Page 4 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

I stumble out of the lawyer’s office like someone just told me Santa isn’t real and I owe them months of back rent.

Three months.

Three fucking months in Montana with cowboys who probably want to lasso me off their property.

The afternoon sun hits Front Street beautifully. Everything glows golden, the vintage lampposts with their hanging flower baskets overflowing with petunias, the brick storefronts with hand-painted signs, the mountains in the distance looking like God’s own screen saver.

“Get it together, Sophia,” I mutter. I survived Chicago rush hour for years. I can handle a few cowboys and a ranch. Then I sigh, feeling slightly lost on how to handle this.

That’s when the sweet, buttery scent of cinnamon finds me.

My stomach growls in betrayal, reminding me I’ve skipped both breakfast and lunch in my rush to get to the town of Honeyspur Meadow.

I turn around, and across the main street, nestled between The Dust Jacket Bookshop and Sweetwater Creek Realty, sits the Wildflower Bakehouse & Café.

I wait for a pickup truck to rumble past, then cross the quiet road like I’m on a mission from the carb gods.

The window display is pornographic. I’m talking full-on, should-be-illegal levels of baked seduction.

Croissants so flaky you can see the layers from outside.

Cupcakes topped with buttercream roses. A chocolate cake coated in shiny ganache.

And there, front and center, a tray of Portuguese custard tarts with their signature burnt edges, calling my name like sirens.

A little bell chimes as I push open the door and step into what can only be described as carbohydrate heaven.

The interior is all warm wood and mismatched vintage tables, with mason jar lights hanging from exposed beams. A chalkboard menu stretches across one wall in looping script, and the display case, sweet mother of pastry, is even more glorious up close.

“First time?” comes a soft female voice from behind the counter.

The woman speaking has flour in her straight, dark hair and a dusting of powdered sugar on her cheek.

Her apron is a rainbow of patches, cats, and one suspiciously bedazzled donut.

She wears a cherry-print blouse buttoned all the way up.

She looks my age, in all honesty, around twenty-four years old.

Her name tag reads “Kitty,” and somehow that tracks more than it should.

“You’ve been staring at my tarts like they hold the secrets of the universe,” she says, tilting her head.

“Is it that obvious I’m drooling over them?”

She nods sagely. “We’ve had priests, brides, and a biker gang cry over that tart tray. You’re in good company.”

“They might hold the secrets,” I say seriously. “Can I get two of those and a latte, half vanilla, half hazelnut? I’ll have them here.”

“A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” Kitty snatches a pair of tongs. “You’re the city girl, aren’t you? Here about the Martinez ranch?”

I blink. “How did you?—”

“Small town, sweetie. Plus, Belle swung past here earlier to pick up some pastries. If this town loves anything more than rodeos, it’s gossip.” She giggles as she plops the tarts onto a delicate china plate with painted violets.

The espresso machine hisses as Kitty works her magic. In moments, she slides over a latte with a flawless rosetta in the foam, like she just casually moonlights as a latte art champion.

I carry my goodies to a small table by the front window, the view overlooking the old town road where the occasional car rolls by and locals wander past in no particular hurry.

My table has a single bud vase holding a daisy and a tiny crocheted doily that someone’s grandmother probably made.

The chair creaks as I sit, but it’s the kind of creak that says Welcome , not You’re about to die .

The first bite of tart is a religious experience. I moan, sinking into my seat.

The custard is silky and just sweet enough, with a surprising hint of lemon that tastes perfect with the caramelized edges.

It’s not what I expected, but it’s a twist I didn’t know I needed.

The pastry shatters at the slightest pressure from my fingers, flaky, buttery deliciousness that makes my eyes flutter closed.

“Oh my God,” I groan, not caring who hears me. “I might survive three months here after all.”

Kitty beams from behind the counter. “My grandmother’s recipe. She always said good pastry could solve half the world’s problems.”

“And the other half?”

“Good tequila.” She grins widely.

She wipes her hands on a flour-dusted apron, then leans an elbow on the counter, eyeing me with open curiosity. “So, you’re staying in town for three months? That’s exciting.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You fishing for info for the rumor mill?” I tease.

Kitty laughs, utterly unbothered. “You walked into Honeyspur. We trade stories faster than we trade pies. ”

“Well, if I get these tarts every day, it’s probably worth it.”

Kitty chuckles. “Careful. They’ve been known to cause addiction.”

I laugh and lean back in my chair, already reaching for the second tart. “I can tell.”

Her gaze flicks toward the window, and she lowers her voice just a bit. “You know, most of the women in this town have been trying to catch the eyes of those Wild Hearts boys for years.”

I blink. “Really?”

She gives me a slow, meaningful nod. “Mm-hmm. But none of them ever stuck. Those guys are the kind who know what they want, and I guess no one’s been good enough yet.”

Something in the way she says it makes goose bumps rise on my arms. Not a warning exactly, just a quiet truth.

“Lucky me,” I murmur, half to myself, half to the custard tart, which is suddenly the safest thing to look at.

I’m halfway through the tart, sipping my latte and watching the town move like a live-action snow globe, minus the snow, when a familiar figure across the street catches my eye.

Cash.

My stomach does a wild somersault. He’s standing there with that same quiet confidence, one hand on his hip, casually scrolling through his phone, completely unaware that he and his pack brothers broke my brain this morning just by existing shirtless.

That image is burned into my memory in high definition, and no amount of caffeine is going to blur it out.

I straighten in my seat, realizing that I’ll be living at the same ranch as these men. For three months. With nowhere to hide.

My brain tells me to look away. My body pretends it doesn’t speak the language.

Of course he’s here. Of course I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I’ll be staring at that jawline for the next three months. Someone really should’ve put a warning label on this whole situation.

He’s now leaning against the entrance to Santos Rodriguez’s Feed Store, and even from here I can tell his jeans should be classified as a public safety hazard. Then he turns the phone screen toward an older man working there. They both glance at it… then look straight at the café.

Straight at me.

“Shit,” I mutter, ducking behind my latte like a coward and praying Kitty’s foam art is thick enough to block their line of sight.

Nope.

Cash says something to the man, pockets his phone, and starts crossing the street with that infuriatingly confident cowboy walk that makes my ovaries threaten to unionize.

The bell over the bakery door chimes, and suddenly the air feels ten degrees hotter.

“City girl,” he drawls, touching the brim of an imaginary hat like he’s in a spaghetti Western. “Fancy meeting you at this café.”

“It’s a small town,” I reply, trying not to gape at how stupid good he looks in that fitted Henley. “Fancy meeting anyone anywhere.”

His grin spreads, lazy and lethal. “Fair point. Mind if I join you?”

Yes. No. Maybe. My brain stutters like a dial-up connection.

“Free country,” I manage.

Built like a linebacker, he slides into the chair across from me. The guy is huge. And his eyes aren’t just blue but the color of morning glories after a storm, his jawline sharp. Someone can fall so easily staring at that face.

Cash leans back in his seat, his chair creaking slightly beneath his weight. “So… how’d it go with Ben?”

I swirl my latte, lowering my attention to the foam losing its pattern. I should ease into telling him, give him the news gently.

Instead, the words come rushing out. “I can’t sell the ranch right away.”

He lifts one brow. “Come again?”

“The lawyer said… to inherit it, I have to live on the property. For three months.” I take a gulp of my coffee li ke it might drown the nerves clawing up my throat. “If I don’t, it goes to some cousin of Nolan’s I’ve never even met.”

Cash frowns. “Ronan Blackwood,” he hisses.

I blink. “You know him?”

“A little. That man’s about as welcome in these parts as a rattlesnake at a square dance.” He scratches his jaw. “So you’re staying, then?”

“I guess I’m going to be a nuisance.” I laugh, but it comes out a little tight. “Definitely not the plan. I work online, so I can do my job from anywhere, but I didn’t exactly pack for ranch life. And now I’m crashing at your home for three months.” My breaths are rushing.

He just watches me for a beat, then says, “We’ve got plenty of space at the ranch.

No one’s asking you to sleep in the hayloft, unless you’re partial to mice and itchy blankets.

” He grins, and my chest tightens at the sight, that small dimple in his chin, the slight peek of teeth. God, who is this man?

I huff a laugh.

“As long as you’re fine living with the three of us,” he adds, “you’re welcome to stay. It’s been our home for over four years now, but it’s still Rose’s house at heart. And if she wanted you there, that’s good enough for me.”

Something hot and awkward crawls into my chest. “I mean, I would never ask you to move out. I—” I fumble with my tart plate, nearly sending flaky crumbs everywhere. “But also, it wasn’t Rose who left it to me, but her grandson. I guess he never updated his will after she passed.”