KENZIE
"No, Gerald, I don't care if our vegan influencer is having a meltdown about the canapés. Tell her the mushroom pâté is locally sourced and—" I press my phone harder against my ear, trying to block out the coffee shop racket surrounding me. "Gerald? GERALD?"
Dead air. Just. Great.
I stare at my phone, which had decided this was the perfect moment to run out of juice. Because of course it did. And it had nothing to do with the fact that I am the biggest slacker in the world at recharging my phone.
Not ideal when you're running, or trying to run, your own business.
Every year, my New Year's resolution is the same—plug your goddamn phone in.
Blaming the phone is so much easier.
And now, my biggest client is probably screaming into the void. His launch party is in three hours. I am nowhere close to wrangling the influencers I promised would deliver him top-notch publicity. In fact, they are rebelling like the spoiled, entitled little shits they are.
I finally find my phone charger and plug it into the outlet just next to my table, like I should have done an hour ago.
I could just hide out in this coffee shop for the rest of the day. No one knows I am here. 'Course I'd lose my top client, not be able to pay my rent, nor afford my shoe habit, nor continue to pay six dollars for a freaking latte at a place that never gets my name right and where the baristas are borderline hostile.
"Triple-shot oat-milk latte for Katie!" the barista screams above the clamor.
Close enough. I grab my second cup coffee of the day and cell phone, now loaded with a five percent charge, and weave through the crowd of people who have nothing better to do at two o'clock on a Thursday than camp out with their laptops and judge my visible panic.
The phone buzzes just as I reach the door. Not Gerald calling back—that would be too easy. Instead, it's a video call request from someone named Henry Phelps.
I answer because honestly, my day couldn't get worse. At this point, I'd rather speak to a scammer than get yelled at by my client.
I force some pep into my voice. It does not work. "Kenzi here," I say with a sigh as a picture of my caller comes into view.
"Ms. Rhodes?" A man in a bow tie blinks at me through thick glasses. "I'm Henry Phelps, your great-aunt Maybelle's attorney."
Great-Aunt Maybelle. The one who sent me a birthday card every year with a crisp five-dollar bill and a note about finding myself a "good strong man with rough hands." I'd met her exactly twice in my life, and both times, she'd told me I needed to eat more bacon.
"I'm calling about her estate," Henry continues, shuffling papers as if computers and tablets were never invented. "She's left you something rather... substantial."
I sputtered and dribbled latte down my chin and onto my white blouse. "Substantial like a collection of ceramic cats, or substantial like actual money?"
I wasn't a beat-around-the-bush kind of girl.
"Ms. Rhodes, she's left you the Dusty Spur Ranch. Two hundred acres in Montana, including livestock, equipment, and all structures therein."
I stop in my tracks, blocking the sidewalk. Passersby throw me the stink eye as they step around me. "I'm sorry, did you just say ranch? Like with cows and... hay?"
"Cattle, technically. And yes, hay. Among other things." He clears his throat. "There is, however, a condition, Ms. Rhodes."
A condition. Also known as a catch. Because of course. Nothing in my life comes easily or is unaccompanied by some sort of stupid drama. Or in the case of my business, detailed contracts drawn up by rich lawyers.
Ever.
"What's the hitch, Henry?"
He sighs.
Damn video calls. Pretty sure he just caught me rolling my eyes.
"That's what I'm getting to, Ms. Rhodes. You must live and work on the ranch for thirty consecutive days. If you leave before the time is up, the property transfers to the Willis County Cattlemen's Association."
"Thirty days? Did you say thirty days? Or three days?" I laugh, but it comes out slightly hysterical. "I don't even camp. I consider it roughing it when a hotel doesn't have a spa. You want me to what—milk cows?"
Oh hell no.
"The dairy operation was discontinued in 2018," he says like that would make me feel better. "It's primarily a cattle ranch now. The current staff can assist with your transition."
Transition? Transition to what? Wearing plaid flannel shirts and Daisy Duke shorts? Hell, that's what I wore two Halloweens ago.
And current staff? Right. Because nothing says "welcome to your inheritance" like a bunch of strangers judging me for not knowing which end of a cow is which.
I snort. "When would I need to—"
"Immediately, I'm afraid. The will stipulates you must take possession within seven days of notification."
I stand there on the sidewalk, holding my overpriced coffee and nearly dead phone, while some lawyer named Henry tells me I've inherited a whole-ass ranch. With cows. And hay. And thirty days of what will probably be my personal hell.
But also... two hundred acres. In this economy? That has to be worth something. Enough to save my company, pay off my credit cards, maybe even buy an apartment where the radiator doesn't sound like a death metal band.
"Ms. Rhodes? Are you still there?" Henry asks, probably praying I turn him down so the local cattle club, or whatever he called it, can swoop in and make his life easier.
"Yeah, I'm..." I catch my reflection in a store window—designer dress, Louboutin heels I snagged on sale, and hair that cost more to maintain than most people's car payments. "I'm thinking."
Which is a big fat lie. I already know what I’m doing. Because Kenzie Rhodes doesn't back down from a challenge, even if that challenge involves whatever the hell owning a ranch means.
"Send me the details," I say, already mentally making lists of what to pack. "I'll be there in three days."
* * *
Three days, two flights, and one rental car later, I am standing in a mud puddle.
Not next to a mud puddle. Not near a mud puddle. In a mud puddle. One that has all but eaten my Jimmy Choo pump like it's offended by the fact that my shoes are from last season.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." I try to pull my foot free, but the mud slurps and sucks at my shoe, mocking me for even trying. That's when I realize my "country casual" sundress—so cute in the Bloomingdales' dressing room—is now splattered with mud as well.
Is this a trap, designed to teach me some sort of life lesson? I look around for cameras. They must be well-hidden.
The ranch, all two hundred acres of it, sprawls out in front of me like something from a movie, if that movie's about city girls who make terrible life choices. Mountains in the distance, actual tumbleweeds, and a collection of buildings that look like they've been standing since cowboys were an actual profession and not just a category on dating apps.
That's when I hear it. A sound that will haunt my dreams.
"BWAAACK!"
The demon appears from behind a fence post. I expected animals, obviously. Horses, cows, maybe some goats. But not a rooster the size of a turkey armed with the attitude of a serial killer.
It struts toward me with the confidence of something that's never lost a fight, its head bobbing like it's sizing me up for lunch. One of its eyes is slightly cloudy, which somehow makes it worse. Like it had seen some shit and lived to terrorize another day.
"Nice... chicken?" I try, still stuck in my mud trap. "Good chicken?"
It tilts its head, considering me with its one good eye, and lets out another ear-splitting crow that is definitely a warning.
So my first day on the ranch will also be my last. I could have just stayed in the big city where the biggest danger is getting run over by a speeding taxi cab. At least that kind of death would be quick. But being pecked to death by a grumpy chicken?
"Hey. Everything okay over here?"
The voice, accompanied by crunching footsteps, comes from behind me. The tone is deep and amused and most likely enjoying my predicament. I turn—well, try to turn, but the mud's not done with me yet—and nearly fall face-first into the puddle.
Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me. Strong, bare arms, because apparently shirts are optional at the Dusty Spur Ranch.
The man holding me is... well, the kind of problem I don't need right now with abs that could grate cheese, shoulders that belong in a "Men of Montana" calendar, and a smirk that says he knows exactly how good he looks standing there all shirtless and sweaty in his work-worn jeans.
Damn him.
"You must be the new owner," he says, not letting go of me even though I am technically stable now. "Gavin Slade. I run the horse operation."
"Hello, Gavin. I'm Kenzie Rhodes." I try for dignified, which is hard when one shoe is being held hostage and a mean rooster is circling you like you’re in a boxing ring. "And if I may say so, Gavin, you're enjoying this way too much."
"Maybe a little." His grin widens as he looks me up and down, taking in my dress, my trapped shoe, and what I'm sure is my general air of city-girl panic. "Need a hand?"
I hold my chin up. "I need a lot of things. A shower. A drink. My shoe back from this puddle that's apparently the gateway to hell."
He laughs—actually laughs—then bends down and pulls my foot free with embarrassing ease. My shoe, however, stays behind, claimed by the mud gods.
"That's a sacrifice to the ranch now," he says, straightening up. "Dusty Spur demands payment from all newcomers."
I make a mental note to come back and get it in the middle of the night. "It can have the shoe," I say breezily. "I'm keeping my soul."
"We'll see about that." He picks up my suitcase—Kate Spade, naturally—and seems to deliberately drop it. Right into another mud puddle. "Oops."
I screech. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"Welcome to ranch life, princess." He winks—actually winks—and starts walking toward the main house. "Better keep up. Sir Clucks-a-Lot gets aggressive around feeding time."
I look back at the demon rooster, now pecking at my abandoned Jimmy Choo like it might actually fight him back.
Thirty days. I just have to survive thirty days.
* * *
The inside of the main house is actually... nice. Not New York penthouse nice, but there's a certain rustic charm to its exposed beams and stone fireplace. It smells like leather and coffee and something distinctly masculine that makes me aware I'm probably the first woman to step foot in here since Aunt Maybelle died.
"You planning to work in those?"
Another voice floats over me, this one smooth as aged whiskey. I turn to find guy number two leaning against the doorframe, some kind of huge sack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. Where Gavin is all cocky grins and obvious trouble, this one's different—lazy smile, knowing eyes, the kind of casual confidence that says he doesn't need to try. And knows it.
"I have boots," I blurt as he continues to stare at my one high-heeled shoe.
Yeah, I have boots. With fringe. And heels. Made of some sort of exotic leather that may or may not be legal.
Probably not what he means.
"Yeah, I'm sure you do." He sets down the sack and extends a hand. "Asher Holt. I handle the business side of things. Negotiations, contracts, making sure Gavin doesn't sell the horses for magic beans."
"That was one time," Gavin calls from somewhere deep in the house.
Asher's handshake is firm, warm, and lasts about two seconds longer than necessary. "You're prettier than your aunt."
"She was eighty-seven."
"Still true." His thumb brushes my palm as he lets go. "I'll show you to your room. Unless you're planning to bunk with one of us? Save on heating costs?"
"In your dreams."
"Every night, darlin'."
A door slams somewhere, and suddenly the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. Not literally, but the man who walks in is all presence and barely controlled irritation.
"You're late," he barks.
Well then. This must be Trent. He looks like responsibility and hard work had gotten together and had a very unhappy baby. Broad shoulders, calloused hands, and a jaw that could cut glass. Also, he's looking at me like I'm personally responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to him.
"My flight was actually early—"
"I meant late to work. Chores started two hours ago." He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. A list. A long list. In very neat handwriting. "You can start with the chickens."
"I just got here. Like, literally just arrived. My suitcase is covered in mud, there's a demon rooster outside who wants me dead, and I'm wearing one shoe."
He looks down at my feet—one designer pump, one bare foot with chipped polish that had looked cute in the city but now seems wildly impractical—then back up at my face. Slowly. Taking his time.
"Better find that other shoe, then."
From somewhere behind me, I hear a crash. We all turn to see another guy, younger and not so confident—standing in a puddle of spilled coffee, staring at me like I descended from heaven instead of from of a rental car.
"You're... you're her," he breathes with wide eyes. "The new owner. You're so..." He went red. "I mean, welcome! I'm Billy! I work here, helping the other guys. You know, with the... the cows and... stuff."
Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. "Billy, clean that up. Asher, show her the place. Gavin, stop smirking."
"I'm not smirking," Gavin says, definitely smirking.
"And you." Trent turns that laser focus back on me. "Work starts at dawn. Every day. For thirty days. Think you can handle that, city girl?"
Something about the way he says it—dismissive, like he already decided I'd fail—makes my city-girl don't-fuck-with-me spine straighten. I've dealt with way worse than some grumpy cowboy with control issues. I've survived fashion week, PR disasters, and that one client who tried to launch an app for rating your ex's bedroom performance.
"I can handle anything you throw at me, cowboy," I challenge, hands on hips.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile, but not quite. "We'll see about that."
* * *
After I change into jeans and a T-shirt—which still probably scream "city girl trying to play country"—I find myself back in the kitchen with all three guys. And Billy, who drops things every time I look in his direction.
Poor kid.
"So here's how it's gonna go," Gavin says, boots up on the table like he owns the place. Which, technically, I guess he sort of does since he runs part of it. "You won't last a week."
My face gets warm. "Excuse me?"
"Five days, max," Asher adds, playing with a deck of cards he pulls from his shirt pocket. "You'll be running back to your fancy coffee and yoga classes before Sunday."
"I don't do yoga."
"Pilates, then."
"I don't—" I stop. I do actually do Pilates. "That's not the point."
"The point," Trent says, his voice cutting through the banter, "is that this ranch needs someone who's committed. Not someone playing dress-up for a month to get their inheritance. Not someone who thinks they can waltz into town and slum it with a bunch of cowboys for thirty days."
The dismissal in his tone, the nerve of it, makes something hot and defensive rise in my chest. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He stands, and Jesus, he's tall. "I know you've never worked a day of manual labor in your life. I know those hands have never held anything heavier than a champagne flute. And I know that the second things get hard, you'll run."
The kitchen goes quiet except for the tick of an ancient clock on the wall. Even Billy stops dropping things.
"You want to know what I know?" The words come out before I can stop them, my voice rising with each word. "I know you've all already written me off. I know you think I'm some spoiled princess who can't handle real work. And I know you're all sitting there smirking, just waiting for me to prove you right."
"Aren't you?" Gavin asks, that cocky grin still in place.
Something snaps inside me. "I'll make you all eat those words. Thirty days from now, you'll be begging me to stay."
"Big talk," Asher says, shuffling his cards with practiced ease.
"You want our respect?" Trent steps closer, his gray eyes intense. "Earn it. Thirty days of real work, no special treatment, no giving up when things get tough."
"And when I do?" I cross my arms, channeling every boardroom negotiation I've ever survived. "When I prove I can handle anything you throw at me?"
"Then we'll eat our words," Trent says, his voice quiet but firm.
"All of them," Asher adds, still shuffling his cards but watching me intently.
"Every single one," Gavin finishes with that cocky grin.
"And if you don't last?" Gavin asks with a snort.
I think about it. What do I have to lose, really? Pride? I lost that somewhere between the mud puddle and the demon rooster.
"Then I'll sign the ranch over to you three. No cattlemen's association. You get it all."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"You can't be serious," Trent says.
"Dead serious." I step closer to him, close enough to see the surprise flickering in his eyes. "Unless you're worried I might actually make it here?"
Gavin laughs, loud and delighted. "Oh, I like her."
"She has no idea what she's getting into," Trent argues, but I can see the moment his pride kicks in, his jaw tightening with determination.
"Then you have nothing to worry about." I tilt my head and throw him my best resting bitch face. "Unless you're scared of losing to a city girl with a Pilates membership."
That does it. I witness the exact moment his pride kicks in, his jaw tightening with determination.
"Fine." Trent extends his hand. "Thirty days. Starting tomorrow at dawn."
We shake, his hand completely engulfing mine, rough and warm and steadier than my pulse.
"Looking forward to it, boss," I sing-song.
He holds my hand a beat too long, his thumb brushing my knuckles just once before letting go. "I'm not your boss. You own this place, remember?"
"Then why are you giving me orders?"
"Because someone has to." He grabs his hat from the counter. "Dawn means five a.m., city girl. Set an alarm. Or three."
He walks out, leaving me with Gavin's smirk, Asher's calculating gaze, and Billy's hero worship.
"That was hot," Billy blurts, then goes red again. "I mean, not hot! Just... intense? I'm gonna go do some... stuff." He runs from the room.
Asher stands, pocketing his cards. "Word of advice? Trent hasn't lost a challenge in the ten years I've known him."
"There's a first time for everything."
"Maybe." He moves closer, close enough that I can smell his clean, simple shampoo. "But if you want to survive this, you're going to need allies. I could be very... helpful."
"I'll keep that in mind, Asher."
"You do that." He winks and saunters out, leaving me with Gavin.
"Just you and me then, princess." He stands, moving into my space with the confidence of someone who's never been turned down. "Want to know a secret?"
"Is it the location of a Starbucks?"
"Better." He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "That demon rooster? Sir Clucks-a-Lot? He was your aunt's favorite. She trained him to attack anyone who didn't respect the ranch." He pulls back, grinning at my expression. "Got get it, city girl."
He leaves me alone in a kitchen that's probably seen more history than I can imagine, in a house I almost own but don't understand, with thirty days stretching ahead of me like an obstacle course designed by someone who really, really wants me to fail.
I look down at my hands—soft, manicured, clearly not ranch hands. Yet.
My phone buzzes. Gerald, finally calling back about the PR crisis I abandoned. I look at the screen, then out the window where Sir Clucks-a-Lot patrols around like a feathered security guard.
I decline the call.
Thirty days. I can do thirty days. How hard could it be?
Not that I'd let any of these cowboys in on my thoughts, not for all the money in the world, but the truth is that Dusty Spur is bigger, dustier, and more… intimidating than I'd expected. The kind of place that smells like sweat and earth and lives up to its reputation in every creak of barn wood.
But I'm going to square my shoulders, slap on my best boardroom scowl, and pretend like I own the joint. That's always been my move—fake it till they're too scared to ask questions. My mother taught me that much—confidence, even if it's only skin deep, can carry you farther than the truth.
Inside, though? My stomach's doing barrel rolls. This place is nothing like the city. Nothing like the deals I've closed. And three very large, very smug-looking cowboys are standing there like they can already smell me floundering.
So I arch a brow and let my "don't mess with me" face do the talking. If they think I'm rattled, I'm dead.
From somewhere outside, Sir Clucks-a-Lot crows like he heard my thoughts and found them hilarious.
I'm ready, bitches.
* * *
