Page 8 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

KENZIE

The coffee is actually good this morning.

Not city-good, but I've discovered that if I use twice my usual amount of sugar, it becomes drinkable.

Almost enjoyable, even. I'm standing on the porch, cradling my mug like it contains the secrets of the universe, watching the sun paint the mountains gold.

It's stupidly beautiful here. Like, offensively gorgeous.

The kind of view people pay thousands of dollars for at some bougie resort, except here, it comes with a side of horse shit and a demon rooster who's currently strutting across the yard side-eyeing me, acting like he wants to eat me rather than the other way around.

"Enjoying the view? "

I nearly jump out of my skin. Trent's standing behind me, looking disapproving. I'm starting to think that's just his face. Resting Ranch Boss Face.

"Jesus, you need a bell or something," I say, pressing a hand to my racing heart. "Like a cat. A very large, grumpy cat."

"You're supposed to be at the barn." He looks at his watch, one of those practical things that probably tells time in seventeen different zones and can survive a nuclear blast. "Morning chores started fifteen minutes ago."

"I'm having coffee. It's a sacred ritual. Even prisoners get coffee."

"Prisoners don't inherit ranches."

He has a point.

His eyes narrow at my mug like it personally offends him. "And they definitely don't stand around admiring views when there's work to be done."

"Has anyone ever told you that you'd make an excellent dictator? You've got the disapproving glare down pat. Very authoritarian. Very 'work will set you free.'"

"That's a fascist slogan."

"Exactly my point."

His jaw tightens, and I can see him counting to ten in his head. Maybe twenty. "What were you doing, banging around in the kitchen last night?"

Oh. That. Yeah.

I shrug to make light of one of my most baffling quirks. Baffling to other people. Makes perfect sense to me, though.

"It relaxes me to organize things. Anything. So I went to town on the spice cabinet."

Even though Trent's face goes red, I'm pretty sure he's about to thank me. "Wait 'til you see it.” I smile proudly. “Everything's in alphabetical order, labels facing front. Not a thing out of place.”

He looks down at his feet, shifting like he's stalling for time. "Those spices… were exactly where we wanted them to be. They've been kept in their same spots for years and we know where to find everything we need?—"

"Oh really? Because it was a huge freaking mess and I personally think I did you a big favor?—"

With a grunt, he starts to say something but cuts himself off. He just looks at the horizon, as if to avoid looking at me. "The horses need feeding."

"Well, I'm sure they do. It is morning after all. And I will feed them. After I finish my coffee." I take a deliberately slow sip, maintaining eye contact. "Can I offer you a coffee, Trent? Even tyrants should be well-caffeinated before terrorizing their staff."

"You're not staff. You're the owner."

"Then I'm giving myself a coffee break. I'll give you one too, if you're nice to me."

"That's not how this works."

"Isn't it?" I lean against the porch railing, noting how his eyes track the movement. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've forgotten who actually owns this place."

Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something else—and he steps closer. Close enough that I can smell whatever soap he uses, something clean and masculine that has no business making my stomach flutter.

"You want to talk about ownership?" His voice has dropped to that dangerous quiet that makes smart people run. Too bad I've never been accused of being smart. "You've been here four days. Four. Days. I've been here my entire life. I've bled for this ranch, sweated for it, gave up?—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

"Gave up what?" I ask, genuinely curious now.

"Nothing. Just get to work." He turns to leave, then stops. "And Kenzie? That coffee you're drinking? I made it. You're welcome."

He stalks off toward the barn, leaving me standing there with my mouth open and my coffee suddenly tasting like crow.

Well, shit.

I follow him to the barn, finding him already deep in morning chores, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice. He doesn't look up when I enter, just points to a pile of feed buckets.

"Horses first. Two scoops each. Whiskey gets a special supplement—the green container. Don't forget to check water. "

"Good morning to you too," I mutter, grabbing the buckets.

"Morning was fifteen minutes ago."

"You're really hung up on this time thing."

"Time management is the difference between a successful ranch and bankruptcy."

"And here I thought it was the difference between normal people and obsessive-compulsive dictators."

He finally looks at me, and there's something almost like amusement in his eyes. Almost. "You always this mouthy in the morning?"

"Only when someone interrupts my coffee time." I start measuring out feed, trying to remember which horse is which. They all look the same to me—large, brown, possibly plotting my death. "Which one's Whiskey again?"

"The one that looks like he wants to kill you."

"They all look like that."

"Then you're learning." He moves past me to grab a halter, and his arm brushes mine. It's barely a touch, but my skin lights up like someone hit it with a cattle prod. "Whiskey's in stall seven. Try not to let him bite you."

"He bites?"

"Only people he doesn't respect."

"Great. A horse with judgment issues."

"He's got excellent judgment, actually." Trent's mouth twitches. "He bit Gavin twice yesterday."

"I take it back. Whiskey's my new favorite. "

I make my way to stall seven, where a massive horse is eyeing me like I'm either breakfast or entertainment. Probably both.

"Hey, Whiskey," I say, trying to sound confident. "I come bearing food and supplements. Please don't eat my fingers."

The horse snorts, which I choose to interpret as agreement rather than contempt. I dump the feed into his bucket and add the supplement, managing to avoid his teeth when he lunges for the food.

"See? We're practically best friends now," I tell him.

"You're talking to the horse."

Trent's watching me from the next stall, and I can't read his expression.

"He's a good listener. Better than some humans I know."

"Horses don't care about your coffee rituals."

"No, but they also don't judge my time management skills."

"That's because they don't have any. Like someone else I know."

I'm about to retort when Billy bursts into the barn, looking frantic. "Trent! We've got a problem! The bull got out and he's over in Clara Mae's vegetable garden and she's threatening to shoot him and?—"

"Slow down." Trent's already moving, grabbing a rope from the wall. "When did he get out?"

"Maybe an hour ago? I tried to get him back but he charged me and?—"

"Christ." Trent looks at me. "Can you finish feeding?"

"I can help with the bull," I offer, not sure why.

He actually laughs. "You? With Brutus? You can barely handle Sir Clucks-a-Lot."

"That's different. That rooster is possessed."

"And Brutus is two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef with a grudge against anything that moves." He heads for the door. "Just finish the feeding. Try not to burn down the barn."

He and Billy disappear, leaving me alone with a barn full of horses who are all looking at me expectantly.

"Well," I tell them. "Guess it's just us now. Anyone want to share their feelings about our local dictator?"

Whiskey snorts again. I think I like this horse.

By the time Trent returns, I've finished feeding all the horses, refilled water buckets, and even attempted to muck out a stall. I'm feeling pretty proud of myself until I see his expression.

"You fed Thunder twice."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's bloated and looking smug." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in ways that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely are. "And you didn't latch Pepper's stall properly. She's been visiting everyone."

I look over to see a small mare casually hanging out in what I'm pretty sure is supposed to be an empty stall.

"She seemed lonely."

"She's a horse, not a therapy patient."

"Animals have feelings too. Maybe if you weren't such an emotional robot, you'd understand that."

"I understand that horses need structure and routine, not someone projecting their feelings onto them."

"I'm not projecting!"

"You told Whiskey about your coffee ritual."

"You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a barn, not a confessional. Voices carry." He grabs another rope from the wall, testing its weight. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"You need to learn how to handle a rope."

"That sounds like a line from a bad porno."

He stops so abruptly, I almost run into his back. When he turns, his face is blank, but there's color high on his cheekbones.

"It's a basic ranch skill," he says slowly, like he's explaining to a child. "If you can't rope, you can't work cattle."

"Right. Cattle. The things that moo."

"Jesus Christ." He continues walking, leading me to a small corral where several practice dummies are set up. They look like sad scarecrow versions of cows. "We'll start with stationary targets."

"They have horns."

"Very observant."

"I'm just saying, seems like mixed signals. Are we roping them, or are they going to gore us?"

"Both, if you're not careful." He hands me the rope. "The key is in the wrist."

"Everything's in the wrist with you people."

"You people?"

"Cowboys. Ranch types. Men who think everything can be solved with proper wrist action."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I realize how that sounded. My face goes hot.

"Just... show me how to do the thing," I mutter.