Page 152 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
When the latter happens, you hold on tight and don’t let go. Even if it means spending four days in heat-induced delirium where you may or may not have promised to name your future children after various ranch equipment.
Thank you all for your support, your messages, your donations, and for following this absolutely insane journey. We’re going to save this ranch. Ridge is going to ride that bull. And I’m going to document every terrifying second of it.
But first, I need about seventeen more hours of sleep and possibly a donut. Or twelve.
Kitten Name Update:
Before I pass out, a quick kitten update. I received so many amazing suggestions for naming the two adorableginger kittens currently terrorizing my laundry room. After much debate (and one shredded curtain), I’ve decided on names that popped up a few times and just fit.
Please welcome Crumb and Beans to the family.
Huge thanks to @moonlitreads and @alphaaddict88 for the perfect suggestions! You officially have naming rights. Chonkarella has approved their names (by not hissing when Crumb tried to boop her tail and Beans crash-tackled her). I’ll take that as a win.
City Omega out.(Still marked. Still claimed. Still can’t believe this is my life.)
PS: To the reader who asked if cowboys really are better in bed: Yes. Next question.
PPS: Ticket sales go live tomorrow at noon. Set those reminders!
PPPS: If anyone knows how to cover hickeys that look like you’ve been attacked by a very passionate vampire, please advise. I look like a walking advertisement for turtlenecks, and it’s ninety degrees outside.
29
SOPHIA
Ibreathe in deeply as I step out of the main house, the air clean and crisp with that after-rain smell I never knew existed in Chicago. The ranch spreads out before me, puddles reflecting the sky like scattered mirrors, and I can’t help but giggle at myself that city girl Sophia actually looks forward to feeding goats.
Who would have thought? Months ago, I was navigating Chicago traffic and dealing with nightmare clients who wanted their websites topop morewithout any actual direction. Now I’m walking across a ranch in my pale green sundress and muck boots, heading to feed animals that have somehow become mine.
This feels more like home than my Chicago apartment ever did. More real. More… everything.
The guys were up and gone before I woke, which is saying something since we’ve been sharing abed—two king-sizes pushed together to accommodate all four of us—and usually at least one of them lingers for morning kisses. But with the fundraiser happening in eleven days, everyone is pulling double duty. Ranch work doesn’t stop just because we’re trying to save said ranch.
I check my phone as I walk. The fundraiser tracker shows $237,000. We’re halfway through our time, including tickets sold for the rodeo so far. My stomach clenches with anxiety. We need $263,000 more in eleven days. The math isn’t looking good, but I refuse to give up hope. We’ve come too far.
Since Ronan’s last unwelcome visit, where he ended with Walker rearranging his face, he hasn’t shown himself on the property. But we’ve heard through the town grapevine that he’s been spreading poison, telling anyone who’ll listen that we’re scamming people, that Ridge can’t really ride anymore, that the whole thing is a desperate grab for money we don’t deserve.
Some people believe him. But more believe in us. At least, I hope they do. I have June and the book club ladies pushing bake sales and asking for donations. They are amazing, and I tear up thinking about their kindness. Even Belle, who I first met on arriving at the ranch, is now donating half of her earnings from the cowboy calendar to our cause.
The crunch of gravel comes from behind me, and I turn, expecting to see one of the ranch hands arrivingfor the day. Instead, a black Mercedes pulls up near our house, so out of place on our dusty ranch that it might as well have landed from space.
The door opens, and out climb legs that go on forever, mini shorts that barely qualify as clothing, boots, and a shirt tied up just below breasts.
Brittany Carson!
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath. “What does she want now?”
She spots me immediately, of course. She starts toward me with that runway walk that probably takes years to perfect. Her presence can’t be good news.
“Sophia!” she calls out. “You got a sec?”
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. Can’t be too rude, seeing as her family’s money could still save us if they decide to support us again and not listen to Ronan.
“Brittany. What brings you out here so early?”
She stops just far enough away to avoid any actual ranch dirt. “Oh, be a doll and point me in the direction where I can find Cash?”
“He’s working,” I say, proud of how level my voice stays. “And even if he weren’t, I don’t think he’d want to see you. We’ve been pretty clear about boundaries.”
