Page 3 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

“Give the girl a prize.” My tone is sharper than intended, but panic is setting in. “I need to get to Maine, Brè. Like, yesterday.”

“I hear you. Fear not, my little chaos muffin,” Brè chirps, her tone aggressively upbeat. “Everything’s totally fine. Totally under control. Totally fixable.”

The sheer number of totallys makes me think that this is, in fact, totally not fine.

“We just need a miracle, a backup plan, and maybe—just maybe—a cowboy with a plane. Easy peasy.” She says sounding all chipper.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Let me check for flights.” She types furiously, like she’s trying to break the keyboard. “Shit. Next direct isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s too late. The Gathering starts tomorrow morning.”

“I know, I know, I’m on it.” More clacking. “Okay, there’s one with two layovers...gets you there by... late tomorrow night.”

I exhale sharply. As I scan the carousel, the last of the bags roll away. None of them are mine.

“It just keeps getting better.”

“What?”

“My luggage is MIA.”

“I’ll call you back,” I mutter.

I approach the airline desk, give the attendant my best help-me-or-I-will-cry face, and brace for the next wave of incompetence. Because apparently, flight chaos wasn’t enough—the universe wanted to go full disaster movie.

Twenty minutes later, I leave the desk with a sad little overnight kit, a hotline number to check when my rogue luggage turns up, and a cheerful “maybe tomorrow” from the airline staff. Also? Every flight to Maine is either full or doesn’t exist.

I call Brè back.

“So what’s the plan?” she asks.

“There isn’t one. I’m stuck in Texas. No luggage. No hotel. And apparently, it’s rodeo season, so every room within ten miles is booked solid.”

“The universe is really testing your control freak levels right now.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny. I mean, Mia Bonney, world-class swimmer, Machu Picchu conqueror, fearless shark diver—taken out by a ticketing error.”

I groan, but I can’t stop the laugh that slips. “Okay. A little funny.”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“A sign your niece needs a new job?”

“Be nice. No, I mean maybe you're meant to write about that Portree instead.”

I pause. To be fair, it’s not all her fault. I’m great at most things, and I may write about exotic places for a living, but geography? Not my strong suit.

Case in point: I once wrote an entire piece about hiking in the Blue Mountains of Australia... only to find out after publication that I’d actually been in the Grampians. My editor nearly fainted. I blamed jet lag. And wine. Mostly wine.

So yeah, ending up in a town I didn’t actually book a trip to? Weirdly on-brand for me. Which is why I usually triple check travel bookings…clearly just not this time.

“What about the Gathering?”

“I’ll send someone else that’s closer to it. But come on, Mia. Wrong-turn travel stories? Reader gold. And if there's a rodeo in Portree...”

I stare at the airport sign for ground transport. “You want me to write about cowboys instead of ancient spiritual traditions.”

“I want you to make lemonade, sweetheart. You’re already there. Take a couple days in Wellington to regroup, then swing by Portree. Why not make it a fun detour?”

“Because cows, Brè. Do I sound like the kind of woman who spends any amount of time in the vicinity of cows?!”

She snorts. “No. You sound like someone who's about to write the funniest damn travel piece of her career.”

I rub my temple. My inner planner is already screaming, the same part that has my Olympic swim training schedule memorized and color-coded, and backed up in three formats. I like knowing what’s coming. I like structure, plans, checklists.

And yet…

Some deeply buried, reckless part of me—the same one that, exactly once and against all better judgment, said yes to skydiving over the Swiss Alps—starts to stir.

God help me, I’m intrigued.

“Three nights. I’ll check it out. I’ll stay in Wellington tonight, then find a room in Portree and report back.”

“Perfect. And hey—try to have fun, will you? Consider this your last hurrah before swim camp eats your soul.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I'm going shopping. On the company card.

If I have to spend the next few days in an ‘I ? Portree’ tourist hoodie, I swear—”

“Oh, that's the new cover image for your article.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” She hangs up with a snort.

I book an overpriced room in Wellington and get a rental car.

The sun is setting as I pull into the parking lot of Millman's Department Store, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet.

Despite my frustration, I can't help but notice the beauty of it—so different from the city sunsets I'm used to, where buildings interrupt the horizon and light pollution dims the colors.

I grab my phone and snap a quick photo. At least I'll have something to show Brè.

Inside Millman's, I’m hit with a mix of fabric softener, leather, and something vaguely sweet, like cinnamon. An older man with a weathered face and kind eyes approaches. “Can I help you find something, miss?”

“I need...well, everything,” I admit with a laugh. “My luggage got lost so…”

He nods sagely, as if lost travelers are a common occurrence. “Clothing's in the back left, aisle seven. Toiletries are aisle six. Anything else you need, just holler for Max.” He points to himself with a thumb.

“Thanks, Max.”

Wellington is easily ten degrees warmer than where I was supposed to land, and my wardrobe? Laughably wrong. A wardrobe adjustment is desperately needed.

I found myself pulling denim cut-off shorts off the racks — the kind that look like they could change a life, a few flirty “ bless your heart ” tops, soft jeans.

I complete my new wardrobe with a few summer dresses— soft, floral summer dresses that seemed almost made to catch the Southern breeze.

They cinche in at the waist, scoop daringly low at the bust, and float down to end just a teasing two inches above the knee.

The kind that scream I didn't plan this but I look amazing anyway.

The kind of dresses one seem to only come across in the South.

They just make things different here, I muse to myself.

I tell myself I’m being practical, building a wardrobe that won't leave me melting into a puddle by noon. Sensible, right? Logical.

Then I see it.

Lace. A delicate, barely-there set of ruby red lingerie — so soft, so sinful, it looks like it was stitched together with temptation and terrible decisions.

Completely unnecessary. Completely mine the second my fingers brush the fabric.

After the morning I’ve had, I deserve a little indulgence, don’t I?

The world can go to complete hell, but if you feel sexy while it burns, somehow it all feels a little less tragic.

I grab it. Shameless. Victorious.

The morning’s chaos is still clinging to me, but for the first time today, I feel like I’m one step ahead of it. Like I’ve wrestled back a shred of control.

A new outfit, a new plan, a new town. I can work with this.

I shift the pile of clothes in my arms, take a breath that doesn’t taste like panic…

And head down the aisle to check out.