Page 46 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

"Because horses don't hold still for downward dog, and I'm not explaining to someone's insurance company why they fell off during warrior pose."

"You could call it 'Equine Enlightenment,'" Asher suggests. "Very spiritual."

"Or 'Zen and the Art of Not Getting Trampled,'" Trent adds .

"You're all hilarious. What's next, goat yoga?"

"Actually," Gavin says, "the next ranch over just started goat yoga classes. Booked solid through Christmas."

I stare at him. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Thirty bucks a session. People drive up from Denver for it."

"We don't have goats."

"We could get goats," Asher points out.

"We are not getting goats for yoga classes."

"Why not? You got us to agree to tourists. Goats are nothing compared to that."

"The tourists pay well and don't require additional livestock purchases."

"But think of the Instagram potential," Gavin says. "Cute baby goats plus stressed-out city people trying to do yoga. It's viral content waiting to happen."

What have I done? Six months ago, the term "viral content" never would have passed these guys' lips.

"Sir Clucks-a-Lot would terrorize the goats."

"Even better. Action shots."

I shake my head, but I'm laughing despite myself. "You're all insane."

"Says the woman who convinced us to charge people fifty bucks to shovel horse shit."

"That's 'authentic agricultural immersion,'" I correct. "Completely different."

"Right. So what's the difference between that and goat yoga? "

"About twenty liability lawsuits and a barn full of animals I don't want to feed."

"Fair point," Trent says. "Goats are escape artists. We'd spend half our time chasing them down."

"Plus, they eat everything," Asher adds. "Including things that aren't food."

"Like guest luggage," I say. "Which Sir Clucks-a-Lot already handles quite efficiently."

"Speaking of which," Gavin says, "did you see today's review? Five stars, specifically mentions the 'surprise rooster encounter' during the afternoon trail ride."

"Excellent. That will balance out the one-star review we got that says 'the sun on the ranch came up too early.'"

His mouth drops open.

"Sir Clucks is getting predictable. Pretty soon, guests are going to expect him to show up," Asher says.

"Maybe we should put him on a schedule," Gavin suggests. "Rooster attacks at ten, noon, and four."

"But does that defeat the purpose of the authentic ranch experience?"

"Nothing about this place is authentic anymore," Trent points out. "We've got a celebrity chicken with his own social media following."

"Don't forget the color-coded feed bins," Gavin adds.

"And the guest satisfaction surveys," Asher says, gesturing at the papers in my lap .

"And the fact that we're seriously discussing goat yoga," I finish.

"Well, when you put it like that," Gavin says, "we've come a long way from a simple working ranch."

"We've come a long way from broke," Trent corrects. "Everything else is just details."

"Profitable details," I point out.

"The best kind."

Later that night, as we're all getting ready for bed, I'm brushing my teeth when Gavin appears in the bathroom doorway with a towel around his waist and that grin that means trouble.

"So, about that goat yoga idea?—"

"I don't know, Gavin," I say around my toothbrush.

"Hear me out. What if we called it 'Barnyard Zen'?"

"Well..."

Asher pushes past him, already in pajama pants. "Gav, goats are a terrible idea. But what about llama trekking?"

I spit out toothpaste. "Llama trekking?"

"Think about it. Llamas are trendy. Very Instagram-worthy. And they're pack animals, so we could do overnight camping experiences."

"Where exactly are we getting these llamas?" Trent asks from the bedroom .

"Same place we'd get the goats," Asher calls back. "The internet."

"We are not buying livestock off the internet," I say firmly.

"Why not? That's how we got half our current guests."

"Guests are different from livestock."

"Are they though?" Gavin asks. "Both require feeding, both need constant supervision, both leave messes for us to clean up."

"Guests pay us. Llamas cost money."

"Guests also complain that the sun comes up too early and ask where the nearest Starbucks is," Trent points out. "Llamas don't do that."

"Llamas spit," I remind them.

"So do some of our guests," Asher says. "Remember Mr. Johnson from last month?"

"That was chewing tobacco, not actual spitting."

"Still spitting."

I finish in the bathroom and follow them to the bedroom, where Trent's already claimed his usual territory in the middle of the bed.

"Move over," I tell him. "Some of us need space to sleep."

"You've got the whole left side."

"I've got about six inches and whatever's left after you stretch out."

"That's plenty for someone your size. "

I climb into bed anyway, squeezing between Trent and Asher while Gavin settles on the other side. It's ridiculous that four adults share one bed, but somehow we've made it work. Mostly by accepting that personal space is a luxury we gave up somewhere around month two.

"You know," I say, listening to the familiar sounds of the ranch settling down for the night, "Aunt Maybelle probably never imagined we'd turn this place into a tourist circus."

"Your aunt knew exactly what she was doing," Gavin says. "Woman didn't leave you a ranch by accident."

"She left me a failing ranch. The tourist thing was my idea."

"Was it though?" Trent asks. "Or did she know you'd figure out how to make it profitable?"

"She couldn't have predicted Sir Clucks-a-Lot becoming a social media star."

"That bird's always been an attention seeker," Asher says. "She probably counted on it."

Outside, as if summoned by the mention of his name, Sir Clucks-a-Lot lets out one of his middle-of-the-night crows. Probably alerting the world that he's still in charge around here.

"Think he knows he's famous?" I ask.

"Think he's planning his next career move," Gavin says. "Celebrity endorsements, maybe a reality show."

"Don't give him ideas. "

"Too late. I saw him posing with that travel blogger yesterday. He's got natural camera instincts."

"Great. A rooster with Hollywood ambitions."

"Could be worse," Trent says. "Could be a rooster with political ambitions."

"Don't even joke about that."

As I drift off to sleep, wedged between three men I somehow convinced that running a guest ranch was a good idea, I can't help but laugh at how ridiculous my life has become.

Chaotic, profitable, and completely impossible to explain to anyone who doesn't understand why people pay good money to shovel horse shit and get terrorized by poultry.

Even if that reality includes a fame-hungry rooster and the distinct possibility that we'll eventually cave and buy goats for yoga classes.

Especially then.

I hope you enjoyed My Cowboy Trouble!

Please check out the next book in this collection …

My Cowboy Chaos

And…

My Cowboy Desires

Find all Mika Lane books here.