Page 76 of My Cowboy Trouble
"About Kenzie?"
"About a lot of things."
"But mostly Kenzie." He walks over, clapping me on the shoulder. "Join the club, brother. We're all fucked when it comes to her."
"She's leaving in nineteen days."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He grins. "Trent's working on something."
"What?"
"You'll see. But let's just say our boy's finally ready to fight for what he wants."
"And what he wants is Kenzie?"
"What we all want is Kenzie. The question is, what does Kenzie want?"
I think about this morning, about her saying she might miss this, about the way she looked at me like I was worth keeping too. About the desperation in her kiss, like she was trying to memorize the feeling.
"I think she wants to stay but doesn't know how."
"Then we show her how. We make it impossible for her to leave." Gavin starts walking toward the house. "Whatever it takes."
"That's kidnapping, Gavin."
"That's love, Asher. And if you can't tell the difference, you're not doing it right."
He's got a point. The line between love and insanity has always been thin. And when it comes to Kenzie Rhodes, I'm willing to cross it.
But as I follow him back to the house, I can't shake the feeling that love might not be enough. That nineteen days will pass in a blink, and she'll leave, and we'll all be left with nothing but memories and what-ifs.
The Johnsons taught me that sometimes love isn't enough to make someone stay.
But maybe, just maybe, this time is different. Maybe this time, the broken kid from foster care actually gets to keep something good.
Nineteen days to convince her to stay. Nineteen days to show her this is home. Nineteen days to prove that sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never planned for.
Game on.
11
KENZIE
I'm alreadyelbow-deep in mucking out Thunder's stall when Trent appears in the barn doorway at exactly five-forty-five a.m., coffee mug in hand, looking like he's about to deliver bad news or a lecture on proper manure distribution techniques. Possibly both.
He stops dead when he sees me, his eyebrow doing that little twitch thing that means his carefully ordered world has been disrupted by something as catastrophic as me being early. Or on time. Or existing, really.
"You're working," he says, like he's announcing that I've spontaneously developed superpowers.
"Astute observation." I lean on the pitchfork, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I'vebeen at this for an hour, and Thunder's stall is almost pristine. Well, as pristine as a place where a thousand-pound animal shits can be. "Some of us don't need a detailed schedule to be productive."
"It's not even six."
"I'm aware of the time, Trent. I have a functioning brain and a working watch." I gesture to my wrist, where my Apple Watch is currently telling me I've already burned 200 calories and taken 3,000 steps. "Amazing how that works."
He takes a sip of his coffee, studying me like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve. "Couldn't sleep again?"
"Gavin snores. Asher talks in his sleep. And you—" I point the pitchfork at him, "—you pace. All night. Back and forth like a caged animal. The floorboards in this house are old, Trent. They creak. Loudly."
