Page 92 of My Cowboy Trouble
"And what makes me happy," I tell them, "is all of you. Together. Not competing with each other but working together. Can you do that?"
They exchange glances, some kind of silent communication happening that I can't quite read. But that's okay. These guys have been together long enough to understand each other.
"We can try," Trent says finally.
"We can do better than try," Gavin adds, his hand finding mine. "We can actually do it."
"Good," I say, settling back down against Trent's chest. "Because I'm not going anywhere, and I refuse to spend the next however many days mediating your testosterone-fueled pissing contests."
"However many days?" Asher asks, and there's something careful in his voice. "Have we finally stopped counting?"
"Until the thirty days are up," I clarify, though the words feel strange in my mouth. Is it twenty days or ten days? I've lost track, but I remember when it used to feel like forever. Now it feels like no time at all.
"Right," Trent says, but his arms tighten around me.
We should probably get up. Get dressed. Get back to work. But none of us seems inclined to move, and I'm not about to be the one to break this moment.
Because this—lying here with all three of them,feeling completely satisfied and utterly content—this is what happiness feels like. And I'm not ready to let it go.
Not yet.
Two hours later,I'm standing in the yard arguing with a delivery driver who apparently thinks "prepayment" means "I get to hold your feed hostage until someone produces a credit card."
"Look, sir," I say, channeling every ounce of professional patience I've ever possessed, "I understand your company policy, but the ranch owner is currently off-property dealing with a veterinary emergency. I'm authorized to accept delivery and arrange payment."
"Lady, I don't care if you're the Queen of England. No prepayment, no feed." The driver, whose name tag reads "Earl," crosses his arms and leans against his truck like he's settling in for a long siege.
This is exactly the kind of situation that would have sent me into a panic a few days ago. I would have called Trent in a frenzy, or ended up paying with my own credit card just to make the problem go away. But ranch life has taught me a few things about negotiation. And dealing with stubborn cowboys taught me that sometimes you have to get creative.
"I completely understand your position, Earl," I say, pulling out my phone. "You're just following companypolicy. It's not your fault your dispatcher didn't communicate that this delivery was already paid for."
"It wasn't paid for," Earl protests.
"Are you sure?" I tap my phone screen like I'm checking something important. "Because according to my records, payment was processed at eight-forty-seven this morning via the automated system. Confirmation number..." I rattle off a random string of numbers. "Would you like me to call your dispatch and have them verify?"
Earl looks uncertain for the first time. "That's... I don't have any record of any payment."
"Well, that's concerning. Either your system isn't updating properly, or there's been some kind of error on your end." I shake my head sympathetically. "I'd hate for this to reflect poorly on your performance metrics. You know how corporate gets about delivery delays."
"I... what?"
Perfect. He's taking the bait.
"Oh, I'm sure it's just a technical glitch. These things happen all the time with the newer automated payment systems. The important thing is that we get this sorted out so you can complete your delivery on schedule." I pause, as if considering something. "Tell you what—why don't we compromise? You go ahead and unload the feed, I'll get you a receipt showing the payment confirmation, and if there's any issue, I'll personally ensure it gets resolved with your supervisor. That way, you're not held responsible for any system errors."
Earl hesitates, clearly weighing his options. "I don't know..."
"Look, Earl, between you and me?" I lower my voice conspiratorially. "I used to work in corporate logistics. I know how these things go. You're damned if you do, damned if you don't. But if you complete the delivery and there's documentation showing payment was processed, you're covered. If you refuse delivery and it turns out the payment went through? That's a customer service nightmare that's going to land squarely on your head."
I can see the moment he cracks. The fear of retribution is stronger than his adherence to policy.
"Alright," he says slowly. "But I need something in writing."
"Absolutely." I'm already pulling out a receipt book from my back pocket, a little trick I learned from watching Trent handle supplier issues. "I'll write up a delivery confirmation with the payment reference number. That should cover you if anyone asks questions. I'll add my cell phone number too just in case." I look at him with a little smile.
As Earl starts unloading the feed, I scribble out a professional-looking receipt, complete with official-sounding language about "payment processed via automated systems" and "delivery completed per customer request." It's complete bullshit, but it looks legitimate enough to satisfy a nervous truck driver.
"There you go," I say, handing him the receipt. "Alldocumented. Your dispatcher might want to look into the system glitch, though. Can't have payments going missing in the system."
