Page 8 of Breaking the Cowboy's Rules

Granddad would feel like his future was assured. Beck would be safe. Ashni would be happy. He and Bowen could have a little fun this week—God knew his cousin had to ditch the grimness that had settled over him like a wet saddle blanket. Then Bodhi could stop worrying about everyone.

Bodhi was feeling rather smug until Beck tried to fuck it all up and kick Bodhi’s altruism in his teeth.

“Plum Hill.”

Hell no.

“Plum Hill? No way,” Bowen said, and Bodhi relaxed a little. Time to take Beck to school, greedy bastard.

“The win is Granddad choosing to stay in his home on the ranch,” Bodhi explained, firmly.

“Or telling us why he’s really thinking of selling so we can help out if he needs it,” Bowen added. “Not a financial gain for any of us.”

Beck looked to object more, but Bodhi settled with Bowen’s explanation. Looked like he could rope them both in.

Here come the Montana Rodeo Brides, Bodhi mentally sang.

“It’s a game. Time to cut loose, have a little fun.” Bodhi swung his hips and dipped. “Win-win for all of us, Granddad included.”

And then the door to Grey’s swung open, and Bodhi couldn’t breathe.

Chapter Two

Nico didn’t deliberatelyset out to push herself out of her comfort zone tonight by entering a saloon—it was actually called that, Grey’s Saloon, the oldest building in town. The saloon—who even knew those still existed—had been operating as a saloon since before Montana was a state and before the railroad. It had always been run ruthlessly and effectively by a Grey family member.

She had been curious after distracting herself this afternoon with an indulgent shopping trip at a western wear store where the manager, Joanie, chatted about the rodeo, town history, sights, and local restaurants, as she brought Nico pair after pair of R.E.A.L Ariat jeans in slightly different washes and styles to try on.

She bought four pairs of jeans, the price of which combined didn’t come close to what she usually spent on one pair of skinny jeans. One pair by Cowgirl Tuff, which was the screamingly opposite of what she was, had embroidery on the back pockets and around the cuffs of the jeans. Nico had never considered buying jeans with a boot cut. She preferred boots—when she wore them—that went over her knee with leggings or skinny jeans tucked in or thigh-high boots that brushed the hem of a flirty dress or short tweed or wool business-cut skirt.

But now she had three pairs of cowboy—or was it cowgirl?—boots. She felt purchasing a western-style hat would be too pretentious. She’d only just arrived in Marietta. She’d also politely passed on the jeans that had what Joanie called bling on the back pockets, although Joanie had murmured that she “had a lovely figure for that style.” She must mean her yoga butt. Or bubble butt. Her ass had received many comments over the years—derogatory from her mother, snarky from “girl friends,” and overtly sexual from men—many who had been her father’s age. Yuck.

Nico was tall and slim but no matter how much she hit the gym, how often she had a trainer in her face barking out orders, drank protein shakes and limited her calories, her butt was still rounded as if in defiance to the rest of her.

She’d always had a more athletic slimness that had suited her years excelling at volleyball, lacrosse, and crew, but her mother had despaired that she’d never fit into the designer size zero or two of “their set.”

But the jeans she bought—midrise, slight stretch, narrow in the leg with a flared boot cut—had hugged her butt and made it seem more in proportion to the rest of her. And the shopping experience was stress free—no fawning, no snark, no gossip, no ingratiating, no judgment or intrusive personal questions, and no champagne. It was refreshing. Nico browsed without being followed and continually upsold until she couldn’t think.

Instead, Joanie was cheerful and helpful, finding sizes and making a few suggestions about things to do and see in town.

Nico had never been this far west in her life. Her pleasure travel had involved Europe and Asia and sandy beaches. As Joanie rang up her purchases, Nico impulsively added a denim jacket and a few tank tops and snap-front western shirts. She was proud that the jacket was the only thing black in her two bags of clothes, when black and gray featured prominently in her closet back home.

She learned Joanie’s family owned the grocery store in town, and as she listened, she spied several vibrantly colorful wrap-style sweaters in a box. They looked shapeless, but the colors were eye-popping. No black. Nico stared in wonder.

“That would be a departure,” she murmured at the collection of colors she barely knew the names of—magenta, teal, fuchsia, turquoise, fire-engine red, which would clash horribly with her hair now. Red was a power color. She never wore it in the courtroom nor when negotiating in the boardroom. She didn’t need to signal aggression. She operated more like a shark. No one saw her coming until she made her move and pulled them under.

“I’m trying these out,” Joanie said, enthusiastically plucking up a greenish-yellow sweater. “There’s a local alpaca farm that has expanded over the years, and the owner teaches weaving classes. One of her students made these wrap sweaters for the holidays. They’re a little steep for our store, but still we get a lot of tourists for the rodeo and the holidays. I still haven’t figured out how to display them, but they drape beautifully so maybe a mannequin. What do you think?”

She thought she’d been blinded. But she didn’t say that. An imp—a remnant from childhood her mother hadn’t quite quelled—made her finger the knit. It was as soft as cashmere and yet felt different.

“This one would pop on you and make your complexion look out of this world,” Joanie said, holding the material, spilling over her fingers, closer to Nico.

No shop assistant would ever do that in New York. But Nico liked Joanie’s open friendliness. She treated Nico like she was an average person.

“Wow, huh?” Joanie smiled.

Wow was right!

“What is that?”

---