Hard-Riding Cowboy (Kinky Spurs 3)

“Excuse me, ladies.” Nash tipped his hat at the women then squeezed his legs and Bentley shot forward into a canter. It took less than three seconds to realize the problem. “Whoa.” He pulled on the reins, stopping next to Beckett and looking at the vast emptiness of the beautiful Colorado countryside. “Fuck.”

Beckett, a cowboy, bred and born right here in River Rock, had been a friend of Nash’s all throughout high school. The long strands of his sandy-brown hair hung out from beneath his cowboy hat. His gray eyes were sharp and focused. “Yup, that about sums it up.”

This morning, they had come to herd the cattle from west to east because the forecast called for rain. The cattle could get in some good grazing in the meadows. Nash glanced back at the guests approaching on horseback. Goddamn it. The cattle run had been one of the top selling points at the guest ranch. And right now, there was not a single cow where they had been left after the last cattle run.

Nash sighed. “Keep the guests here.” He clicked his tongue, and Bentley shot forward again, cantering toward the broken fence.

r /> A fence that had been there since Megan’s father erected it, proving what land belonged to him. The fence had been an eyesore then. It was still an eyesore. Nash slowed Bentley, then dismounted, moving closer.

Each step Nash took tightened his muscles. By the time he reached the fence, he was frowning. He grabbed the barbed wire, spotting where the fence had been deliberately cut.

“Fucking bastard,” Nash ground out. He remounted Bentley and hurried back to the group. When he slowed to a stop, he looked at the cowboy at the back of the crowd, Hayes. A man Chase had gone to school with. “Take the guests down to the river. Let the horses swim.” Over the past three months of the guest ranch operation, the guests loved swimming with the horses too.

“Are we not doing the run today?” one of the guests called.

Nash put on his get-shit-done smile. The smile that made women lose their inhibitions. The smile that charmed the media. The smile that had landed him sponsors in the PBR. “I’m afraid it looks like our cattle have shifted their position through the night.” Bentley bounced from foot to foot, obviously sensing the rage seething in Nash’s blood. “Not to worry. We’ll find them and send them back your way at the river.”

Great. More disappointment on guests’ faces.

“Don’t you worry, this is a treat,” said Hayes, turning his dabbled gray horse and heading in the opposite direction toward the lake. “The horses love water as much as they love apples.”

When Hayes began to lead them away, Beckett asked, “What’s the plan?”

Nash let his irritation show on his expression. “We need to find the cattle.” Shep and Chase had done their part in handling the obstacles they faced holding up their end of the deal to make the guest ranch a success. Nash needed to do the same. He tightened his hands on the reins, and Bentley reacted, tossing up his head and stomping a foot. “But first we need to go somewhere.”

Beckett arched an eyebrow.

“To deal with the bastard who cut our fence.”

* * *

If there was one place that could make things right for Megan when life got messy, that was her parents’ cattle ranch. And right now, life wasn’t only messy, it was confusing as hell. She’d been sitting on the porch of the bungalow, sipping her lemonade, for ten minutes trying to figure out what to do about Nash. If she shut her eyes, she could hear that deadly sexy low chuckle, see that cocky grin, and want all of him for herself.

That was a fact.

But so was the long-standing hatred between their families.

The feud between the Blackshaws and the Harrisons went back to when her father, Clint, and Nash’s father, Rick, both began cattle companies. For a long time, Rick topped the market. But in the last couple years, Clint had taken some of Blackshaws’ biggest clients. Now, her dad dominated the cattle industry in Colorado.

Megan opened her eyes and took another long sip of her lemonade, the condensation rolling down the glass. She stared at the weathered log gate with the wrought-iron IRISH CREEK RANCH sign hanging from the top log. Horses grazed the field next to the natural wood–stained barn with a black roof. Set off to the right, the herd of cattle were in the distance near the mountains. Her parents’ large house was extravagant in size and a mix of wooden beams, limestone, and dark red brick. She’d spent the last hour watching the busy cattle ranch with the cowboys coming and going on horseback, tending to the farm her father had built from nothing into the multimillion-dollar company it was today.

Right as she lifted her glass to her mouth again, a gravelly voice said, “Megan.”

She turned toward the comforting voice and smiled. “Hi, Dad.” In his early fifties, Dad had sharp dark eyes, a white beard, and a round belly. He looked the part of a Colorado rancher with his worn cowboy boots and tan-colored Stetson.

When he joined her on the porch, he dropped a kiss on her head. “How are you, sweet girl?”

“Good. I came to see Mom. Know where she’s off to?”

“Groceries.” Dad looked at his watch then stretched out his long legs in front of him. “She won’t be much longer.” He took off his hat and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper—mostly salt—hair. “How’s things going at the bar?”

“Things are looking bright,” she said, setting her drink down next to her. “I was actually considering hiring a couple more bartenders and slimming my hours a down a bit.” Twelve-hour nights were long, and over the last month, they felt even longer.

Dad nodded. “You’ve done good, kiddo. Be proud of yourself. Most businesses take five years to get moving along. You’ve done that in two.”

“Thanks. I am proud. Very proud, actually.”

He gave another hard nod then looked away toward the farm where the cowboys were walking the grounds. “Keep aiming at the goal of lessening your workload.” He turned to her again. “You want others to do the legwork.”