Page 30 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"Look, sir," I say, channeling every ounce of professional patience I've ever possessed, "I understand your company policy, but the ranch owner is currently off-property dealing with a veterinary emergency. I'm authorized to accept delivery and arrange payment."

"Lady, I don't care if you're the Queen of England. No prepayment, no feed." The driver, whose name tag reads "Earl," crosses his arms and leans against his truck like he's settling in for a long siege.

This is exactly the kind of situation that would have sent me into a panic a few days ago.

I would have called Trent in a frenzy, or ended up paying with my own credit card just to make the problem go away.

But ranch life has taught me a few things about negotiation.

And dealing with stubborn cowboys taught me that sometimes you have to get creative.

"I completely understand your position, Earl," I say, pulling out my phone. "You're just following company policy. It's not your fault your dispatcher didn't communicate that this delivery was already paid for."

"It wasn't paid for," Earl protests.

"Are you sure?" I tap my phone screen like I'm checking something important.

"Because according to my records, payment was processed at eight-forty-seven this morning via the automated system.

Confirmation number..." I rattle off a random string of numbers.

"Would you like me to call your dispatch and have them verify? "

Earl looks uncertain for the first time. "That's... I don't have any record of any payment."

"Well, that's concerning. Either your system isn't updating properly, or there's been some kind of error on your end." I shake my head sympathetically. "I'd hate for this to reflect poorly on your performance metrics. You know how corporate gets about delivery delays."

"I... what?"

Perfect. He's taking the bait.

"Oh, I'm sure it's just a technical glitch.

These things happen all the time with the newer automated payment systems. The important thing is that we get this sorted out so you can complete your delivery on schedule.

" I pause, as if considering something. "Tell you what—why don't we compromise?

You go ahead and unload the feed, I'll get you a receipt showing the payment confirmation, and if there's any issue, I'll personally ensure it gets resolved with your supervisor.

That way, you're not held responsible for any system errors. "

Earl hesitates, clearly weighing his options. "I don't know..."

"Look, Earl, between you and me?" I lower my voice conspiratorially.

"I used to work in corporate logistics. I know how these things go.

You're damned if you do, damned if you don't. But if you complete the delivery and there's documentation showing payment was processed, you're covered.

If you refuse delivery and it turns out the payment went through?

That's a customer service nightmare that's going to land squarely on your head. "

I can see the moment he cracks. The fear of retribution is stronger than his adherence to policy.

"Alright," he says slowly. "But I need something in writing."

"Absolutely." I'm already pulling out a receipt book from my back pocket, a little trick I learned from watching Trent handle supplier issues.

"I'll write up a delivery confirmation with the payment reference number.

That should cover you if anyone asks questions.

I'll add my cell phone number too just in case. " I look at him with a little smile.

As Earl starts unloading the feed, I scribble out a professional-looking receipt, complete with official-sounding language about "payment processed via automated systems" and "delivery completed per customer request." It's complete bullshit, but it looks legitimate enough to satisfy a nervous truck driver.

"There you go," I say, handing him the receipt. "All documented. Your dispatcher might want to look into the system glitch, though. Can't have payments going missing in the system."

"Yeah, I'll mention it." Earl folds the receipt carefully and tucks it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks for understanding."

"Of course. We're all just trying to do our jobs, right?"

As his truck disappears down the drive, I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction. PR skills for the win.

"Well, well, well."

I turn to find Asher leaning against the barn door, that lazy grin spreading across his face. "Remind me never to bet against you."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to watch you completely bamboozle that poor driver." He pushes off from the door and walks over to me. "That was impressive, darlin'. And probably illegal."

"It wasn't illegal. Misleading, maybe. Ethically questionable, definitely. But not illegal." I dust off my hands, pleased with myself. "Besides, Trent will pay the invoice when he gets back. Earl just needed to feel like he was covered."

"Still. That was some Grade A bullshit you just sold that man."

"It was strategic negotiation designed to achieve a mutually beneficial outcome," I correct primly. "They're gonna get paid, for heaven's sake. We're not trying to steal their damn feed."

"Yeah," Asher repeats, but he's looking at me with something that might be admiration. "Beautiful, creative bullshit that saved us from having to deal with a feed shortage."

"Thank you?"

"That's definitely a thank you." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his natural scent mixed with hay and fresh air. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"That I missed my calling as a con artist?"

"That you're starting to think like one of us. Like someone who belongs here."

The words hit me harder than they should. Someone who belongs here. Is that what's happening? Am I starting to belong?

Mere days ago, I would have stood by helplessly while someone else solved the problem.

But today? Today, I saw a challenge and met it head-on. Used skills I'd developed in my old life to solve problems in my new one. Adapted and overcame the day’s challenges.

"Maybe I am," I say quietly.

"Maybe you are what?"

"Starting to think like someone who belongs here."

Asher's smile becomes something warmer. "About time you figured that out. We've known it for days."

"Have you? "

"Darlin', you've been one of us since the day you told Sir Clucks-a-Lot to kiss your ass. Everything else has just been you catching up to what the rest of us already knew."

Before I can respond to that—before I can even process what he's really saying—Gavin appears around the corner of the barn, shirtless and sweaty from whatever work he's been doing.

"Problem with the delivery?" he asks, noting the scattered feed bags.

" Was a problem," Asher corrects. "Our girl here handled it."

"Did she now?" Gavin looks between us with interest. "What kind of handling are we talking about?"

"The kind that involves creative interpretation of payment policies and strategic application of corporate fear tactics," I explain.

"In other words, she lied her ass off and got the job done," Asher translates.

"I prefer 'strategically managed the information flow,'" I protest.

Gavin grins. "Princess, I think I love you."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and I see Gavin's face change as he realizes what he just said. Not the casual "love you" of friends but something heavier. Something that feels like a confession.

"I mean—" he starts.

"I know what you mean," I say softly. "And for the record? The feeling might be mutual. "

We stare at each other for a moment, the weight of almost-admissions hanging between us. Then Asher clears his throat.

"Should we talk about this? Because I'm pretty sure we're all feeling the same way, and ignoring it isn't going to make it go away."

"Later," I say, because this feels too big, too important to hash out in the middle of the yard. "Tonight, maybe. When we can sit down and actually talk."

"All of us?" Asher asks.

"All of us," I confirm. "Whatever this is, we're in it together. No more competitions, no more keeping score. We figure it out together or not at all."

Gavin nods, something like relief flickering across his face. "Together sounds good."

"It does," Asher agrees.

"Good. Now, can someone help me stack these feed bags before Trent gets back? Because explaining why his feed is scattered all over the yard is going to be a lot harder than convincing Earl to unload it."

They both laugh, and the moment of heavy emotional weight passes. But it doesn't disappear entirely. It settles into something warm and comfortable, like a promise of conversations to come.

As we work together to organize the feed delivery, I catch myself smiling. Not because of what I accomplished with Earl—though I'm proud of that too—but because of this. The easy teamwork, the casual affection, the way we fit together like pieces of a puzzle .

Maybe Asher is right. Maybe I have been one of them for weeks, and I'm just now catching up to what everyone else already knew.

By the time Trent returns from the vet, the feed is neatly stacked in the storage shed, and I'm helping Gavin repair a section of fence that's been on the perpetual "to-do" list. We're working in comfortable silence, passing tools back and forth with the kind of efficiency that comes from getting to know someone's rhythms.

"How'd the delivery go?" Trent asks, appearing beside us like he materialized out of thin air. For such a big man, he moves surprisingly quietly.

"Fine," I say, not looking up from the fence post I'm holding steady while Gavin drives in a new nail. "No problems."

"Bullshit," Billy pipes up from where he's been coiling rope nearby. "She totally saved the day. The driver was being a complete ass about prepayment, and she talked him into unloading anyway. It was like watching a magic show."

Trent's eyebrows rise. "Is that so?"

"It wasn't magic," I protest. "It was basic crisis management."