"
The voice, accompanied by crunching footsteps, comes from behind me. The tone is deep and amused and most likely enjoying my predicament. I turn—well,try to turn, but the mud's not done with me yet—and nearly fall face-first into the puddle.
Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me. Strong, bare arms, because apparently shirts are optional at the Dusty Spur Ranch.
The man holding me is... well, the kind of problem I don't need right now with abs that could grate cheese, shoulders that belong in a "Men of Montana" calendar, and a smirk that says he knows exactly how good he looks standing there all shirtless and sweaty in his work-worn jeans.
Damn him.
