Roped In (Marshall Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

Shrimp and Grits?

Layla

Well, I’ll say one thing, Tennessee air is a lot different than Seattle’s, and the scenery?

Absolutely grade A. The air feels warmer, thicker somehow, like it’s wrapping around me instead of cutting straight through my jacket the way it does back home.

And the green. God, everything is so green.

This is going to be the perfect place for me to write my southern-charm romance novel.

The kind with small towns, slow mornings, and men who look good in worn denim.

Maybe there will even be a cute cowboy here at this horse ranch I’m staying at to give me a little writing encouragement. I mean… a girl can dream.

The Uber takes a right turn onto a long gravel driveway, and I lean forward in my seat as a massive, black steel archway comes into view.

Marshall Horse Ranch. Well. That’s promising.

The crunch of gravel under the tires is oddly satisfying as the ranch opens up in front of me.

It’s beautiful—really beautiful. The mountains in the distance rise softly against the sky, hazy and blue like they’re painted straight into the horizon.

Flowers bloom along the edges of the drive, trees heavy with fresh green leaves, a smoky mist hanging low like the mountains are guarding a secret. Wow.

The main house comes into view next, large and elegant without being showy.

The kind of place that feels lived-in and loved, not staged for a magazine.

And then I look to the right and spot it, the tiny guesthouse I’ll be staying in.

Nestled right in the center of nature. Surrounded by horses and open space and quiet. It’s perfect. The car rolls to a stop.

“This is it, ma’am,” the Uber driver says.

“Thank you!” I reply quickly, already reaching for the door. “I’ll just grab my things from the trunk.”

I hop out, immediately regretting my shoe choice as my cute pumps sink slightly into the gravel. Of course. City girl mistake number one. I steady myself and tug two suitcases from the trunk, along with my carry-on, mentally reminding myself that this stay is temporary. Six months. That’s it.

Totally manageable.

As I struggle to wrangle all three bags toward the front steps of the massive home, the door opens and an older man comes shuffling out.

“Well, you must be Layla!”

His voice is warm and welcoming, and he’s already reaching for one of my suitcases.

“Let me help you out, darlin’.”

“Oh my goodness,” I laugh softly. “Well, thank you.”

And the southern charm is hitting. He’s really adorable.

Flannel shirt, small in stature but a little heavy-set, kind eyes crinkling at the corners.

Not that I’m one to judge, I’m definitely a bigger girl myself.

Still, I can’t help the rush of relief that hits me.

It’s kind of a if you know you know thing.

Thank God he’s nice. I am not built for rude people. Honestly, I’m awkward even with nice ones.

“We’re really excited to have you here,” he says as he lifts my suitcase like it weighs nothing. “I’m John.”

A younger man comes jogging out the door behind him. “Hey, Dad—oh! Is this our tenant?”

“This is Luke,” John says proudly. “My youngest.”

I nod politely. “Hi, Luke. I’m Layla.”

We start down a small path toward the guesthouse, the gravel giving way to packed dirt and grass. Everything smells like earth and wood and sunshine.

“We’ll have dinner at six,” John says easily. “Just walk on over around that time. We’d love for you to join us.”

“Oh wow, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Oh hush,” he interrupts gently. “I insist.”

I smile despite feeling pushed to do dinner with a group of people I don’t even know but who can turn down a southern gentleman?

He unlocks the door to my short-term home, and the second I step inside, my breath catches. This place is stunning. Wood-paneled walls, warm lighting, cozy and cabin-like. I’m not thrilled about the deer heads mounted on the wall, but everything else? Absolutely perfect.

The fireplace alone could sell me on this place. The faint scent of wood lingers in the air, comforting and rich. It’s breathtaking. I might actually enjoy this little six-month stay.

“This is stunning, John,” I say honestly. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

He waves his hand like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it. Just be at dinner at six.”

“I’ll be there,” I promise.

“It was nice meeting you!” Luke adds before the door closes softly behind them.

I glance around the space again, then snort quietly to myself. When I said cowboy, I meant someone a little rougher. Maybe older. Luke can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one. I’m no cougar. I mean… it’s never been my thing. But also, never say never.

I unpack slowly, laptop on the table, notebooks stacked neatly, pens lined up just so. Clothes folded into drawers. I’ll need to go into town later for groceries. For now, though, the bed looks impossibly comfortable, and jet lag is finally catching up with me.

I set my phone alarm for five-thirty so I won’t miss dinner with the Marshalls. My stomach growls in anticipation. Southern cooking, here I come.

I make sure I’m looking really pretty before heading out of the guesthouse. Not try-hard pretty—just polished enough to make a good impression. This is their home, after all, and I’m the outsider. The tenant. The city girl with suitcases and opinions.

I smooth my jean skirt, tug my old T-shirt into place, the one with the ducks on it because comfort wins over fashion every single time and lace up my sneakers. Cute enough. Casual enough. Approachable. Hopefully. My stomach growls loudly as I step outside.

Okay, rude.

It’s been hours since I’ve eaten, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of it.

I follow the smell drifting through the air as I approach the side door of the main house.

Something warm and buttery and definitely southern.

Whatever it is, my body is already ready.

I knock, and almost immediately, the door opens.

“Hey, honey, come on in,” a woman says with a bright smile. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” I answered a little too quickly. “Very.”

She laughs. “I’m Nancy. The chef.”

Of course she is.

I smile back. “Nice to meet you, Nancy. I’m Layla. I’m renting the guesthouse for the next six months.”

“Oh, John was telling me about that.” She waves a hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Well, I hope you enjoy my cookin’. I make dinner for these boys every night. Luke and Cole are hungry men. Always have been.”

I nod as she talks, taking in the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of pans, the comforting chaos of a family that clearly eats together. And her sweet southern accent.

“I haven’t met Cole,” I say.

She huffs.

“You will,” she replies, her tone noticeably flatter now.

Then she pauses, looks at me more closely, and lowers her voice just a bit. “Listen, darling. Don’t take Cole too personally. He’s not the friendly kind. Changed when his momma died.”

Oh.

My smile softens, and a small frown pulls at my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

Nancy nods once, like she appreciates that. “Now, wash up in the sink right there. Dinner’s almost done, and the dining room’s down the hall to the left. The boys are already in there. We’re having shrimp and grits tonight.”

I step to the sink and turn the water on, my brain snagging hard on her words. Shrimp… and grits? Grits? Oh my God.

My eyes widen as I scrub my hands. I love shrimp.

Love it. But grits? And with my shrimp? This feels like a culinary betrayal.

I was mentally prepared for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, maybe rolls.

Comfort food I understand. This? I don’t want to offend anyone.

I really don’t. But this might be… a challenge.

I dry my hands and head into the dining room. John and Luke are already seated.

“Hey, Layla! Hope you’re hungry,” John says.

“Oh, I am,” I reply quickly.

I pull out the chair beside the man I assume is Cole.

“Layla, this is my oldest—Cole.”

I turn and smile. “Hi.”

Cole looks at me like I’ve just sat in the wrong seat on purpose. His eyes flick down, then back up, jaw tightening.

“Take that hat off,” John snaps.

Cole removes his cowboy hat and drops it on the table. So that’s him. My cowboy. He’s… handsome. Annoyingly so. And completely uninterested in hiding his irritation.

“Shrimp and grits!” Nancy announces as she sets the platter down, followed by cheddar biscuits.

I load my plate cautiously. Please be good. Please be edible. I take a bite. Oh. Ooooh. I’m in awe.

“That’s really good,” I blurt with a mouthful.

“Never had shrimp and grits?” Cole asks.

“Nope.”

He hums. “Figures.”

“Where you from?” he adds.

“Seattle,” I say. “Born and raised.”

“City girl,” he mutters, eyes scanning me again. “Makes sense.”

“Sweet tea?” Nancy asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Never had it.”

Luke nearly chokes. “You’ve never had sweet tea?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Never.”

“Try it,” he laughs.

I sniff it, dip my tongue in like it might attack me, then take a full gulp.

“Holy shit, that’s good.”

All three of them laugh. I feel my cheeks heat.

“How old are you, Luke?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” he says. “I know it’s rude to ask a lady—”

“I’m thirty-two,” I cut in. “I’m old.”

Luke’s eyes widen. “You and Cole are the same age!”

I turn to Cole. “When’s your birthday?”

“July fifteenth,” he says flatly.

“July fifteenth! That’s my birthday! We’re both cancers!”

I slap his arm lightly without thinking.

He pulls back immediately.

“Whatever the hell that means,” he says, pushing his chair back. He grabs his hat and leaves the room without another word.

Silence settles over the table.

“Well,” I say lightly, though my face burns. “I guess he’s done.”

John sighs. “That’s Cole.”

“I should probably go for a walk,” I say. “Help digest.”

“Same time tomorrow,” John says.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” I reply. “I do have a novel to write.”

“Either way,” he says firmly, “you’re invited.”

Outside, the sun is setting, the sky painted in warm gold and pinks that make the ranch look unreal.

I pull out my phone to call an Uber.

“Have all this,” Cole says from behind me, “and you’d still rather stare at your phone.”

“I’m getting an Uber,” I snap. “I need groceries.”

“I’m going in the morning,” he says. “I’ll take you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“And I’d rather not have a stranger driving through our ranch at night,” he replies. “Unsettles the horses.”

I stop.

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Be ready at seven,” he adds. “Have a list. I’m not wasting all day.”

I salute. “Yes, sir.”

He scoffs and walks off.

I watch him go, exhaling slowly. Yeah. This is going to be a very long six months.