Page 55 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

F or a moment, I forget everything except how perfect this glorious morning feels in the main house. My room. The hanging chair sways gently in the breeze from the cracked window, and Chonkarella has claimed it as her throne, orange fur glowing in the light.

I stand at the window, a coffee mug warming my hands, taking in the view that still doesn’t feel real.

The valley stretches out in the distance, huge mountains rising.

Down below, the driveway curves up from the main road, disappearing into morning shadows cast by the oak trees.

To the left, I spot the animal shelter, the barns, the life of the ranch in motion.

This is home. After everything—Nolan’s cruelty, his death, the uncertainty—I have a home with three men who actually want me here. Who moved heaven and earth yesterday to make me a perfect room. Who kiss me good morning and good night like it’s essential to their survival.

God, I’m getting sappy. Must be the pre-heat hormones making me all emotional and?—

Movement catches my eye near the front gate in the distance. Large, black, and absolutely where it shouldn’t be.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pressing closer to the glass. “Brutus the bull.”

The bull is just standing there near the main gate into the property, massive head lowered, pawing at the gravel like he’s preparing for battle.

The same bull that destroyed my rental car on my first day here, the rental I’m still paying off in pathetic monthly installments that barely cover the interest.

My phone buzzes with a payment confirmation from my latest freelance client. Web design for a boutique in Denver. The payment barely makes a dent in what I owe, but it’s something. At this rate, I’ll be paying off that destroyed car until I’m eighty.

Now that things are starting to feel solid between me and the cowboys, we’re going to have to figure out what happens with the ranch, how we handle ownership, payment…

if we even put a price on it at all. It’s not just land and buildings anymore; it’s a future home.

Gosh, I can’t believe I am even saying those words. Things happened so fast.

Another flash of movement catches my eye through the window. A deep blue SUV turns into the driveway from the main road.

I gasp, watching Brutus’s head snap up, focusing on the vehicle.

The bull snorts, a cloud of hot breath visible in the cool morning air. He scrapes one hoof against the ground, tears up a chunk of our recently repaired lawn, and I swear I can see him calculating distance and trajectory.

“Don’t you dare, you oversized hamburger.”

Brutus charges.

The SUV driver must see him coming because the engine roars, tires spinning as they floor it.

The vehicle shoots forward just as Brutus reaches where it was, his horns missing the bumper by inches.

He skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel, snorting its head into the air in displeasure at the missed target.

The SUV continues up the drive at a much more cautious pace now. Brutus watches it go, then turns and ambles back toward the main road like he didn’t just attempt vehicular homicide.

Behind me, Chonkarella yawns dramatically from the hanging chair while both kittens sprawl across my bed, clearly exhausted from their 3:00 a.m. zoomies session that had them racing from one end of the room to the other like tiny, furry tornadoes.

“Oh, sure, now you’re tired,” I tell them. “After keeping me up half the night with your parkour practice. ”

I turn back to the window, figuring I’d better tell the guys about Brutus before he actually manages to gore someone. Or something. Again.

I hurry downstairs in my jeans and T-shirt, no shoes. The kitchen is empty. The guys must be out working or checking the damage from last night’s barn leak that had them all running out after dinner.

There’s a knock at the front door.

Walker appears at my side as I reach for the handle, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me in for a quick kiss that makes my toes curl.

“You look gorgeous this morning,” he murmurs against my ear, and I feel his smile.

“I look like I haven’t brushed my hair yet,” I counter, but I’m smiling too.

“Gorgeously disheveled, then.”

These small moments, these casual touches and compliments, I still can’t believe this is my life now. That I get to have this every day.

I open the door, and we’re faced with two men in business suits who look deeply uncomfortable in the morning heat. They’re already sweating through their jackets, ties slightly askew.

The older one, mid-fifties with silver at his temples, attempts a professional smile that fails. The younger one behind him clutches a leather portfolio and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Mornin’, ma’am. Sir,” the older man greets, his voice carrying a warm, rural Texas drawl softened by a faint lisp on his s ’s. “Name’s Jim Matthew, Matthew and Johnson Law Firm.” He tips his head toward the man beside him. “And this here’s my associate, Brett Yeaman.”

Walker doesn’t move from the doorway, his body language shifting from relaxed to protective. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

The older man steps forward, adjusting the brim of his hat before speaking. “I’m lookin’ to speak with a Miss Sophia Hollis.”

“That’s me,” I say, straightening even though my pulse has already picked up.

He tips his hat politely, then removes it, revealing a neatly combed patch of thinning gray hair. “Mind if we speak in private for a spell?”

“My mate Walker will join us,” I reply firmly, leaving no room for discussion. If Ronan’s name is anywhere near the reason these men are here, I’m not facing it alone.

Jim’s attention flicks between us, but after a beat, he nods. “Fair enough, ma’am.”

Walker’s jaw tightens, but he steps aside. “Living room’s this way.”

We settle on the couch, Walker’s hand finding mine immediately. The lawyers sit across from us, Brett pulling out a notepad and an expensive-looking pen. My knee starts bouncing involuntarily, anxiety crawling up my spine like cold fingers.

Walker’s hand moves to my knee, steadying it, but I can feel the tremor running through my whole body.

“What can we help you with?” Walker’s voice is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension coming off him in waves, with his tight shoulders, jaw working like he’s grinding down the words he really wants to use.

Jim clears his throat, the sound dry and papery, before pulling a worn folder from his briefcase.

His suit has seen better days, the cuffs frayed and a faint coffee stain darkening the lapel, but there’s nothing uncertain about the way he handles those papers.

“Well now,” he begins, slow and deliberate.

“This ain’t the kind of news I like deliverin’, but here we are.

Seems Mr. Blackwood took out a substantial loan over a year ago while his grandmother, Rose Martinez, was still alive. And used her as a guarantor.”

I am hooked on his every word, waiting for the bomb to drop.

Walker doesn’t even blink. “Sounds like his problem.” His voice is flat, but I can hear the sharp edge under it… One wrong word and he’ll cut with it.

My stomach is already starting to churn, acid pooling in my throat. This is what Ronan meant yesterday. This is his plan. My palms start to sweat, and I curl my fingers into fists to hide the tremor.

“Well now, that’s where it gets complicated.” Jim’s blue eyes shift to me, and I swear they glisten like a predator who’s just found the weakest animal in the herd. “See, Miss Hollis, the bank needs payment on that loan. Mr. Blackwood’s got no assets to claim to pay back the loan.”

“Get to the point.” Walker’s voice comes out lower now, a growl building in his chest.

Jim licks his lips, the faint hiss of that lisp curling around every s . “The point is, with Rose’s passing and the ranch assets now under your name, Miss Hollis, that burden falls to you. That’s how this guarantor loan was set up, I’m afraid.”

For a second, the room tilts. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out everything else. The weight of those words is too heavy to process all at once. Me. Not Ronan. Me.

“How much?” My voice is thin, almost unrecognizable to my own ears.

“Three million dollars.” Jim doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t soften it.

“Fuck!” The word rips out of me before I can stop it. “Three million. Three fucking million.” My throat feels raw just saying it.

“The bank is giving you a four-week window to settle the debt,” Jim goes on, like he’s reading off the weather report instead of upending my entire life. “After that, they’ll foreclose on the ranch. Already got a buyer lined up, from what I hear.”

“You can’t do this,” I manage, but it sounds weak, the protest of someone already losing ground.

“Wish it were different, ma’am,” Jim says, flipping a page in his folder. “Rose signed the papers, put up the ranch as collateral. Now it’s yours, so is the debt.”

Walker is on his feet before the last word leaves the man’s mouth, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. His hands flex at his sides, dangerous and barely contained. “This is a fucking joke. Ronan set this up. That weasel planned this whole damn thing.”

Brett, the younger associate, shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between us like he’s not sure if he should be taking notes or bracing for a fight. I catch the faintest smirk on Jim’s face before it’s gone, replaced by a bland mask of legal politeness. It makes my skin crawl.

And all I can think is Ronan is winning.

“Can’t speak to anyone’s intentions,” Jim says as he stands, the old leather of his briefcase creaking. Brett is on his feet fast, like he’s desperate to escape the thick tension in the air.

Jim offers a single sheet from the folder, a business card tucked into the corner, and then holds out the rest of the file. “Here’s our card, along with all the bank documents, loan agreement, contact information, payment schedule. Everything the bank sent us.”