Page 7 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Ranch time runs different, darlin'," I tell her. "Ten minutes means five, five means now, and now means you're already fucked."
She chugs the rest of her coffee like it's a shot of tequila, slams the mug down, and storms toward the door. "This is insane. You're all insane. This whole place is?—"
She stops dead in the doorway. Because Trent's standing there, six-foot-three-inches of disapproval, looking at Kenzie's bare legs like they personally offend him.
"You're late," he says. "And you're not dressed."
"I was just?—"
"Barn. Five minutes. Dressed." He turns and walks away, but not before I catch him taking one more look at those legs.
Interesting.
Kenzie makes a noise that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper, then disappears upstairs. The sound of stomping and creative cursing filters down through theceiling.
"She's not gonna last the week," Asher says, smiling. "Shame. She's nice to look at."
"Eh, I don’t know. She's tougher than she looks." I don't know why I defend her. Maybe because I recognize a fighter when I see one. Or maybe because I'd love to see Trent eat his know-it-all words.
"Want to make it interesting?" Asher pulls out his ever-present deck of cards. "Hundred bucks says she's gone by Friday."
"We already got a bet going, man," I say.
He shrugs. "Yeah, but we know how that one's gonna end. She'll be gone before thirty days. But I'm saying she'll be gone this week. The skid marks her little Ford rental car leaves behind will be legendary. Dude, we'll be laughing about this for years to come."
Christ, we're dicks. "You're on." We shake on it, and I head out to watch the show.
By the timeI get to the barn, Trent's got Kenzie standing in front of a wheelbarrow full of horse shit, explaining the finer points of stall mucking like it's rocket science.
She's changed into jeans that hug her ass like they were painted on and a tank top that's already got sweat stains. Her fancy boots—they have fucking fringe on them—are planted in the dirt like she's trying to grow roots.
"You want to get under it," Trent's saying, demonstrating with a pitchfork. "Scoop and toss. It's all in the wrist."
"That's what she said," I call out, because someone has to lighten the mood.
Kenzie snorts out a laugh before she can stop herself. Trent's jaw tightens.
"Gavin, don't you have horses to exercise?"
"They can wait. This is more entertaining."
Kenzie picks up a pitchfork like it might bite her, attempts Trent's "scoop and toss" motion, and sends a chunk of manure flying. Right onto Trent's boots.
"Sorry! Shit, I mean—sorry about the shit on your?—"
"Just keep practicing," Trent says through gritted teeth, looking like he's praying for patience. Or planning a murder. "I'll be back in an hour to check your progress."
He stalks off, probably to find something to punch, leaving me with a red-faced city girl holding a pitchfork like a weapon.
"He hates me," she says.
"Nah. That's just his face. You should see him when he's really pissed."
She attacks the stall with newfound determination, flinging shit around like she's got a personal vendetta against it. Which, knowing Trent, she probably does.
That's when Sir Clucks-a-Lot decides to make his morning rounds.
The rooster struts into the barn like he owns it—which, let's be honest, he kind of does—and fixes his one good eye on Kenzie. She freezes mid-scoop.
