Page 44 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

We watch as Kenzie approaches the first barrel, leaning into the turn like she's been doing this for years instead of months. Buttercup rounds it clean, ears forward, responding to Kenzie's hands.

"Damn," I mutter. "She's actually doing it."

The second barrel goes just as smooth, and I can see Kenzie starting to look confident. Maybe a little too confident .

"That's our girl," Asher says.

"She's not done yet," Trent warns.

The third barrel is where things get interesting. Buttercup's feeling good now, wanting to go faster, and I can see Kenzie having to work to keep her collected. But she manages it, bringing the mare through the turn and pointing her toward the finish.

That's when Sir Clucks-a-Lot decides to help.

The damn rooster comes tearing across the pasture like his tail feathers are on fire, probably chasing some imaginary threat or just looking to cause trouble. Buttercup sees him coming and decides this requires immediate evacuation.

"Oh, shit," Asher breathes.

The mare goes hard to the left, then bucks once for good measure. I hold my breath, waiting for Kenzie to hit the dirt and end her tourist barrel racing dreams permanently.

But she doesn't. She sticks to that saddle like glue, one hand in the mare's mane and the other still holding the reins, laughing like the whole thing is the best entertainment she's had all week.

"Get out of here, you pyscho!" she shouts at Sir Clucks-a-Lot.

Buttercup settles, probably as surprised as the rest of us that her rider's still aboard, and Kenzie nudges her forward to finish the course.

"Well, I'll be damned," Trent says.

"She did it," Asher adds .

"She more than did it," I say, watching Kenzie trot back toward us with a grin that says she's already planning the next phase of her business empire. "She looks like she belongs up there."

"Don't tell her that," Trent mutters. "She'll add advanced riding lessons to her presentation."

Kenzie brings Buttercup to a stop in front of us and throws her arms up in the air like she just won the National Finals Rodeo.

"Did you see that?" she demands, breathless and grinning. "Did you see me stay on when our star attraction tried to take me out?”

"Star attraction?" Asher asks.

"Sir Clucks-a-Lot. He's going to be a huge draw for the authentic ranch experience. He might even be on our logo."

Logo? What the hell is a logo?

"He's going to send someone to the hospital," Trent says.

"Even better. Adventure tourism with real risk."

I reach up to help her down from the saddle. "Impressive riding, princess."

"Impressive hell, that was rodeo-quality," Asher adds.

"Don't let it go to your head," Trent warns.

I catch her around the waist as she swings her leg over, lifting her clear of the saddle and spinning her around until she's laughing and telling me to put her down.

"That was amazing," she says when I set her feet on the ground. "I mean, terrifying, but amazing. And I'm pretty sure we could charge extra for the Sir Clucks-a-Lot experience. Oof, I'm gonna be sore later," she says, rubbing her behind.

I want to volunteer to help.

"We're not charging anyone to get attacked by a rooster."

"Why not? It's authentic."

"It's a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"That's what liability waivers are for."

She's got an answer for everything. It's annoying as hell and completely endearing at the same time.

"So what's the verdict?" she asks, looking between the three of us. "Did I surprise you?"

We all lost our bets, technically. She'd not only made it around the course, she'd looked good doing it. Even when that damned rooster tried to sabotage the whole thing.

"You surprised us," Trent admits.

"Shocked us, more like," Asher adds.

"Impressed the hell out of us," I finish.

"Excellent. So when do we start construction on the guest facilities?"

All three of us just stare at her .

"What? I proved I can ride. That's clearly a marketable skill."

"Princess, staying on a horse for five minutes doesn't qualify you to teach riding lessons."

"But it's a start. And with proper training?—"

"No guest facilities," Trent says firmly.

"But the revenue potential?—"

"No tourists," Asher adds.

"But the market research shows?—"

"No charts," I finish.

She looks between us, clearly realizing she's lost this round. "Fine. But I'm keeping the presentation. For future reference."

"You do that."

"And when you realize I'm right about this, I expect full creative control over the guest experience design."

"When pigs fly," Trent says.

"When Sir Clucks-a-Lot starts being friendly to strangers," Asher adds.

"When you stop trying to turn our ranch into Disneyland," I finish.

She grins. "So there's still hope."

"We'll see," all three of us say at the same time.

"Okay. We'll see," she squeals, the hope in her expression impossible to extinguish.

And looking at the determination in her eyes, I have a sinking feeling we might actually end up with paying guests sooner rather than later.

We're halfway back to the house when Asher catches up and steals Kenzie right out from under my arm, spinning her around and kissing her like she just solved world hunger instead of staying on a horse for five minutes.

"That was incredible," he says.

"It was just a few barrels and a crazy rooster," she protests.

"It was you being fearless and stubborn."

Before she can respond, Trent's there too, pulling her away from Asher for his own kiss.

"Proud of you," he says when they break apart.

"For staying on a horse?"

"For not breaking your neck."

I watch this little display and realize that three months ago, none of this existed. We were just guys trying to keep a ranch running and barely making it work, and she was a city girl who'd inherited a property she didn't want.

Now, she's planning to turn us into a tourist destination and we're actually considering it. Sort of.

"My turn," I announce, moving in to claim my own kiss.

Her mouth tastes like victory and trouble, which pretty much sums up everything about her.

"So," I say when we break apart, "think you can survive another thirty days? "

It's a callback to the original timeline, back when she was supposed to decide whether to sell the place and go back to her old life. Before she started making business plans and color-coding feed bins.

She grins. "I think I can manage. But you better ask me again in thirty days. Just to be sure."

"Deal."

Because thirty days from now, we'll still be here. Probably arguing about whether city folks should be allowed to pay money to shovel horse shit and whether Sir Clucks-a-Lot counts as a legitimate tourist attraction.

And thirty days after that, when she's probably figured out how to turn the whole operation into some kind of ranch resort complete with sunset cattle drives and authentic cowboy experiences.

Hell, maybe she's right. Maybe there are people stupid enough to pay good money to do our jobs. Wouldn't be the first time I underestimated what city folks will throw money at.

But tourist or no tourist, guest ranch or working ranch, she'll still be here. Still trying to improve everything, still making charts, still wearing our shirts and stealing our coffee and making us all a little crazy with her big ideas and bigger smile.

Sir Clucks-a-Lot chooses that moment to come strutting around the corner, looking for someone to terrorize. He spots the four of us and puffs up his feathers like he's personally offended by our happiness .

"Think he knows he's going to be famous?" Kenzie asks.

"Think he's plotting his next attack," Trent says.

"Think he's planning his retirement from show business," Asher adds.

"Think he can plan all he wants," I say, pulling Kenzie closer. "We're not going anywhere."

And as we head toward the house, arguing about whose turn it is to cook dinner and whether rooster attacks qualify as dinner entertainment, I realize this is it. This is what we've got now—a working ranch, a woman with big ideas, and a psychotic bird who might just end up making us all rich.

Stranger things have happened. Though not many.