Page 12 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
Honeyspur Meadow’s Annual Pie Festival. Enter. Eat. Judge. Repeat.
I grin to myself. I’ve officially stepped into a cowboy movie, and now there’s pie.
Cash’s truck is big and black, with chrome accents that catch the fading sunlight and a dusting of country roads clinging to the wheels. He opens the passenger door for me like it’s second nature, and I hate how much I like that.
“Thanks,” I mumble, climbing in.
When he gets in beside me, the cab fills with his scent all over again, stronger now, warmer. My breath hitches while I watch his nostrils flare, as I assume he is now catching mine. Something about the look in his eyes makes my pulse skitter… but then he reaches over and rolls his window halfway down without a word.
Oh.
Right.
Subtle.
Clear.
Not interested.
Got it.
I fold my hands in my lap and try not to die inside.
We drive in silence for a stretch, the mountains casting long shadows across the valley as the sun starts to dip. The road is mostly empty, just us and the hum of the tires.
“So,” he says finally, eyes still on the road. “You said earlier that Rose’s grandson left you the ranch?”
I hesitate. “Yeah. Nolan.”
He glances at me briefly. “Your Alpha?”
“He was,” I admit.
A long pause.
“I’m real sorry,” he says softly. “Losing your Alpha… that kind of pain sticks.”
I stare out the side window, watching the trees blur past. “It wasn’t like that. Nolan and I weren’t true scent matches. We tried. It just… never clicked.”
I remember one night, one last try. The way he pulled away like I’d burned him, frustration and apology all tangled on his face. I swallowed the lump in my throat then, like I do now.
“It was more about expectations,” I murmur. “His family wanted it. Mine encouraged it. And I stayed, thinking I should. But I don’t want to be someone’s obligation. I want to live by my own rules. Even if it means figuring everything out from scratch.”
He hums, thoughtful. “Well, sometimes the map’s wrong, but the trail’s still worth walkin’.”
I smile despite myself. “That one’s actually pretty good.”
We turn off the main road onto a wide gravel lane framed by two open iron gates, the wordsWild Hearts Ranchwelded across the top in curved lettering that’s seen a few Montana winters. As the truck rumbles forward, I catch glimpses of the land stretching outahead, rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, white-fenced paddocks, and clusters of trees that sway lazily in the breeze. Horses graze in the distance, their tails flicking, their coats glossy in the afternoon sun.
Cash slows to a stop just past the gates, shifts into park, and hops out.
I watch through the windshield as he walks back to swing the gates shut. It shouldn’t be a thing, just a man closing gates, but somehow the way he moves is… confident. Comfortable. Cowboy. He climbs back into the truck, then flicks the blinker, and we take off again, gravel crunching beneath us.
“Back entrance,” he says with a little grin, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “Main road’s prettier, but this way keeps the horses from getting too interested in traffic.”
We drive deeper onto the property, and the ranch starts to take shape. Wide barns painted a deep red with white trim, a sprawling training arena, fenced pastures in every direction, and the main house perched up on a gentle rise. It’s big, old, and even more gorgeous from this angle.
“Wow,” I murmur. “This place is… bigger than I expected.”
