Page 1 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

Chapter 1

Tark

The ridge behind my ranch offered the best view of the land, from the broad plains speckled with grazing green-furred sorhoxes, to the white-tipped mountain ranges encircling this enormous valley. I love this place that was almost too big and beautiful for words.

Gold and orange burned across the horizon, softening the rough edges of the Wild West town spread below. My orc brothers and I had just finished putting the final finishes on our new tourist destination—an orc-inspired Wild West ranch adventure. Soon, we'd open to guests. Hearing their laughter and feeling their joy might drive away some of the loneliness cratering my soul.

As the manager of our social media platform, it was time for me to start putting all the feelings trapped inside me into words. I hoped I could do our new venture justice.

I shifted my weight, my boots crunching on the dry dirt and tamped down grass beneath me, and held my phone up in one hand. The thing felt too small, too fragile in my big grip, like the time my brother, Dungar, dared me to pick up a human teacup. It was all I could do not to crush it.

My other hand ran over the brim of my cowboy hat, making sure it sat square on my head like the cowboys in the streaming images I’d watched online. This made them look bad-butt.

No, it wasbadass. Human language sure was complicated.

I hoped I lookedokay. I needed to remember to use that word too.

“This’ll work. It has to,” I said, my voice low and rough. I cleared my throat but that wouldn't make much difference. Orc voices were gruffer than a human's.

The words of my poem swirled in my mind, half-formed but carrying pieces of something whole. A sunset. A dream. The hope my brothers and I had carved out in this strange new surface world. Humans liked sentimental stuff, didn’t they? Feelings about wide-open spaces. I’d heard them talk about such things online.

I needed to create videos that would show them what lay in our hearts and make them feel what I did looking at the horizon carved flat and clean by the glow of the end of this day.

It took me a bit, but I switched the camera to myself, taking in my furrowed brow and my leather vest worn over my bare, green-skinned chest. One of my other brothers, Ruugar, had told me women enjoyed seeing males wearing almost no clothing. All the romance book covers had that, he’d said. He was our expert when it came to things like that, and I trusted him, though neither of us could quite determine why bare skin would matter.

Should I tilt my hat a bit? The streaming images often showed a male wooing a female in a setting much like the one around me. Those males wore leather pants called chaps, a leather vest like mine—though often with a star pinned to his chest, since the male was the town sheriff. Well, not pinned to his chest. That would hurt. His vest, maybe.

“You can do this,” I told myself. “You’re Lonesome Creek’s social media expert.” Me, an expert? Hopefully, I would beas soon as my videos started performing. I'd volunteered for this task back when I thought it would be easy. Make a few videos. Talk naturally. Humans would love it, and they’d make reservations.

I’d since learned that people took their social media seriously. I was struggling to find a way to do the same.

Dust clung to my jeans. Authentic, I thought. And isn’t that what everyone wanted from an orc cowboy?

“Okay, Tark.” I eased out a breath. The hat cast a shadow over my black eyes and deepened the medium green of my face. Everything felt right, like this was going to be the beginning of something solid.

Holding my breath, I tapped the start button. The screen came to life, the red light blinking at me as it recorded.

“The land stretches before us,” I said, trying to keep the croak out of my voice. “Wide as?—”

The flap of wings against the side of my head cut me off. Sharga, the raven I'd rescued after I found him lying beside the road with a broken wing, must’ve decided he'd decided this was the perfect time to stretch his wings, though one still hung crooked and lagged awkwardly behind the other when he flew.

“Sharga,” I chided with a shake of my head, stroking his silky black feathers to soothe him. Sharga tilted his head and if he'd had eyebrows, I was sure he’d lift them. He stretched out his wings again, smacking my head and making my hat tilt even more, before resettling himself on my shoulder. He tipped his head back and let loose a gravelly rattle.

“Let me do this please,” I said, though patiently. I'd slowly nursed this raven back to good health, but his wing had been too damaged to set him free. I'd tried, but he kept showing up at my back door, begging to come inside. I’d taken him to the barn and suggested he live there from now on. He seemed to like that. He’d stayed nearby, and whenever I came outside, he'd fly overin his crooked way and land on my shoulder. He saw me as a friend, and I didn’t have many.

Once he appeared to have settled on my shoulder, I held my phone up again. Before I could hit the record button again, Podar started winding around my legs in his irregular hopping way. I'd found the bobcat high in the mountains while hiking, one of the youngling bobcat’s front legs caught in a trap. The animal carer had to remove the leg, sadly, and he'd even suggested I let him kill the poor creature, since Podar was as feral as a sorhox who'd escaped the fence while young and grown up on his own.

I couldn't do anything like that. Each being, even tiny feathered and fluffy ones, deserved to live. After the operation, I'd taken Podar home with me and helped him rest and heal, slowly showing him he could trust me. Now he loved me as much as Sharga, and the two were like brothers. Sharga was as apt to ride on Podar's back as on my shoulder.

I'd left him inside the house, but he must've escaped. Podar could sometimes leap up and open the back door with his paws.

Which meant my back door was open and my house would be full of flies.

Another long sigh jerked up my throat.

Sharga leaned forward and gave the bobcat a creaky meow. Ravens could produce various noises, including gurgling, knocking clicks, sharp calls, and even mimicry of other animals or human speech when trained. I hadnottrained Sharga to mimic Podar. He’d taught himself.

Podar purred and continued to hop around my legs, rubbing against them.

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