Page 3 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
Not hurt?
“I almost died,” I blurt out, still breathless. “That thing chased me across the yard like I owed him money.”
“Whoareyou, and why are you interrupting my shoot?” A woman with purple hair buzzed short on one side stands in the center of it all, surrounded by enough camera equipment to shoot a movie. She has one hand on her hip, cinching in her blue floral dress.
The porch shudders again behind me, reminding me why I’m here. “As you now know, there’s a crazy bull outside trying to murder me, and your muscular models are holding kittens. I think we’re past normal social conventions here.”
She tilts her head to the side, deadpanning me. “Honey, these are real cowboys, not models. Plus, this is a calendar shoot for the local animal shelter,” the woman says with exaggerated patience. “Cowboys and Kittens—Adopt Love. We’re already three hours behind schedule.”
The man with the orange kitten shifts in his chair, a smile curling on his lips. Is it suddenly burning hot in this room?
“Ma’am? Are you injured?” The one with the graykitten stands slowly, and sweet mother of pearl, he’s even taller than I thought.
“Only my dignity,” I manage, trying not to stare at the way his abs move when he breathes. “And possibly my rental car. That bull, Brutus or whatever he’s called, wasn’t interested in negotiations.”
The mountain who checked outside is patting his kitten, remaining by the door. “The owner just calls him ‘Bull,’ but ‘Brutus’ seems more fitting. And he normally doesn’t come out of his pasture.”
“Well, he made an exception for me. I’m honored. Really. It’s not every day you get personally victimized by livestock.”
They all laugh—well, except the photographer, who is still eyeing me like she wants to kill me.
The third cowboy, still seated with his orange kitten, has eyes that seem to see right through me. “You lost? It’s not often we have gorgeous women burst into the house.”
Wait, did he just call megorgeous?
“I was looking for Wild Hearts Ranch. And I guess I found it.” I glance around the open hall, taking in the polished wood floors and exposed beams, but this isn’t some rustic shack. It’s expensive, and it shows.
The room is massive, with a high ceiling and a sweeping staircase that curves up one side like something out of an old Western mansion. The hallway branches off in both directions, leading to other rooms.
Sunlight filters through big windows inthe nearby room I can see into, framed by heavy navy curtains. A bronze chandelier hangs above us. There’s a coatrack by the door with actual cowboy hats hanging from it and, yes, a pair of spurs.
It’s not flashy; it’s intentional.
“You’re at the right place,” the man with the orange kitten says, his deep voice raising the hairs on my arms in a way that has nothing to do with fear. But has everything to do with attraction. I normally don’t react to Alphas this way, this quickly. Yet, these men are pure Alphas. That much is clear in their appearance, their voices, even the way they stand and stare at me. “Question is, what are you doing here?” he continues.
Before I can answer, the porch gives another ominous thud, and I step farther away from it.
“I think Brutus might have other plans for me,” I say weakly.
The three men exchange looks. Then the tall one with the gray kitten steps forward.
“Here,” he explains, gently transferring the tiny ball of fluff to my arms. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m suddenly juggling three adorably soft kittens as the other two cowboys deposit their furry charges on me as well.
“Wait, what?—”
But they’re already grabbing lassos from hooks by the door. Then they rush outside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind them.
“This is exactly why I don’t normally work withanimals or children!” the photographer mutters, throwing up her hands.
I stand there, trying not to drop any kittens while simultaneously trying not to openly drool over three shirtless cowboys preparing to wrangle a bull. The orange kitten is attempting to climb me, the gray one purrs against my chest like a tiny motor, and the black-and-white one seems content to bat at my hair.
“So, does this happen often?” I ask, because apparently my mouth works independently of my brain.
“Which part? The bull attacks, the ruined photo shoots, or random women falling through the door?”
The orange kitten makes it to my shoulder and promptly gets tangled in my hair. “All of the above?”
“Welcome to Wild Hearts Ranch,” she says dryly. “Where chaos is just another word for Tuesday.”
