Page 95 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Good work," he says simply.
Two words. That's all. But the way he says them, like he means it, like he's genuinely proud of me, makes me feel like I just conquered Everest.
"Thanks," I manage, trying not to let my voice show how much his approval means to me.
"Remind me to put you in charge of all supplier negotiations from now on," he adds with what might be the ghost of a smile. "Could save us a fortune in expedite fees."
Before I can respond, Gavin appears at my elbow with an apple, one of the good ones from the tree behind the house, not the slightly bruised ones we usually feed to the horses.
"For the conquering hero," he says, tossing it to me with a grin that's different from his usual cocky smirk. This one is genuine, warm, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes. "You earned it."
I catch the apple, surprised by the gesture. It's such a small thing, but somehow it feels significant. Like acceptance. Like recognition that I'm not just playing at being a ranch hand anymore, like I'm actually contributing something valuable.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it for more than just the apple.
"Thank you," Gavin replies, and something in hisvoice tells me he knows exactly what I'm thanking him for.
Trent is already walking away, moving on to the next item on his mental list of ranch tasks, but I catch him glancing back at me over his shoulder. There's something different in his expression now. Something that looks like he's seeing me in a new light.
Billy bounds off to continue whatever he does when he's not being helpful, leaving me and Gavin alone by the fence.
"You know what this means, don't you?" Gavin asks, leaning against the post we just finished repairing.
"That I've successfully mastered the art of creative truth-telling?"
"That you stopped waiting for permission to be useful." He tilts his head, studying me. "In the beginning, you would have called Trent the minute there was a problem. Waited for him to come back and fix it for you."
"In the beginning, I didn't know how to fix anything myself."
"No, in the beginning, you didn't believe you could fix anything yourself. There's a difference." He pushes off from the fence. "Now, you see a problem and you solve it. No hesitation, no self-doubt. Just pure determination and creative problem-solving."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's ranch life, princess. Welcome to the club."
He starts to walk away, then turnsback. "Oh, and, Kenzie? Next time you need to bullshit a delivery driver, maybe don't do it in front of Billy. Kid's got a mouth on him."
"Noted."
As he disappears around the corner of the barn, I stand there for a moment, apple in hand, thinking about what just happened. About Trent's nod of approval, Gavin's genuine smile, the way they both treated me like I'd done something worth recognizing.
A couple weeks ago, I was drowning in coffee shop chaos, panicking about clients I couldn't please and bills I couldn't pay. Now, I'm successfully negotiating feed deliveries and earning approval from men whose good opinion I really want.
When did that happen? When did their approval start mattering to me? When did fitting in here become more important than succeeding in the life I left behind?
I take a bite of the apple—it's perfect, crisp and sweet and still warm from the afternoon sun—and head toward the house. There's something satisfying about the taste, about the simple pleasure of fruit earned through honest work and creative problem-solving.
Something satisfying about belonging somewhere enough to earn the good apples instead of settling for the bruised ones.
The house isempty when I walk in, which is unusual. Normally, at least someone is in the kitchen, either grabbing a snack or starting to think about dinner. But tonight, there's just silence and the fading afternoon light streaming through the windows.
I should probably start thinking about dinner myself. Figure out what we've got in the fridge, maybe attempt something more complicated than sandwiches or scrambled eggs. I've been gradually taking over more of the cooking duties, partly because I'm good at it and partly because watching grown men try to create nutritionally balanced meals is depressing.
But instead of heading to the kitchen, I find myself drawn to the living room. To the big windows that look out over the pasture, where I can see the cattle moving in slow, lazy patterns as the day cools down. There's something peaceful about it, watching them graze and mill around without any particular urgency. It's the kind of peace I never found in the city, where everything was always moving, always urgent, always demanding immediate attention.
I sink into the old leather chair that's become my favorite spot—the one with the perfect view of the mountains and the sunset. The apple is still in my hand, forgotten for the moment as I try to process the events of the day.
This morning, I woke up in a bed I don't technically own, in a house that's not technically mine, on a ranch I inherited from a woman I barely knew. This afternoon,I had sex with three men in a tack room like it was the most natural thing in the world. An hour ago, I conned a delivery driver into unloading feed without payment and got praised for it by men whose approval has somehow become essential to my sense of self-worth.
