Wrangling With The Cowboy
Author
Brittany Carter
Reads
239K
Chapters
43
A city writer returns to the farm that shaped her childhood, expecting dust, drama, and a fast escape. Instead, she lands in a fiery tug-of-war with the gruff cowboy who shares her inheritance and refuses to let the land slip away. He’s stubborn, loyal, and dangerously tempting, especially after one heated moment neither of them can forget. As sabotage creeps in and pressures rise, she learns cattle aren’t the only wild things on this ranch. Between sharp words and slow-burn glances, she must decide what she’s really fighting for—and who she’s willing to trust.
Chapter 1
TORRENCE
I curled my fingers around the bar of the wrought iron gate. The hinges still squeaked as I pushed it open, gaining entrance to Jameson’s Farm.
The weight of it rivaled the invisible one on my chest, burying me in the memories scattered around this place—my childhood memories.
I stepped through the threshold, gravel beneath my heels. I noticed a huge F-350 and a sports car parked underneath the large magnolia tree.
I instantly wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. The one thing I didn’t miss about Texas was the heat.
I shut the gate, eyeing the big red barn and chicken coop in the distance. I spent so many summers gathering eggs for my grandparents.
Tears built up in the corners of my eyes. I once loved this farm, but I knew nothing about farming. I planned to sell it for obvious reasons. I’d run this place into the ground with my empty bank account and lack of know-how.
I wrote romance novels for a living. I didn’t take care of farm animals.
Crunching over the gravel path to the house, I gathered myself mentally. It’d been hard seeing my grandmother in that casket.
So much guilt weighed on me like an invisible blanket, but those were thoughts for another time.
The front steps whined as I walked onto the porch and made my way toward the entrance. I swung the screen door open and almost knocked, but I decided against it.
My grandmother’s house always smelled the same, like lavender and vanilla.
Unwanted tears threatened me. I needed to keep myself above water. I had legal business to attend, and letting myself cry wouldn’t help me think clearly.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, I cringed.
I’d gone without makeup for the funeral. Dark circles hung under each eye, declaring I’d spent most of the night driving from Denver to Texas.
“Get it together,” I whispered.
My auburn hair was curled, the only part of me that didn’t look completely dead at the moment.
“Ms. Harper?”
I turned.
Mr. Hammonds, my grandmother’s lawyer, stood in the doorway to the living room. He was my height, which wasn’t tall: five foot four, give or take a few inches.
But his tailored suit and those crocodile shoes cost more than my entire apartment back home.
“Mr. Hammonds. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He waved me off, looking over his shoulder at something. “Come join us.”
I stopped. Us? Why is there an us?
He smiled, showing a perfect row of teeth underneath his handlebar mustache. “Mr. Jacks is here. Your grandmother’s farmhand.”
It made sense. My grandfather was in a nursing home with dementia, and my grandmother couldn’t manage the farm alone.
I hated to tell this man to find a new job because I couldn’t employ him.
I walked over the old wooden floor, my heels clicking and my palms sweating. I rounded the corner of the living room, shocked to see the same furniture from my youth. My great-grandmother’s purple afghan still sat on the back of the small brown couch.
But what shocked me the most was the giant man standing beside the mantel.
His midnight-colored cowboy hat tilted over his eyes, but the rest of him… I needed to sit down.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped walking until Mr. Hammonds cleared his throat. “Please, take a seat, Ms. Harper. Mr. Jacks would like to stand.”
I wanted to make it the last few steps.
Somehow, I pulled the ability out of my butt and took a seat.
Mr. Jacks shifted, drawing the rim of his hat upward. Steely blue eyes caught mine from across the room. Goosebumps crawled down my body to my toes.
Goodness gracious, Cowboy.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, and wrung my fingers together in my lap. Cowboy’s face looked sculpted out of stone. His square jaw was covered in dirty-blond hair.
I tried to keep my ogling to a minimum, but the man was sheer male perfection. Every hard muscle pressed against his clothes showed power. Dedication. Hard manual labor.
Those lips were thick. Kissable. I imagined he could do ungodly things with them if they weren’t lifted into that irritated snarl.
I blinked, reality setting in. Was this man snarling at me?
I glared back at him, trying to understand this situation. Why was this undeniably handsome man snarling at me?
He looked like someone I would write about in my books.
“Ms. Harper. I mentioned the farm was being left to you,” Mr. Hammonds mumbled. “But that wasn’t entirely true. Fifty percent of the farm is being left to you.”
I dragged my gaze away from the irritated cowboy to Mr. Hammonds. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m the only living relative. Who is the other half going to?”
Mr. Hammonds glanced over at this guy.
I blinked. This guy? Seriously? Their farmhand? How long had he worked here?
Mr. Hammonds cleared his throat. “Your grandfather’s military benefits will pay for his nursing home dues. However, the house was listed in a trust in case of death, which is where we’re at, considering your grandmother. She left it to Mr. Jacks and you. No other blood relatives will be able to gain access to this house.”
I blinked, knowing my grandfather was taken care of, which lifted so much pressure off my shoulders.
Now, I had to deal with this guy.
“Mr. Jacks, is it?” I asked.
He stood up straight, making him taller than I imagined. I hated the way his button-down fit him. Not to mention the way he filled out his jeans. Shifting one leg over the other, I attempted to rub my thighs together.
It’d been too long since I’d been around a good-looking man not conjured up by my imagination.
“It is, Mr. Jacks,” he said coolly.
His voice was southern and deep, and it made my thighs quake. I pushed away my traitorous thoughts. “Well, Mr. Jacks. I hope we’re on the same page, but I don’t plan to keep the farm. I want to sell it.”
The next few moments were a blur.
Mr. Hammonds stared at me with shock and fear on his face. Fear of what? I had no idea.
Until the culprit stirred from the corner, Mr. Jacks walked over, looming over me in a pathetic attempt at a scare tactic. “I didn’t expect any more from you, Torrence.”
I placed my hand on my chest and scoffed. “I don’t know who you think you are…”
“I’m the man that’s been taking care of this place, and your grandparents, because you’re too busy writing smut to do it yourself.”
I stood up, my vision blurring as I angled my head to look at him. The ends of his dirty-blond hair peeked out from underneath his hat. I imagined it looked disheveled underneath.
But something told me that he looked good no matter what.
“I don’t appreciate you telling me about myself, Cowboy Tumbleweed. I don’t appreciate you making assumptions about me, either. I’m selling my part of this farm whether you like it or not.”
I reached and involuntarily poked his chest.
It was hard.
I hated how hard it was under that black button-down.
My gaze lingered on the tip of my painted finger against his chest, my heart jumping into my throat, and Mr. Jacks noticed. The corner of that lush mouth twisted into a cocky smile that warmed my blood.
“My name is Mason Jacks, not Cowboy. I’ve been running this farm for a decade. I won’t let some entitled brat come and sell it.”
I ground my teeth together. My finger dropped from Mason’s chest, and I glanced at Mr. Hammonds’s uncomfortable face. This was getting out of hand. I didn’t know this man. He didn’t know me.
This hostility was out of the blue.
For me, at least.
“I think we can probably sit down and figure something out,” Mr. Hammonds said. “There has been some interest in the farm from the Smith family…”
Mason chuckled darkly. “Over my dead body will I sell this farm to Bryce Smith.”
Apparently, Mason knew Bryce well. I’d received an email from him a couple of days before about his interest in the farm, which I was already considering.
“Very well. However.” He glanced down at his watch. “I have an appointment across town in thirty minutes. Perhaps you two can meet me tomorrow…”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I need to get back home. I can’t stay around here.”
“Give your share to me, and you can leave now,” Mason said.
It wasn’t that bad of an idea. Hell, I had no interest in this farm. However, seeing my grandmother’s sweet face above the mantel with my grandfather pierced my chest.
I didn’t want this ranch hand, who wasn’t part of the family, to get the place. Plus, I needed the money badly. I owed up to my eyeballs in student loan debt, and I couldn’t make a living paying so much at a time.
Selling the farm, or some of it, would help me breathe more easily.
“I’m not giving you anything,” I spat. “Maybe if you came here with a different attitude, I would have considered it.”
He chuckled, and it slid over my skin. “Maybe if you’d at least called your grandmother and checked on her, I wouldn’t have these harbored feelings.”
I tightened my fingers into tight fists at my sides. I didn’t need some stranger judging me. He had no idea what I’d been through. What my childhood was like here.
“Mr. Hammonds, could you kindly give me the keys? One day won’t hurt.”
He dug around in his suit pocket, pulling out a single key and handing it over.
I curled it into my palm, feeling Mason’s gaze on my face.
“I’ll make it over tomorrow, Mr. Hammonds. Please email me your address when you get a chance.”
He began to gather his things while I dared a look at Mason. “You can leave now. I’m not in the mood for houseguests for obvious reasons.”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward; two dimples dented his cheeks underneath that blanket of scruff. “Well, that’s so sad because I live here.”
I blinked, waiting for someone to let me in on the joke.
“You what? You’re joking… You live here?” I asked, pointing down.
Mason only stared. Apparently, he wasn’t joking.
I looked at Mr. Hammonds, who was attempting to make a run for it, but he only waved over his shoulder. “Have a nice night, Torrence. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The screen door shut, suddenly suffocating me with his musk. I ground my teeth, trying to find something I didn’t like about it.
“I think we need to talk, Torrence,” Mason said behind me.
His voice rumbled behind me, stirring something I refused to acknowledge despite my fury.
