Page 1 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

I should assume the GPS is lying when it tells me to turn down a dirt road that looks like it hasn’t seen maintenance since the last ice age.

But after six hours of driving in the Montana heat wave with a broken air conditioner and a car that makes more noise than a dying whale, I’m desperate enough to follow Siri into the gates of hell if it means finding civilization.

What I find instead is a massive bull standing in the middle of this narrow dirt road, staring at my rental car as if I’ve personally offended him.

The beast is enormous, all rippling muscle under a hide so black it seems to absorb sunlight. His horns curve wickedly, and his tail swishes from side to side.

“Okay, big guy,” I say through the windshield, as if reasonable conversation will work on a two-thousand-pound animal with an attitude. “I just need to get past you. Can you move? ”

I squint into the distance and spot a weathered wooden sign that reads Wild Hearts Ranch .

Just beyond it stands a sprawling house—the kind you’d see in a Western soap opera, complete with a wide porch.

Well, credit where it’s due, the GPS got something right.

At least I’ve made it to the right place. That’s… something.

The bull snorts, drawing my attention back to him as he paws the ground, sending up little clouds of dust.

That’s when I honk the horn, and I regret it instantly.

The bull’s head shoots up. Eyes locked on me.

For one terrifying moment, we stare at each other through the windshield. His nostrils flare as he lowers his huge head.

“Oh, fuck!”

Then he charges.

I floor the gas pedal, hoping to swerve and speed past him, but the rental car’s tires hit the loose dirt and immediately lose traction. The wheel spins in my hands as the car fishtails wildly across the road.

I’m going too fast on ground that’s basically powdered dust, and my heart is in my throat. The car skids sideways, completely out of control, and I have just enough time to think that this is how I die, taken out by a furious bull in Montana.

The passenger side slams into a large oak tree by the side of the road.

I scream.

The impact throws me against the driver’s-side door, luckily not hitting my head, and the engine dies with a pathetic wheeze. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath. Holy shit. I almost died. Like, actually died.

I turn the key frantically, but all I get is a horrible clicking sound. “No, no, no!” Through the rear window, I see that the bull has found my car’s new location and is expressing his displeasure by charging back.

BANG!

He rams his horns into my trunk, sending the entire car into a shake with each impact. BANG . The rear window spider-webs. BANG . Something that sounds expensive falls off the undercarriage.

I scream again, gripping the door handle as I’m rattled around.

“Thank God I got the full insurance package with the rental company,” I mutter hysterically. “Shit!”

I have two choices: stay and become the filling in a car-bull sandwich, or make a run for it to the house about sixty feet away. Especially as there’s no one coming out to help with this psycho bull.

I glance at the house again, which is grand. Two full stories, wraparound porch, windows everywhere. It looks exactly like the photos the lawyer sent, only bigger. Older. Real. The kind of place that’s seen generations come and go, probably along with a few ghosts and a scandal or two.

Right now, it’s also my salvation.

So I grab my red handbag, say a quick prayer to whatever deity protects idiotic city girls from rural disasters, and bolt from the car.

Several fast steps toward the house and I glance back.

Big mistake. The bull’s head swivels toward me, those dark eyes locking on to mine like a heat-seeking missile. His muscles bunch.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I sprint across the yard, my flats slipping on loose gravel. Behind me, hoofbeats are thundering closer. My heart hammers so hard I think it might explode.

I hit the wooden steps at full speed, taking them two at a time.

My hand fumbles for the door handle. Please be unlocked, please be unlocked.

I throw myself against the front door, and it swings open.

A blast of loud country music hits me right as I tumble inside.

Something about whiskey, heartbreak, and boots stomping on gravel.

I spin and slam the door shut just as the bull crashes into the porch from outside.

Breathless, I stand there trembling. Shit, that was too close. And seriously, what the hell is wrong with that bull?

The loud music cuts out mid-lyric.

“Um, excuse me?” a woman’s voice asks behind me.

I snap around, still breathing hard. What I see makes me question whether I’ve hit my head in the crash .

Three men are positioned around a rustic living room, each one holding a tiny, fluffy kitten and wearing no shirt. Not just holding—posing.

Sweet baby Jesus.

One man sits in a leather armchair with an orange tabby kitten perched on his broad shoulder.

He has dirty-blond hair that’s short on the sides but longer on top, falling across his forehead in that perfectly messy way that probably takes effort.

His blue eyes study me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

When he tilts his head, I notice the slight crook in his nose.

Another leans against the grand staircase rail, cradling a black-and-white kitten like it’s made of spun glass.

This one is built like a mountain, with auburn hair that drapes to his shoulders and a black cowboy hat perched on his head.

Lord, those shoulders could probably bench-press my rental car.

The third kneels on the floor with a gray kitten tucked against his chest, his expression as serious as death.

Dark brown hair trimmed short except for the front, which falls over one eye in a way that should look ridiculous but instead looks unfairly attractive.

He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man.

Add to that the most beautiful mocha-colored eyes.

Plus, so many muscles that I’m unsure of where to look. Who are these gorgeous men?

The loud grunt outside me echoes in my ears, and that’s when the guy with the black-and-white kitten moves fast. He tucks the cat gently under an arm and strides to the door, then opens it just a crack, peers outside, and closes it again.

“It’s Jack’s bull,” he states, giving a small nod to the others. “He’s not hurt.”

Not hurt?

“I almost died,” I blurt out, still breathless. “That thing chased me across the yard like I owed him money.”

“Who are you, and why are you interrupting my shoot?” A woman with purple hair buzzed short on one side stands in the center of it all, surrounded by enough camera equipment to shoot a movie. She has one hand on her hip, cinching in her blue floral dress.

The porch shudders again behind me, reminding me why I’m here. “As you now know, there’s a crazy bull outside trying to murder me, and your muscular models are holding kittens. I think we’re past normal social conventions here.”

She tilts her head to the side, deadpanning me. “Honey, these are real cowboys, not models. Plus, this is a calendar shoot for the local animal shelter,” the woman says with exaggerated patience. “ Cowboys and Kittens—Adopt Love . We’re already three hours behind schedule.”

The man with the orange kitten shifts in his chair, a smile curling on his lips. Is it suddenly burning hot in this room?

“Ma’am? Are you injured?” The one with the gray kitten stands slowly, and sweet mother of pearl, he’s even taller than I thought.

“Only my dignity,” I manage, trying not to stare at the way his abs move when he breathes. “And possibly my rental car. That bull, Brutus or whatever he’s called, wasn’t interested in negotiations.”

The mountain who checked outside is patting his kitten, remaining by the door. “The owner just calls him ‘Bull,’ but ‘Brutus’ seems more fitting. And he normally doesn’t come out of his pasture.”

“Well, he made an exception for me. I’m honored. Really. It’s not every day you get personally victimized by livestock.”

They all laugh—well, except the photographer, who is still eyeing me like she wants to kill me.

The third cowboy, still seated with his orange kitten, has eyes that seem to see right through me. “You lost? It’s not often we have gorgeous women burst into the house.”

Wait, did he just call me gorgeous ?

“I was looking for Wild Hearts Ranch. And I guess I found it.” I glance around the open hall, taking in the polished wood floors and exposed beams, but this isn’t some rustic shack. It’s expensive, and it shows.

The room is massive, with a high ceiling and a sweeping staircase that curves up one side like something out of an old Western mansion. The hallway branches off in both directions, leading to other rooms.

Sunlight filters through big windows in the nearby room I can see into, framed by heavy navy curtains. A bronze chandelier hangs above us. There’s a coatrack by the door with actual cowboy hats hanging from it and, yes, a pair of spurs.

It’s not flashy; it’s intentional.

“You’re at the right place,” the man with the orange kitten says, his deep voice raising the hairs on my arms in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

But has everything to do with attraction.

I normally don’t react to Alphas this way, this quickly.

Yet, these men are pure Alphas. That much is clear in their appearance, their voices, even the way they stand and stare at me.

“Question is, what are you doing here?” he continues.

Before I can answer, the porch gives another ominous thud, and I step farther away from it.

“I think Brutus might have other plans for me,” I say weakly.

The three men exchange looks. Then the tall one with the gray kitten steps forward.

“Here,” he explains, gently transferring the tiny ball of fluff to my arms. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m suddenly juggling three adorably soft kittens as the other two cowboys deposit their furry charges on me as well.

“Wait, what?—”

But they’re already grabbing lassos from hooks by the door. Then they rush outside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind them.

“This is exactly why I don’t normally work with animals or children!” the photographer mutters, throwing up her hands.

I stand there, trying not to drop any kittens while simultaneously trying not to openly drool over three shirtless cowboys preparing to wrangle a bull.

The orange kitten is attempting to climb me, the gray one purrs against my chest like a tiny motor, and the black-and-white one seems content to bat at my hair.

“So, does this happen often?” I ask, because apparently my mouth works independently of my brain.

“Which part? The bull attacks, the ruined photo shoots, or random women falling through the door?”

The orange kitten makes it to my shoulder and promptly gets tangled in my hair. “All of the above?”

“Welcome to Wild Hearts Ranch,” she says dryly. “Where chaos is just another word for Tuesday.”

Through the gap in the door, I study the three men approaching the bull, who’s back on the dirt road. I can’t hear what they’re saying from this distance, but the one with dark hair is making slow gestures with his hands while apparently having a full conversation with Brutus.

The one with auburn hair takes the lead, twirling his rope before sending it flying. It lands around Brutus’s thick neck, and the bull loses it, bucking and twisting like a demon possessed.

I gasp, clutching the kittens tighter against me, one of them meowing loudly.

The other two cowboys come in from the sides, ropes snapping through the air. Within seconds, they’ve got the bull triangulated, muscles straining as they hold him steady.

I can’t stop staring.

They’re all shirtless, just jeans, boots, sun-drenched skin, and pure focus. Dirt kicks up around them, sweat gleaming on their backs as they wrestle with an actual monster like it’s just another day.

How are they not terrified? That thing nearly killed me.

The bull releases a furious grunt, hooves tearing into the dirt, but they hold their ground, tension in every muscle I can see. And somehow, unbelievably, they win. Brutus finally calms, sides heaving, as they guide him down the road like it’s no big deal.

I blink. Did that actually just happen?

“Impressive,” I admit.

“They’re good at what they do,” the photographer mutters while she packs up some of her camera equipment. “Been running this place for years now. I’m Belle, by the way. And you are?”

“Sophia Hollis. Believe it or not, I’m actually supposed to be here. I inherited this place from Rose Martinez’s grandson.”

Belle’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly hit her purple hairline. “Oh, this is going to be interesting.”

My shoulders pull back at her loaded tone. “Why do you say it like that? ”

“Because those three out there? They think this ranch is theirs. They had some agreement with Rose about buying it after working here for five years. And, well, she passed before the five years were up.”

My stomach drops. “But… it was left to me. I have the paperwork.”

“Well then, honey, you’re about to have one hell of an awkward conversation.”