Page 5 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

“Then maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” he says, lifting one shoulder. “One of my foster dads used to say, ‘If the gate swings shut, check your boots and climb the fence.’?”

I blink. “That… actually makes sense. Anyway, my plan is to sell the ranch to you three, but I guess we need to wait three months.”

He smiles again, nothing judgy behind his expression, and heat skitters across my skin. “So, you from Chicago, then, Sophia?”

“Born and raised,” I say with a wry smile. “Shocking, I know. Guess I’ll be getting very familiar with Montana real soon.”

“It ain’t the worst kind of strange.”

“I’ll let you know.”

He chuckles, then glances toward Kitty, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop while wiping the counter in tight little circles.

“My usual, Kitty?” he calls.

She perks up, her grin downright devilish. “Already got it started, sweetheart.”

He looks back at me, and I try not to gape.

Okay. So he has a usual here. He has a smile that could melt steel.

And Kitty said all the women in town would kill for a chance with him and his friends.

Why haven’t they picked someone? Are they impossible to please?

Or is there something deeper, something none of the town gossips know?

Someone walks into the café, sending a flurry of air inside and, with it, smothers me in Cash’s scent.

Fresh sage, strong coffee, old leather. It’s not overwhelming, but it settles low in my belly, and something deep inside stirs and stretches like it’s been asleep for years.

I shift in my seat, heat flushing my neck.

He grabs his coffee from Kitty, who winks at me as he turns. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll give you a lift back. Sun dips behind those mountains, the temperature’ll drop faster than gossip at a funeral.”

I finish my tart in two bites, draining the last of my latte as Kitty gives me an exaggerated eyebrow waggle. I try not to laugh but end up giggling like a fool anyway. “Thanks again,” I say, following him out.

“Hey!” Kitty calls, hurrying over with a white paper bag printed with her logo, the sides puffed out like it’s about to burst. “Packed you a few pastries for later just in case you need a little sugar to survive ranch life.” She flashes a smile so warm it softens something in my chest. I already like her.

Outside, the breeze is cooler, brushing my cheeks and setting the bakery sign to swaying. We walk down the sidewalk toward where his truck is parked, our footsteps falling into an easy rhythm.

As we pass the post office, something catches my eye. A hand-painted billboard near the window, bright and cheerful with a slice of apple pie nearly the size of my head.

Honeyspur Meadow’s Annual Pie Festival. Enter. Eat. Judge. Repeat.

I grin to myself. I’ve officially stepped into a cowboy movie, and now there’s pie.

Cash’s truck is big and black, with chrome accents that catch the fading sunlight and a dusting of country roads clinging to the wheels. He opens the passenger door for me like it’s second nature, and I hate how much I like that.

“Thanks,” I mumble, climbing in.

When he gets in beside me, the cab fills with his scent all over again, stronger now, warmer.

My breath hitches while I watch his nostrils flare, as I assume he is now catching mine.

Something about the look in his eyes makes my pulse skitter…

but then he reaches over and rolls his window halfway down without a word.

Oh.

Right.

Subtle.

Clear.

Not interested.

Got it.

I fold my hands in my lap and try not to die inside.

We drive in silence for a stretch, the mountains casting long shadows across the valley as the sun starts to dip. The road is mostly empty, just us and the hum of the tires .

“So,” he says finally, eyes still on the road. “You said earlier that Rose’s grandson left you the ranch?”

I hesitate. “Yeah. Nolan.”

He glances at me briefly. “Your Alpha?”

“He was,” I admit.

A long pause.

“I’m real sorry,” he says softly. “Losing your Alpha… that kind of pain sticks.”

I stare out the side window, watching the trees blur past. “It wasn’t like that. Nolan and I weren’t true scent matches. We tried. It just… never clicked.”

I remember one night, one last try. The way he pulled away like I’d burned him, frustration and apology all tangled on his face. I swallowed the lump in my throat then, like I do now.

“It was more about expectations,” I murmur. “His family wanted it. Mine encouraged it. And I stayed, thinking I should. But I don’t want to be someone’s obligation. I want to live by my own rules. Even if it means figuring everything out from scratch.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Well, sometimes the map’s wrong, but the trail’s still worth walkin’.”

I smile despite myself. “That one’s actually pretty good.”

We turn off the main road onto a wide gravel lane framed by two open iron gates, the words Wild Hearts Ranch welded across the top in curved lettering that’s seen a few Montana winters.

As the truck rumbles forward, I catch glimpses of the land stretching out ahead, rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, white-fenced paddocks, and clusters of trees that sway lazily in the breeze.

Horses graze in the distance, their tails flicking, their coats glossy in the afternoon sun.

Cash slows to a stop just past the gates, shifts into park, and hops out.

I watch through the windshield as he walks back to swing the gates shut. It shouldn’t be a thing, just a man closing gates, but somehow the way he moves is… confident. Comfortable. Cowboy. He climbs back into the truck, then flicks the blinker, and we take off again, gravel crunching beneath us.

“Back entrance,” he says with a little grin, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “Main road’s prettier, but this way keeps the horses from getting too interested in traffic.”

We drive deeper onto the property, and the ranch starts to take shape. Wide barns painted a deep red with white trim, a sprawling training arena, fenced pastures in every direction, and the main house perched up on a gentle rise. It’s big, old, and even more gorgeous from this angle.

“Wow,” I murmur. “This place is… bigger than I expected.”

“Six hundred acres,” Cash says, his voice low and proud.

“We do horse sales and breeding, some boarding and training too. Couple of the guys compete in local events when we’ve got time, and we lease out parts of the land now and then.

We’ve got a team who lives in the bunkers and helps us run the place. ”

“That sounds like a full plate.”

He tosses me one of his captivating winks. “Walker handles most of the training. Ridge is the numbers guy. I keep things movin’ and deal with folks who need talkin’ to.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that cowboy code for intimidation?”

He grins. “Depends who I’m talkin’ to.”

We roll up the driveway, his thick, muscular forearms catching the gold wash of late sunlight. One hand grips the wheel, the other rests against the open window, wind teasing his dirty-blond hair like we’re in some kind of rugged romance novel I did not sign up for.

I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

Three cowboys. One ranch. Zero backup plan.

But until I figure out how to make this work, or how to get paid for the ranch, I’m stuck here.

With him. With all three of them.

And I really need to stop staring at his arms.