Page 31 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"She convinced him that payment had already been processed through some automated system," Billy continues, clearly enjoying himself. "Made up a confirmation number and everything. Had him thinking it was his company's fault for not updating their records."

"You lied to a delivery driver?" There's something in Trent's voice I can't quite identify. Disapproval? Amusement?

"I strategically managed the situation to achieve a positive outcome for all parties involved," I say defensively. "And technically, payment will be processed when you pay the invoice, so it wasn't really lying. More like... temporal displacement of truth."

Gavin snorts. "Temporal displacement of truth. Jesus, princess, you should work for the government."

"The point is," Billy continues, "she handled it. Didn't panic, didn't call for help, just figured it out and got it done. Driver left happy, we got our feed, everybody wins."

I wait for Trent's response, holding my breath without quite knowing why. His opinion shouldn't matter this much. I solved the problem, got the job done, proved I can handle unexpected situations. That should be enough.

But somehow, it's not. Somehow, I need him to acknowledge that I didn't screw up. That I'm not the helpless city girl who can't function without constant supervision.

He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's trying to read something there. Then he nods, just once, but there's something in that simple gesture that makes my chest tight.

"Good work," he says simply.

Two words. That's all. But the way he says them, like he means it, like he's genuinely proud of me, makes me feel like I just conquered Everest.

"Thanks," I manage, trying not to let my voice show how much his approval means to me.

"Remind me to put you in charge of all supplier negotiations from now on," he adds with what might be the ghost of a smile. "Could save us a fortune in expedite fees."

Before I can respond, Gavin appears at my elbow with an apple, one of the good ones from the tree behind the house, not the slightly bruised ones we usually feed to the horses.

"For the conquering hero," he says, tossing it to me with a grin that's different from his usual cocky smirk. This one is genuine, warm, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes. "You earned it."

I catch the apple, surprised by the gesture. It's such a small thing, but somehow it feels significant. Like acceptance. Like recognition that I'm not just playing at being a ranch hand anymore, like I'm actually contributing something valuable.

"Thank you," I say, and I mean it for more than just the apple.

"Thank you," Gavin replies, and something in his voice tells me he knows exactly what I'm thanking him for.

Trent is already walking away, moving on to the next item on his mental list of ranch tasks, but I catch him glancing back at me over his shoulder. There's something different in his expression now. Something that looks like he's seeing me in a new light.

Billy bounds off to continue whatever he does when he's not being helpful, leaving me and Gavin alone by the fence.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Gavin asks, leaning against the post we just finished repairing.

"That I've successfully mastered the art of creative truth-telling?"

"That you stopped waiting for permission to be useful." He tilts his head, studying me. "In the beginning, you would have called Trent the minute there was a problem. Waited for him to come back and fix it for you."

"In the beginning, I didn't know how to fix anything myself."

"No, in the beginning, you didn't believe you could fix anything yourself. There's a difference." He pushes off from the fence. "Now, you see a problem and you solve it. No hesitation, no self-doubt. Just pure determination and creative problem-solving."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's ranch life, princess. Welcome to the club."

He starts to walk away, then turns back. "Oh, and, Kenzie? Next time you need to bullshit a delivery driver, maybe don't do it in front of Billy. Kid's got a mouth on him."

"Noted."

As he disappears around the corner of the barn, I stand there for a moment, apple in hand, thinking about what just happened. About Trent's nod of approval, Gavin's genuine smile, the way they both treated me like I'd done something worth recognizing.

A couple weeks ago, I was drowning in coffee shop chaos, panicking about clients I couldn't please and bills I couldn't pay. Now, I'm successfully negotiating feed deliveries and earning approval from men whose good opinion I really want.

When did that happen? When did their approval start mattering to me? When did fitting in here become more important than succeeding in the life I left behind?

I take a bite of the apple—it's perfect, crisp and sweet and still warm from the afternoon sun—and head toward the house. There's something satisfying about the taste, about the simple pleasure of fruit earned through honest work and creative problem-solving.

Something satisfying about belonging somewhere enough to earn the good apples instead of settling for the bruised ones.

The house is empty when I walk in, which is unusual. Normally, at least someone is in the kitchen, either grabbing a snack or starting to think about dinner. But tonight, there's just silence and the fading afternoon light streaming through the windows.

I should probably start thinking about dinner myself.

Figure out what we've got in the fridge, maybe attempt something more complicated than sandwiches or scrambled eggs.

I've been gradually taking over more of the cooking duties, partly because I'm good at it and partly because watching grown men try to create nutritionally balanced meals is depressing.

But instead of heading to the kitchen, I find myself drawn to the living room.

To the big windows that look out over the pasture, where I can see the cattle moving in slow, lazy patterns as the day cools down.

There's something peaceful about it, watching them graze and mill around without any particular urgency.

It's the kind of peace I never found in the city, where everything was always moving, always urgent, always demanding immediate attention.

I sink into the old leather chair that's become my favorite spot—the one with the perfect view of the mountains and the sunset. The apple is still in my hand, forgotten for the moment as I try to process the events of the day.

This morning, I woke up in a bed I don't technically own, in a house that's not technically mine, on a ranch I inherited from a woman I barely knew.

This afternoon, I had sex with three men in a tack room like it was the most natural thing in the world.

An hour ago, I conned a delivery driver into unloading feed without payment and got praised for it by men whose approval has somehow become essential to my sense of self-worth.

None of this should make sense. None of this should feel normal.

But it does.

That's the thing I keep coming back to—how normal this all feels. How right. Three weeks ago, if someone had told me I'd be living on a ranch in Montana, sleeping with three cowboys, and solving supply chain issues with creative truth-telling, I would have laughed in their face.

Now? Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

When did this happen? When did this stop being a temporary adventure and start feeling like home?

Maybe it was the first time Trent looked at me with something other than skepticism.

Maybe it was when Gavin stopped calling me "princess" like it was an insult and started saying it like an endearment.

Maybe it was when Asher taught me to fix a fence and didn't make me feel stupid for not knowing how.

Or maybe it was this morning, when all three of them looked at me like I was something precious and said they wanted me to stay.

Fact is, I don't want to leave. The thought of going back to New York, to my apartment with the noisy neighbors and the broken radiator, to clients who think they're doing me a favor by paying my invoices, it all feels foreign now. Like a life that belonged to someone else.

But wanting to stay and being able to stay are two different things.

There are logistics to consider, practicalities that can't be solved with clever negotiation or creative problem-solving.

I have a business in New York, clients who depend on me, a lease on an apartment I can't afford to break.

And they have a ranch to run with big responsibilities that don't include taking care of a city girl who's having an identity crisis.

Except... maybe that's not true anymore. Maybe I'm not a city girl having an identity crisis. Maybe I'm just a woman who found a place where she fits.

Today, when Earl the delivery driver was giving me grief about payment policies, I didn't think about calling for help.

That's not tourist behavior. That's not someone playing dress-up or marking time until she can get back to her "real" life. That's someone who belongs here, who has something to contribute, who's building a life instead of just surviving one.

The front door opens, and I hear voices, Gavin and Asher discussing something about tomorrow's schedule. They're laughing about something, easy and relaxed in the way that comes from working together all day. The sound makes me smile, makes something warm settle in my chest .

"Kenzie?" Gavin hollers. "You in here?"

"Living room," I call.

They appear in the doorway in their work clothes, full of the kind of satisfied exhaustion that comes from a productive day. Asher's got his sleeves rolled up, and there's a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Gavin's hair is sticking up in the back where he's been running his hands through it.

My heart leaps. I can't deny it.

"What are you doing?" Asher asks, settling onto the couch across from me.

"Thinking."

"Dangerous habit," Gavin observes, dropping onto the other end of the couch. "What about?"

"This. Today. Everything." I gesture vaguely at the room, the ranch, the life I've somehow built in such a short time.

"A month ago, I was hiding in a coffee shop trying to save a business that was falling apart.

Tonight, I'm sitting in a house I own, sort of, on a ranch I'm learning to work, thinking about logistics and feed deliveries and whether I've earned the right to consider this home. "

"Have you?" Asher asks. "Earned the right?"

I think about it. Really think about it.

About the calluses forming on my palms and the confidence in my voice.

About the way Trent nodded when Billy told him how I'd handled the feed payment situation, like I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking.

About the genuine warmth in Gavin's smile when he handed me that apple.

"Yeah," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "I think I have."

"Good," Gavin says simply. "Because we've been waiting for you to figure that out."

"Have you?"

"Darlin'," Asher says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "you've been home since the day you showed up. You just needed time to realize it."

The words hit me like a physical force, knocking the breath out of my lungs.

Home. Such a simple word, but I don't think I've ever really understood what it meant before.

I thought it was about places like apartments, cities, zip codes.

But it's not. It's about people. It's about belonging somewhere so completely that you can't imagine being anywhere else.

"So what now?" I ask.

"Now," Gavin says, stretching out on the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, "we figure out dinner. And tomorrow, we keep building whatever this is we're building."

"Together," Asher adds, and there's a promise in the way he says it.

"Together," I agree.

As the sun sets outside the window, painting the mountains gold and purple, I take another bite of my apple and let myself believe. That this is home. That I belong here. That tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days stretching out ahead of us, we'll keep building something worth keeping.

Something worth staying for.

Something worth fighting for, if it comes to that.

Because fifteen days might not be enough time to figure out all the logistics and practicalities of making this work permanently. But it's enough time to know that I want to try.

And for the first time since I inherited this ranch, that feels like enough.