Page 4 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

KENZIE

The banging on my door sounds like someone's trying to break it down with a sledgehammer. Or maybe that's just my head, which feels like it got run over by whatever large animals they have on this godforsaken ranch.

"UP AND AT 'EM, CITY GIRL!"

"I'm up!" Big fat lie. I'm still horizontal and seriously considering why my aunt hated me so much that she dumped this ranch on me. I mean, the woman barely knew me.

"You've got five minutes before I come in there and drag you out myself."

The thought of Trent manhandling me out of bed shouldn't make my stomach flutter the way it just did. It's probably just hunger. Or fear. Definitely not attraction to a grumpy cowboy who apparently doesn't know how to sleep past dawn.

I roll out of bed and immediately step on something sharp. "Motherfucker!"

"Four minutes," Trent calls through the door, and I swear I can hear him smirking.

I throw on yesterday's jeans—which already smell like a barn—and a T-shirt that says "But First, Coffee" which feels both appropriate and like it might get me murdered.

My hair goes into what I'm generously calling a messy bun but probably looks more like a bird's nest and probably smells like one too.

When I stumble outside, Trent's waiting by the porch looking disgustingly awake and put-together. His shirt is pressed. Who presses shirts at four-forty-five a.m.? Psychopaths, that's who.

"You're late," he says.

"I'm literally standing here within your five-minute deadline."

"Four minutes and forty seconds. Ranch time means?—"

"Early, I know. Gavin explained your weird temporal physics yesterday." I yawn so wide my jaw cracks. "What fresh hell do you have planned for me today?"

Before he can answer, Billy appears from nowhere like an eager puppy, holding a mug that's steaming in the cool morning air.

"I made you coffee!" He thrusts it at me with so much enthusiasm that some sloshes over the edge. "It's, um, it's the good stuff. Not the paint stripper Gavin makes."

I take a sip and almost cry. It's still terrible—turns out, there's no "good stuff" on this ranch—but it's caffeine and Billy looks so hopeful that I force a smile.

"Thanks, Billy. You're a lifesaver."

He goes red from his neck to the tips of his ears. "You're welcome! You look really pretty this morning! I mean, not that you don't always look pretty, but like, even with the..." He gestures vaguely at my disaster of a hairstyle. "I'm gonna go now."

He practically sprints away, leaving me with Trent, who's watching me with an expression I can't read.

"What?"

"Nothing." But his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "Just wondering how long before you break the kid's heart."

"I'm not going to?—"

"Hay barn. Now." He turns and starts walking, clearly expecting me to follow like an obedient puppy.

I should tell him to fuck right off, but then I remember there are two hundred acres of unspoiled Montana land stretching out before me, and if I can sell this baby to the highest bidder after my thirty-day test, I'll be set for life.

If that doesn't put a spring in my step, nothing will.

From the main house, Gavin's leaning against the doorframe in nothing but low-slung jeans, looking like a Ralph Lauren ad that's trying too hard. "Morning, princess," he calls out. "Love the hair. Very 'I just got fucked' chic."

"It's five in the morning, Gavin," I holler back at him, breaking into a trot to keep up with my torturer. "How are you already this annoying?"

"Natural talent." He laughs and takes a long pull from his coffee mug. "Better hurry. Trent gets cranky when you're late."

"Trent's always cranky."

"Oooh, princess is catching on," he yells after me.

Like hell.

The hay barn smells like dust and dried grass and something else that's probably unsanitary and deadly, which I can't identify and don't want to. Trent's standing next to a stack of hay bales that reaches almost to the ceiling, and I have a sudden, horrible realization about what's coming .

It also dawns on me that if these fall, I will be dead.

"You need to move these," he says, pointing to the stack, "to there." He points to the other side of the barn.

"All of them?"

"All of them."

I look at the bales. Look at the distance. Look back at the bales. "You realize those things probably weigh more than I do, right?"

"Fifty to sixty pounds each, depending on moisture content." He says this like it's helpful information and not confirmation that he's trying to kill me. "Better get started."

He walks out, leaving me alone with my latest nemesis—a gazillion pounds of hay.

I grab the first bale by the twine and immediately realize this is going to be impossible. It's not just heavy—it's awkward and scratchy and the twine cuts into my palms like it's made of razor wire.

I manage to drag it maybe six inches before I have to stop and consider maybe the ranch and I do not have a future together.

"Need some help?"

Asher's standing in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun like the star of some kind of country music video.

And unlike Gavin's in-your-face sexuality or Trent's commanding presence, Asher has this way of just..

. appearing. Like a sexy ninja in Wranglers and one of those ridiculous oversized belt buckles .

I have to admit I kind of want one and wonder if they're available at the local general store. The girls back home would be so jealous.

"I'm fine," I lie, grabbing the bale again and managing another inch before my body screams in protest.

"Sure you are." He walks over, slow and easy, and positions himself behind me. "Here, let me show you the trick."

His hands slide to my waist, and suddenly I forget how to breathe. He's pressed against my back, solid and warm, and he smells like something woodsy that makes me want to turn around and bury my face in his chest.

"You want to lift with your legs," he says, drawing the words out that are tickling my ear. "Bend here..." His hands guide my hips down into a squat. "And drive up through your heels."

We lift together, his hands never leaving my waist, and the bale is somehow lighter. Or maybe that's just because all my focus has shifted to the way his thumbs are tracing little circles on my hip bones.

"See? Easy." His voice has dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear. "Just need the right... technique."

"Right. Technique." My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

We move three more bales together, truthfully with him bearing nearly all the weight. Hey, Trent said to move the bales. He didn't say how to do it. Getting help is pretty damn good problem solving if you ask me .

I don't mention that I see one of those hand-truck thingies over in the corner that would probably work just as well. This method is borderline fun.

And wouldn't you know, each time Asher's hands linger a little longer, his chest presses a little closer. By the fifth bale, I'm not sure if I'm sweating from the work or from the way he's basically wrapped around me.

"I think I've got it now," I say, stepping away before I do something stupid like grind back against him.

"You sure?" He's got that lazy smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing to me. "I'm happy to keep... helping."

"I'm good. Thanks. I'll just grab that hand truck over in the corner."

"Smart girl. That's how we usually do it."

Oh for cripes' sake. "And you're just now telling me this? After you just felt me up and shit?"

He backs away toward the door and shrugs, the shit-eating grin on his face leaving my legs wobbly. "Fine. Next time I won't help you," he says, throwing his arms in the air.

"Well. Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do," I say, reminding myself not to burn bridges. It's way too soon for that nonsense.

"Anytime, darlin'." He tips his hat and saunters out, leaving me alone with a billion more bales to manage.

Like I have time for this shit.

It takes me three more hours to move half the stack, although the hand truck is a lifesaver. My back hurts, my hands are raw even through the work gloves Billy mysteriously left for me, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated out every ounce of water in my body.

But I did it. Well, half of it. That counts for something, right?

Wrong. It counts for nothing, according to Trent, who takes one look at my half-moved hay and assigns me to stall duty as punishment.

"But I already did stalls yesterday!"

"And you'll do them every day until you get it right." He hands me a pitchfork that's seen better decades. "Twelve stalls. Better hurry—lunch is in two hours."

The first stall isn't terrible. I've apparently built up some immunity to horse shit. It's stall number four that nearly breaks me.

The smell hits me like a physical force. It's not just horse shit—it's something else, something that makes my eyes water and my stomach revolt.

"Jesus Christ, what died in here?"

"That'd be Whiskey's stall." Gavin's leaning against the doorway, grinning like Christmas came early. "He's got digestive issues. Vet says it's dietary, but I think he just likes making people suffer."

"Your horse is broken."

"He's not broken. He's quirky." Gavin watches me try to breathe through my mouth while scooping. "You missed a spot."

"I missed a—" I turn, ready to swing my shovel at his head. Instead, I step backward, right into the pile of manure. My foot sinks in up to my ankle. "Oh my God. Oh my GOD."

Gavin loses it. He's laughing so hard, he has to hold onto the doorframe to keep from falling over. "Your face! Princess, your face!"

"Stop calling me princess!" I step out of the horse shit and nearly fall face-first into the stall. Gavin catches my arm, still wheezing with laughter.

"You okay there?"

"Do I look okay? I'm literally standing in shit!"

"Welcome to ranch life, baby."

A truck horn honks outside, and Clara Mae's voice carries through the barn: "Don't fall in, sugar! Though from here, it looks like you already did!"

Her cackle echoes as she drives away, and I know—I just know—this story will be all over town within the hour.

"I hate this place," I mutter, extracting my foot with a truly disgusting squelch sound.

"No you don't." Gavin's still grinning. "You're starting to love it. I can tell."

"How? How can you possibly tell that?"

"Because you haven't quit yet." He winks and walks away, calling over his shoulder, "But you might want to hose off that boot. And maybe burn those socks."

By the time Trent comes to inspect my work, I'm a disaster. Hay in my hair, shit on my boots, and what I'm pretty sure is horse snot on my shirt. I smell like a barn explosion and am just generally one huge agricultural disaster.

Trent walks down the line of stalls with his clipboard—because of course he has a clipboard—making little checkmarks and humming disapprovingly.

"Stall three has wet spots in the corner."

"I cleaned stall three! I spent twenty minutes on stall three!"

"Stall five's water bucket wasn't refilled."

"You didn't say anything about water buckets!"

"Stall seven still has hay in the feeder from yesterday."

"Because the horse didn't eat it all!"

He continues like I haven't spoken. "Stall nine's gate wasn't properly latched. That's a safety hazard."

"Are you seriously?—"

"And stall twelve..." He pauses, looking into Whiskey's stall. "Is actually acceptable."

I blink. "What?"

"I said it's acceptable. Barely. But acceptable." He makes a note on his clipboard. "You can break for lunch. Be back here at one for fence repair."

He starts to walk away, then turns back. "And, Kenzie? "

"What?" I'm too exhausted to be properly defensive.

"You might want to shower first. You smell like..." He pauses, and I swear his lips twitch. "Like you're finally starting to work."

After he's gone, I stand there in the middle of the barn, covered in things I don't want to identify, muscles aching in places I didn't know I had muscles, and realize something horrible.

I'm actually proud that he said stall twelve was acceptable.

What the hell is this place doing to me?

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. It's a picture of me standing in the wheelbarrow, mouth open in horror, with Gavin laughing in the background. The caption reads: "City Girl's First Week: Not Going Well - Clara Mae."

Fantastic. I'm already internet famous in a town that probably doesn't even have high-speed internet.

But as I head back to the house for that desperately needed shower, I catch sight of the mountains in the distance, the horses grazing in the pasture, and Sir Clucks-a-Lot strutting around, and something in my chest does this weird squeeze thing.

It's not affection. It's probably just a pulled muscle from the hay bales.

Right?

Twenty-seven more days. I can do this.

Probably.

Maybe .

God, I need a drink. And a massage. And possibly a therapist.

But first, a shower. Because Trent's right about one thing—I smell like I actually worked today.

And weirdly, that doesn't feel as terrible as it should.