Page 1 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

KENZIE

"No, Gerald, I don't care if our vegan influencer is having a meltdown about the canapés. Tell her the mushroom paté is locally sourced and—" I press my phone harder against my ear, trying to block out the coffee shop racket surrounding me. "Gerald? GERALD?"

Dead air. Just. Great.

I stare at my phone, which had decided this was the perfect moment to run out of juice. Because of course it did. And it had nothing to do with the fact that I am the biggest slacker in the world at recharging my phone.

Not ideal when you're running, or trying to run, your own business .

Every year, my New Year's resolution is the same— plug your goddamn phone in .

Blaming the phone is so much easier.

And now, my biggest client is probably screaming into the void. His launch party is in three hours. I am nowhere close to wrangling the influencers I promised would deliver him top-notch publicity. In fact, they are rebelling like the spoiled, entitled little shits they are.

I finally find my phone charger and plug it into the outlet just next to my table, like I should have done an hour ago.

I could just hide out in this coffee shop for the rest of the day.

No one knows I am here. 'Course I'd lose my top client, not be able to pay my rent, nor afford my shoe habit, nor continue to pay six dollars for a freaking latte at a place that never gets my name right and where the baristas are borderline hostile.

"Triple-shot oat-milk latte for Katie!" the barista screams above the clamor.

Close enough. I grab my second cup coffee of the day and cell phone, now loaded with a five percent charge, and weave through the crowd of people who have nothing better to do at two o'clock on a Thursday than camp out with their laptops and judge my visible panic.

The phone buzzes just as I reach the door. Not Gerald calling back—that would be too easy. Instead, it's a video call request from someone named Henry Phelps .

I answer because honestly, my day couldn't get worse. At this point, I'd rather speak to a scammer than get yelled at by my client.

I force some pep into my voice. It does not work. "Kenzi here," I say with a sigh as a picture of my caller comes into view.

"Ms. Rhodes?" A man in a bow tie blinks at me through thick glasses. "I'm Henry Phelps, your great-aunt Maybelle's attorney."

Great-Aunt Maybelle. The one who sent me a birthday card every year with a crisp five-dollar bill and a note about finding myself a "good strong man with rough hands." I'd met her exactly twice in my life, and both times, she'd told me I needed to eat more bacon.

"I'm calling about her estate," Henry continues, shuffling papers as if computers and tablets were never invented. "She's left you something rather... substantial."

I sputtered and dribbled latte down my chin and onto my white blouse. "Substantial like a collection of ceramic cats, or substantial like actual money?"

I wasn't a beat-around-the-bush kind of girl.

"Ms. Rhodes, she's left you the Dusty Spur Ranch. Two hundred acres in Montana, including livestock, equipment, and all structures therein."

I stop in my tracks, blocking the sidewalk. Passersby throw me the stink eye as they step around me. "I'm sorry, did you just say ranch ? Like with cows and... hay?"

"Cattle, technically. And yes, hay. Among other things." He clears his throat. "There is, however, a condition, Ms. Rhodes."

A condition . Also known as a catch . Because of course. Nothing in my life comes easily or is unaccompanied by some sort of stupid drama. Or in the case of my business, detailed contracts drawn up by rich lawyers.

Ever.

"What's the hitch, Henry?"

He sighs.

Damn video calls. Pretty sure he just caught me rolling my eyes.

"That's what I'm getting to, Ms. Rhodes. You must live and work on the ranch for thirty consecutive days. If you leave before the time is up, the property transfers to the Willis County Cattlemen's Association."

" Thirty days? Did you say thirty days? Or three days?" I laugh, but it comes out slightly hysterical. "I don't even camp. I consider it roughing it when a hotel doesn't have a spa. You want me to what—milk cows?"

Oh hell no .

"The dairy operation was discontinued in 2018," he says like that would make me feel better. "It's primarily a cattle ranch now. The current staff can assist with your transition. "

Transition? Transition to what? Wearing plaid flannel shirts and Daisy Duke shorts? Hell, that's what I wore two Halloweens ago.

And current staff ? Right. Because nothing says "welcome to your inheritance" like a bunch of strangers judging me for not knowing which end of a cow is which.

I snort. "When would I need to?—"

"Immediately, I'm afraid. The will stipulates you must take possession within seven days of notification."

I stand there on the sidewalk, holding my overpriced coffee and nearly dead phone, while some lawyer named Henry tells me I've inherited a whole-ass ranch. With cows. And hay. And thirty days of what will probably be my personal hell.

But also... two hundred acres. In this economy? That has to be worth something. Enough to save my company, pay off my credit cards, maybe even buy an apartment where the radiator doesn't sound like a death metal band.

"Ms. Rhodes? Are you still there?" Henry asks, probably praying I turn him down so the local cattle club, or whatever he called it, can swoop in and make his life easier.

"Yeah, I'm..." I catch my reflection in a store window—designer dress, Louboutin heels I snagged on sale, and hair that cost more to maintain than most people's car payments. "I'm thinking. "

Which is a big fat lie. I already know what I’m doing. Because Kenzie Rhodes doesn't back down from a challenge, even if that challenge involves whatever the hell owning a ranch means.

"Send me the details," I say, already mentally making lists of what to pack. "I'll be there in three days."

Three days, two flights, and one rental car later, I am standing in a mud puddle.

Not next to a mud puddle. Not near a mud puddle. In a mud puddle. One that has all but eaten my Jimmy Choo pump like it's offended by the fact that my shoes are from last season.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." I try to pull my foot free, but the mud slurps and sucks at my shoe, mocking me for even trying. That's when I realize my "country casual" sundress—so cute in the Bloomingdales' dressing room—is now splattered with mud as well.

Is this a trap, designed to teach me some sort of life lesson? I look around for cameras. They must be well-hidden.

The ranch, all two hundred acres of it, sprawls out in front of me like something from a movie, if that movie's about city girls who make terrible life choices.

Mountains in the distance, actual tumbleweeds, and a collection of buildings that look like they've been standing since cowboys were an actual profession and not just a category on dating apps.

That's when I hear it. A sound that will haunt my dreams.

"BWAAACK!"

The demon appears from behind a fence post. I expected animals, obviously. Horses, cows, maybe some goats. But not a rooster the size of a turkey armed with the attitude of a serial killer.

It struts toward me with the confidence of something that's never lost a fight, its head bobbing like it's sizing me up for lunch. One of its eyes is slightly cloudy, which somehow makes it worse. Like it had seen some shit and lived to terrorize another day.

"Nice... chicken?" I try, still stuck in my mud trap. "Good chicken?"

It tilts its head, considering me with its one good eye, and lets out another ear-splitting crow that is definitely a warning.

So my first day on the ranch will also be my last. I could have just stayed in the big city where the biggest danger is getting run over by a speeding taxi cab. At least that kind of death would be quick. But being pecked to death by a grumpy chicken?

"Hey. Everything okay over here?"

The voice, accompanied by crunching footsteps, comes from behind me. The tone is deep and amused and most likely enjoying my predicament. I turn—well, try to turn, but the mud's not done with me yet—and nearly fall face-first into the puddle.

Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me. Strong, bare arms, because apparently shirts are optional at the Dusty Spur Ranch.

The man holding me is... well, the kind of problem I don't need right now with abs that could grate cheese, shoulders that belong in a "Men of Montana" calendar, and a smirk that says he knows exactly how good he looks standing there all shirtless and sweaty in his work-worn jeans.

Damn him.

"You must be the new owner," he says, not letting go of me even though I am technically stable now. "Gavin Slade. I run the horse operation."

"Hello, Gavin. I'm Kenzie Rhodes." I try for dignified, which is hard when one shoe is being held hostage and a mean rooster is circling you like you’re in a boxing ring. "And if I may say so, Gavin, you're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe a little." His grin widens as he looks me up and down, taking in my dress, my trapped shoe, and what I'm sure is my general air of city-girl panic. "Need a hand?"

I hold my chin up. "I need a lot of things. A shower. A drink. My shoe back from this puddle that's apparently the gateway to hell."

He laughs—actually laughs—then bends down and pulls my foot free with embarrassing ease. My shoe, however, stays behind, claimed by the mud gods.

"That's a sacrifice to the ranch now," he says, straightening up. "Dusty Spur demands payment from all newcomers."

I make a mental note to come back and get it in the middle of the night. "It can have the shoe," I say breezily. "I'm keeping my soul."

"We'll see about that." He picks up my suitcase—Kate Spade, naturally—and seems to deliberately drop it. Right into another mud puddle. "Oops."

I screech. "Are you kidding me right now?"