Page 3 of My Cowboy Trouble
"You must be the new owner," he says, not letting go of me even though I am technically stable now. "Gavin Slade. I run the horse operation."
"Hello, Gavin. I'm Kenzie Rhodes." I try for dignified, which is hard when one shoe is being held hostage and a mean rooster is circling you like you’re in a boxing ring. "And if I may say so, Gavin, you're enjoying this way too much."
"Maybe a little." His grin widens as he looks me up and down, taking in my dress, my trapped shoe, and what I'm sure is my general air of city-girl panic. "Need a hand?"
I hold my chin up. "I need a lot of things. A shower. A drink. My shoe back from this puddle that's apparently the gateway to hell."
He laughs—actually laughs—then bends down and pulls my foot free with embarrassing ease. Myshoe, however, stays behind, claimed by the mud gods.
"That's a sacrifice to the ranch now," he says, straightening up. "Dusty Spur demands payment from all newcomers."
I make a mental note to come back and get it in the middle of the night. "It can have the shoe," I say breezily. "I'm keeping my soul."
"We'll see about that." He picks up my suitcase—Kate Spade, naturally—and seems to deliberately drop it. Right into another mud puddle. "Oops."
I screech. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"Welcome to ranch life, princess." He winks—actually winks—and starts walking toward the main house. "Better keep up. Sir Clucks-a-Lot gets aggressive around feeding time."
I look back at the demon rooster, now pecking at my abandoned Jimmy Choo like it might actually fight him back.
Thirty days. I just have to survive thirty days.
The insideof the main house is actually... nice. Not New York penthouse nice, but there's a certain rustic charm to its exposed beams and stone fireplace. It smells like leather and coffee and something distinctly masculine that makes me aware I'm probably the first woman to step foot in here since Aunt Maybelle died.
"You planning to work in those?"
Another voice floats over me, this one smooth as aged whiskey. I turn to find guy number two leaning against the doorframe, some kind of huge sack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. Where Gavin is all cocky grins and obvious trouble, this one's different—lazy smile, knowing eyes, the kind of casual confidence that says he doesn't need to try. And knows it.
"I have boots," I blurt as he continues to stare at my one high-heeled shoe.
Yeah, I have boots. With fringe. And heels. Made of some sort of exotic leather that may or may not be legal.
Probably not what he means.
"Yeah, I'm sure you do." He sets down the sack and extends a hand. "Asher Holt. I handle the business side of things. Negotiations, contracts, making sure Gavin doesn't sell the horses for magic beans."
"That was one time," Gavin calls from somewhere deep in the house.
Asher's handshake is firm, warm, and lasts about two seconds longer than necessary. "You're prettier than your aunt."
"She was eighty-seven."
"Still true." His thumb brushes my palm as he lets go. "I'll show you to your room. Unless you're planning to bunk with one of us? Save on heating costs?"
"In your dreams."
"Every night, darlin'."
A door slams somewhere, and suddenly the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. Not literally, but the man who walks in is all presence and barely controlled irritation.
"You're late," he barks.
Well then. This must be Trent. He looks like responsibility and hard work had gotten together and had a very unhappy baby. Broad shoulders, calloused hands, and a jaw that could cut glass. Also, he's looking at me like I'm personally responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to him.
"My flight was actually early?—"
"I meant late to work. Chores started two hours ago." He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. A list. A long list. In very neat handwriting. "You can start with the chickens."
