Page 61 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I'm thinking about feed. And minerals. And whatever horse cookies are."
"They're actually molasses treats," Asher explains. "Clara Mae calls them cookies because she thinks it's cute. She also calls the vet 'the horse doctor' and refuses to learn his actual name after fifteen years."
The Tractor Supply & Feed is exactly what I expected—big, dusty, and full of things I don't know the purpose of. There's an entire aisle dedicated to different types of rope, which makes me flash back to Trent trying to teach me to lasso and somehow ending up tangled against him. Another aisle of work gloves reminds me of Asher's hands guiding mine on the hammer. And the hay bales stacked by the entrance? Well, those just make me think of Gavin and activities that definitely shouldn't happen in public.
What I didn't expect was for everyone to stop and stare when we walk in.
The store goes quiet, like someone just announced the pope was here. Or maybe the antichrist. From the looks I'm getting, it could go either way.
Billy, on the other hand, thinks the attention is for him, and he smiles and glad-hands everyone he can reach.
"Kenzie!" Clara Mae's voice booms across the store like a foghorn. "Honey! Come here and let me look at you!"
She's standing by the register with what appears to be half the town's female population, all of them eyeing me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen at the zoo. The kind you're not sure if you should feed or run from.
"Ladies, you know Kenzie," Clara Mae announces unnecessarily, grabbing my arm and pulling me into their circle. "She's the one who inherited the Dusty Spur from dear Maybelle."
"And apparently everything that comes with it," one woman mutters, her eyes flicking between Gavin and Asher like she's calculating something on an invisible calculator. She's wearing pearls with her flannel shirt, which seems like mixed messages.
"Now, now, Doris," Clara Mae says, but her eyes are gleaming with mischief. "Don't be catty. Just because your husband looks like a potato doesn't mean you should be bitter about other people's good fortune."
"My Harold is a perfectly respectable-looking man," Doris huffs.
"If you're into potatoes," someone whispers, and there's muffled laughter.
"Now, honey," Clara Mae continues, ignoring thepotato debate, "we were just discussing the ranch. How are you settling in? Must be nice having all that help around the house."
The way she says "help" makes it clear we're not talking about ranch work. It's loaded with enough innuendo to sink a ship.
"It's fine," I manage, trying to edge away, but Clara Mae's grip is surprisingly strong for someone who claims to have arthritis whenever she doesn't want to anything heavier than a pie dish.
"Just fine?" Clara Mae's eyes gleam brighter. "A pretty young thing like you, living with three handsome cowboys, and it's just fine? Honey, if that's just fine, I'd hate to see what you call exciting."
"We're teaching her the business," Asher says smoothly, appearing at my elbow like a well-dressed guardian angel. But his hand finds the small of my back, possessive and warm.
"I'll bet you are." Clara Mae winks so dramatically, I'm worried she might pull a muscle. "So tell us, honey, which one's your favorite? Gavin with all that rodeo swagger? Asher with those pretty manners? Or Trent with that strong, silent thing that makes you wonder what he's thinking about?"
"I don't have a favorite," I say, probably too quickly and definitely too loudly.
"’Course not," another woman pipes up. She's younger, maybe early thirties, with the kind of bitterexpression that suggests life hasn't gone according to plan. "Why pick one when you can have all three?"
The group titters with laughter, and I want to sink into the floor. Or maybe set the store on fire. Either would be preferable to this.
"Ladies," Gavin says, turning on his famous charm, "you're embarrassing our Kenzie. She's not used to small-town curiosity."
"Our Kenzie?" Clara Mae pounces on that immediately, like a cat on a particularly juicy mouse. "Well, isn't that interesting. Whose Kenzie exactly?"
"Mine," Gavin and Asher say at the same time, then look at each other with expressions that are part amusement, part challenge.
"I'm no one's," I say firmly, extracting myself from Clara Mae's grip. "I'm my own person who happens to own a ranch and needs chicken feed. Speaking of which..."
I escape down the feed aisle, but I can hear them talking behind me, their voices carrying in that way that suggests they want me to hear.
"That girl's got her hands full."
"Or maybe the boys do."
"Did you see that mark on her neck? That wasn't from ranch work."
