Page 5 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

ASHER

“She's all yours, Ash," Trent says, dumping a tool bag at my feet with the same enthusiasm most people reserve for taking out the trash. The bag lands with a metallic clatter that makes Kenzie jump.

She's standing by his truck looking like she went ten rounds in a boxing ring and lost. Her hair's still damp from her shower, pulled back in a ponytail that shows off the curve of her neck and the faint red mark where hay scratched her earlier.

She's changed into clean jeans and a tank top that's already showing signs of stress from the Montana heat.

There's a smudge of something—hopefully not manure—on her shoulder that she missed.

Perfection.

"Fence repair?" She eyes the tool bag like it might contain live snakes. "Please tell me that's less disgusting than stall mucking."

"Depends on your definition of disgusting." I hoist the bag into the truck bed, making sure to flex just enough to catch her attention. Her eyes track my movement before snapping back to my face. Interesting. "Less shit, but more splinters. Possible rattlers. Sometimes all of the above."

"Okay great," she sighs, pulling her ponytail tighter. "Because why would anything on this ranch be simple? Or safe? Or like, not deadly?"

"Simple's boring, darlin'."

"I could use some boring right about now. Boring sounds amazing. Boring doesn't involve demon roosters or horses with digestive issues."

Trent snorts. "You want boring, you picked the wrong inheritance." He's already walking away, probably to find some other impossible task to assign. "Section twelve needs the most work. Don't let her hammer any fingers off, Asher."

"My fingers are perfectly safe," Kenzie calls after him.

"That's what Billy said before the nail gun incident," I tell her, enjoying the way her eyes go wide.

"The what now?"

"Don't worry. He's got most of his feeling back in that thumb."

Before she can respond, Billy himself appears from nowhere—kid's got the worst timing and apparently zero survival instinct—bouncing on his toes like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Can I come? I'm really good at fence repair!" His voice cracks on 'repair,' and he flushes red. "I can show you how to use the post driver and everything! And the wire stretcher! And I know which posts are rotten and which ones just look rotten but are actually okay and?—"

The kid's looking at Kenzie like she hung the moon, taught it to sing, and personally delivered it to his doorstep. His puppy love is so obvious, it's embarrassing.

"That's really sweet, Billy—" Kenzie starts.

"Billy!" Gavin's voice cuts through the air like a whip crack from the barn. "Get your ass in here. You're on stall duty."

"But I just did stalls yesterday!" Billy's voice goes up an octave in protest.

"And you'll do them today too. Unless you'd rather explain to Trent why Whiskey's stall isn't cleaned before the vet gets here?"

"The vet's coming?" Billy pales. "But it's not Thursday!"

"Emergency call. Something about Whiskey's—" Gavin pauses for dramatic effect. "Digestive situation."

Billy's shoulders slump in defeat. He looks at Kenzie with the expression of a man heading to the gallows.

"Maybe later we could... I mean, if you want.

.. I could show you around town? There's a diner with really good pie.

And a store that sells those fancy coffee drinks you like. Not as fancy as city coffee but?—"

"That's sweet, Billy. Maybe another time." Kenzie gives him a smile that's gentle but clearly friendzoned.

The poor kid lights up like she just promised to marry him. "Really? That would be—I mean, yeah, cool. Whenever." He trudges off toward the barn, throwing longing looks over his shoulder and nearly walking into a fence post.

"That was cruel," I tell her, opening the passenger door of my truck. Unlike Trent's vehicle, which looks like it's held together by rust and stubborn pride, mine's actually from this decade. "Giving him hope like that."

"I was being nice!" She climbs in, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo—something fruity that definitely didn't come from the ranch supply store.

"Nice is cruel when it comes to puppy love.

" I start the truck, enjoying the way she has to grab the oh-shit handle when I take the first turn faster than necessary.

The road's rough, and she bounces slightly in her seat, her tits jiggling in what's probably some fancy designer bra.

"He's probably already planning your wedding. "

"He is not."

"Yesterday he asked Gavin what kind of flowers you like."

Her mouth drops open. "No."

"He's going with roses, in case you’re wondering. Red ones. Already priced them at Clara Mae's shop. "

"Clara Mae sells flowers?"

"Clara Mae sells everything. Flowers, gossip, ammunition, questionable medical advice. She's like Amazon if Amazon was run by a seventy-year-old woman with no filter."

She laughs, and it's this genuine, unguarded sound that makes something in my chest do things it shouldn't. Things that have no business happening over a woman who's leaving in twenty-six days.

"Poor Billy," she says, but she's still smiling.

"Poor Billy nothing. Kid's living the dream—pretty girl showed up at his workplace, actually knows his name, and smiled at him twice." I glance over at her, taking in the way the afternoon sun makes her skin glow. "Even if she is way out of his league."

"Oh? And what league am I in?"

Dangerous territory. But I've never been one to play it safe. Safe doesn't get you anywhere interesting.

"The kind where cowboys like me have to work for your attention instead of just expecting it."

She shifts in her seat to face me better, and I can feel her studying me. "Is that what you're doing? Working for my attention?"

"Maybe." I pull up to the fence line that needs repair, parking under the partial shade of a scraggly tree. "Or maybe I just like watching you try to figure me out."

"You're not that complicated, Asher."

"No?"

"No." She hops out of the truck, and I follow her around to the bed. "You're the charmer. The smooth talker. The one who probably has three different girls in town waiting for you to call."

"Two, actually. And one's married now, so she doesn't count."

She rolls her eyes, but she's fighting a smile. "The point is, you think you can negotiate your way into anything."

"Can't I?" I pull the tool bag out, letting my arm brush hers as I reach past her.

"We'll see." She grabs a hammer from the bag, weighing it in her hand. "So what's wrong with this fence anyway?"

"See those posts?" I point to several that are listing like drunk sailors. "Cattle like to scratch against them. Eventually, they work them loose. Then one good storm or one determined bull, and you've got livestock everywhere."

"And that's bad?"

"Depends. Do you enjoy chasing cattle through Clara Mae's vegetable garden at two in the morning while she shoots at you with rock salt?"

"That's oddly specific."

"Voice of experience. Clara Mae's got good aim for someone who claims she needs glasses."

"Sounds like a true Montana girl," Kenzie says with a surprising twinge of hope.

Interesting.

Watching Kenzie try to hammer in a nail is like watching a toddler try to perform surgery while wearing oven mitts.

She's got determination, I'll give her that, but her technique is completely wrong.

The hammer looks awkward in her grip, like she's never held anything heavier than a champagne flute—which, according to Trent, she hasn't.

"You're choking up too high," I tell her after she bends her fourth nail in a row. The poor nail looks like a question mark.

"I'm choking something," she mutters, attacking another nail with the kind of violence usually reserved for ex-boyfriends' photos. This one bends into an S-shape before she even gets it halfway in.

"Also, you're swinging from your shoulder. It's all in the wrist."

"If one more person tells me it's all in the wrist—" She swings again, and this nail doesn't just bend—it launches itself sideways like a tiny missile, whistling past my ear and disappearing into the grass.

"Okay, that's it." I move behind her, covering her hand with mine on the hammer. "Before you kill one of us. Or both of us. Or some innocent cow just minding its business."

She stiffens when I press against her back, every muscle going taut. But she doesn't pull away. "I can figure it out myself. "

"Sure you can. But I like my eyes where they are.

And my insurance doesn't cover death by nail projectile.

" I adjust her grip, my arms bracketing hers, my chest against her back.

She's warm from the sun, and this close, I can smell something vanilla mixed with her shampoo.

"Looser here. Let the weight of the hammer do the work. "

"Easy for you to say. You've probably been hammering things since you could walk."

"Earlier, actually. Trent's dad gave me my first tool set when I was two. Real tools, not the plastic kind. Said a man needs to know how to fix what he breaks."

"That's either really progressive or really dangerous."

"Both. Still have the scar from my first saw." I guide her hand through a practice swing, keeping my voice low and instructive. "See? Smooth motion. Don't fight it."

We swing together, and the nail goes in clean. One smooth motion, perfectly straight.

"Holy shit, I did it!" She sounds so genuinely excited that I can't help but laugh.

"You did. Only took five sacrificial nails to get there."

"Don't ruin my moment." But she's relaxing against me now, letting me guide her through another swing. "This is actually kind of satisfying."

"Wait until you learn to use a nail gun."

"Is that the thing that attacked Billy's thumb? "

"Allegedly. Though knowing Billy, his thumb probably attacked the nail gun." Another swing, another perfect nail. My mouth is right by her ear now, close enough that I can see the goose bumps rise on her neck despite the heat. "You're getting good at this.”