Page 43 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

GAVIN

Three weeks later, I'm sitting on the porch at six in the morning with a cup of coffee that, for a change, doesn't taste like motor oil, watching the sun come up over the best-run ranch in the county.

It's a hell of a thing, seeing a place that was held together with stubbornness and prayer, turn into something that actually makes money.

The books are balanced, and not just barely but actually in the black for the first time since Trent's dad died.

The fences are all solid, the equipment runs without making sounds like it's dying, and every animal on the property is healthy and accounted for.

Even the damn chickens are laying better, though I suspect that's got more to do with Kenzie's threatening to turn them into Sunday dinner than any improvement in their living conditions.

Speaking of threats, I can hear Kenzie’s voice carrying from the barn, and it sounds like she's trying to reorganize Billy's entire feed schedule again.

"Billy, I really think we should color-code the feed bins so guests can understand?—"

"Guests?" Billy's voice is confused. "What guests?"

"The guests for my agritourism venture. I've been researching revenue streams, and authentic ranch experiences are hugely popular with urban demographics?—"

"Princess," I call out, loud enough to carry, "nobody wants to pay money to shovel shit."

"It's called 'authentic agricultural immersion,'" she calls back, and I can hear the sass in her voice.

"It's called work. That's why we get paid to do it instead of paying to do it."

Trent's voice cuts through the conversation, calm and practical. "Billy knows what he's doing with the feed. Leave him alone."

"But the efficiency improvements?—"

"The efficiency is fine. The cows don't care what color their food comes in."

There's a pause, then Kenzie's voice, considerably less business-minded. "Fine. But I'm adding it to my proposal."

I grin into my coffee. Three months ago, she would have argued or gotten pissy. Now she just rolls with it when one of us shuts down her latest scheme to turn our working ranch into some kind of theme park.

She emerges from the barn a few minutes later with a clipboard in one hand and what looks like a business plan in the other.

She's wearing jeans with actual holes from work and one of Trent's old shirts, but she's got that look in her eye that means she's plotting something that'll probably cost us money.

"Morning, princess," I call out.

"Morning. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep. Too much excitement about today's barrel race."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You and your barrel race. I still think you're all nuts."

"Says the woman who wants to charge people to muck stalls."

"It's experiential tourism. Very different."

"Right. What's the difference?"

"About fifty bucks a day per person."

She climbs the porch steps and settles onto the rail next to my chair, still clutching her business plan like it's gonna make us rich.

"Let me guess," I say. "You've got another brilliant idea about how to improve the ranch."

"Actually, yes. I've been thinking about that old bunkhouse?—"

"The one with the leaky roof and the mice?"

"The one with character and rustic charm. We could fix it up, create an authentic cowboy experience package. City folks love that stuff."

"City folks love a lot of stupid things. Doesn't mean we should sell it to them."

"Think about it, though. We've got the space, we've got the expertise, and we've got more cattle than we know what to do with. Why not monetize the whole operation?"

"Because then we'd have to deal with people."

"People with money," she sing-songs.

"The worst kind of people."

She rolls her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Good thing you like impossible."

"Good thing I love impossible," she corrects, then waves her business plan at me. "But seriously, look at these numbers. If we could get even ten guests a month?—"

"Ten city people. On our ranch. For a whole week."

"Think of the revenue stream."

"Think of the liability insurance."

She starts to launch into what's probably a very detailed explanation of her latest scheme, but the sound of Trent's boots on the porch steps cuts her off.

"Irrigation's all set," he says, wiping his hands on a rag. "Lines are clear, pressure's good."

"’Course it is. Everything's running perfect these days."

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when people stick to what they know instead of trying to turn everything into a business opportunity." He gives Kenzie a look that's part amusement, part warning.

"I heard that," she says. "And for your information, diversifying revenue streams is basic business strategy."

"So is not fixing what ain't broke."

"But think of the potential?—"

"I'm thinking of ten strangers asking me to explain why we castrate bulls while I'm trying to work."

"That's actually a great educational component?—"

"No."

She opens her mouth to argue, but Asher appears around the corner of the equipment shed, looking like he's been eavesdropping.

"What's she trying to sell us now?" he asks, climbing the steps.

"Guest ranch experience," I explain. "Wants to charge people to do our jobs."

"Fifty bucks a day to shovel horse shit?"

"Sixty for the premium package," Kenzie says. "That includes breakfast and a sunset cattle drive."

"A what now?"

"Sunset cattle drive. Very romantic. Perfect for couples looking to reconnect with nature."

All three of us stare at her.

"You want us to move cattle at sunset because it's romantic?" Trent asks slowly.

"I want us to optimize our existing operations for maximum tourist appeal. "

"Princess, we move cattle when they need moving, not when it makes for a good Instagram photo."

"But think about?—"

"I'm thinking about explaining to some investment banker from Denver why his wife can't pet the bull," Asher says.

"Or why we don't actually lasso things for fun," I add.

"Or why the horses don't always cooperate with the sunset schedule," Trent finishes.

She looks between the three of us, clearly realizing she's outnumbered but not ready to give up. "You're all being very close-minded about this," she sniffs.

"We're being realistic about this," Trent corrects.

"Fine. But when the next ranch over starts offering trail rides and making twice what we do, don't come crying to me."

"The Morrison ranch has gentle horses and flat trails," I point out. "We've got Whiskey and rocky terrain and a psychotic rooster."

"Sir Clucks-a-Lot could be a selling point. Authentic ranch wildlife experience."

"He'd probably attack the guests."

"Even better. Adventure tourism."

We all just stare at her.

"I'm putting together a full presentation," she says finally. "With charts."

"'Course you are," I say. "Can't wait to see it. "

"Mock me all you want, but when I'm right, I expect apologies."

"When you're right about people paying to get up at five a.m. to feed cattle, I'll personally apologize."

"Deal."

She kisses me quick and heads back toward the barn, probably to work on more charts or figure out how to teach Sir Clucks-a-Lot tricks.

"Think she's serious about this?" Asher asks.

"Dead serious," Trent says. "She's already priced out new mattresses for the bunkhouse."

"Shit."

"Yeah. We might actually have to listen to this presentation."

"Could be worse," I say, watching her disappear into the barn. "Least she's trying to make us money instead of spend it."

"Give her time," Trent says. "She'll figure out how to do both."

By the time we get to the south pasture, Kenzie's already got Buttercup saddled and is leading her around the makeshift course we set up yesterday.

Three barrels arranged in a triangle, nothing fancy, but enough to make it interesting.

The mare's prancing a little, tossing her head like she knows something's up.

"She looks nervous," Asher mutters .

"The horse or Kenzie?" I ask.

"Both."

But when I look closer, Kenzie doesn't look nervous at all. Focused, maybe. Determined. Like she's mentally preparing for battle.

"Alright, boys," she announces as we approach, "I've been thinking about strategy for the tourist barrel racing experience?—"

"No tourist barrel racing," Trent cuts her off. "Regular people will get themselves killed."

"But if we had a beginner course?—"

"Princess," I interrupt, "you're barely a beginner yourself. Let's see if you can stay on before you start planning to teach others."

"I'm just saying, there might be market demand?—"

"The market can demand whatever it wants," Asher says with a grin. "Doesn't mean we're selling it."

She opens her mouth like she's going to argue, then closes it and shakes her head. "Fine. But I'm adding it to the presentation."

"Add whatever you want to your charts," Trent says. "Right now, just try not to fall off."

She checks the stirrups one more time, then swings up into the saddle. "What are the rules again?"

"Ride around the barrels in a cloverleaf pattern," Asher explains. "Right barrel first, then left, then the far barrel, then back to the start. Try not to knock any over, but more importantly, try not to fall off."

"And if I do fall off? "

"Get back on and finish," Trent says.

"And if I refuse to get back on?"

"Then you buy dinner," I add.

"Well, can't have that. I don’t get paid."

"Hey now?—"

"Are you timing this?" she interrupts.

"Nah. This isn't about speed. It's about staying upright."

"Good. Because I'm pretty sure tourist barrel racing would need to be timed for competitive purposes?—"

"No tourist barrel racing!" all three of us say at the same time.

She laughs and nudges Buttercup forward. "Fine, fine. But I'm making a note."

"Twenty bucks says she makes it around once before that mare decides she's had enough," I say quietly to the other two.

"You're on," Asher says. "I think she makes it all the way around."

"I give her two barrels before Buttercup starts testing her," Trent says.