Can’t Stand the Cowboy (Thatcher Ranch Cowboys #1)

Chapter 1

Addison

I’m not exactly a ranch girl. Country, rural, farm life—whatever you want to call it. It’s not the life I lead. Or aspire to. In any capacity.

That’s the main reason why I haven’t stepped foot on Thatcher Ranch since I was a little kid, despite the family connection. The only reason I’m here now is because my mother insisted—read, ordered—I spend the summer here. For reasons that … well, let’s just say that I don’t exactly agree.

The Uber pulls to a stop, and it takes me a minute to realize that he isn’t just simply at a stop sign or taking a slow turn. He’s stopped. As in, my destination has arrived.

I look up from my phone, glancing out the window in curiosity. Spread out before me is absolutely nothing. And I mean nothing. Not a building in sight. Simply sprawling fields in every direction. I even see a couple cows.

I clear my throat. “Um … is this it?” I ask.

The driver nods.

“Shouldn’t there be a … house or something? I’m supposed to be staying with my aunt,” I clarify, as if he cares.

He points to a small sign beside the road. It reads, Thatcher Ranch.

I huff. “There’s gotta be another entrance.”

The driver shrugs. “This is where the map is taking me.” He holds up his phone for proof.

I glance at it. He’s right. But the map can’t be. “There has to be somewhere else you can take me. Maybe just down the road a bit.” I wave vaguely in that direction.

The driver shakes his head. “This is where the map tells me to stop. Besides, this is private property.”

“Private property owned by my family,” I say.

He shrugs again, and I can feel my irritation growing. After a few heartbeats of tense silence, I ask, “You want me to just get out … here?”

The driver shrugs. Again.

“But … there’s nowhere for me to go.”

“Unless you have a different address you’d like me to take you to …” The driver shrugs.

I look down at my phone, pulling up my aunt’s number and dialing. After a few tense seconds of waiting, it goes to voicemail. “Shit,” I mutter. I dial my cousin’s number. Voicemail as well.

Frustration getting the better of me, I swing the car door open and stomp out. “Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my purse and slinging it over my shoulder. The driver gets out, popping the trunk and pulling out my suitcase for me. The least he could do, I suppose.

I take the handle from him silently.

“Have a good one,” he says cheerily before sliding back into his seat.

I don’t respond, simply turn in the direction of the Thatcher Ranch sign and begin pulling my suitcase down the dirt road.

It scrapes against the gravel, throwing up a small cloud of dust in my wake, but I refuse to be slowed down.

The Uber drives off, leaving me alone in the absolute middle of nowhere.

I trudge down the road, fields on either side of me, a nearby cow looking up from its grazing to take me in. “What?” I snap at it. “You trying to make my life miserable too?”

It blinks.

I sigh. I’m yelling at a cow, for God’s sake.

I continue on my way, hoping against hope that I’ll see some kind of building around here soon.

The cows become more and more plentiful the farther I go.

They’re everywhere. Which makes sense for a cattle ranch, I suppose.

My gaze zeroes in on one of them. Large, tall … and heading straight toward me.

No. It’s not a cow at all.

It’s a … cowboy?

I gawk as the horse and rider come barreling toward me across the field, having obviously seen me and probably wondered what the hell a woman with a suitcase is doing in the middle of the road. As he nears, the horse slows, and he brings it up to the side of the fencing.

“Hi!” I call, taking a step toward him. “I’m supposed to be meeting Theresa Thatcher? My aunt,” I say.

He gives me a quizzical look under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. “Theresa?” he repeats.

I nod.

He scrunches up his face, seemingly lost for what to do with me. He glances around, but there’s nothing but cows out here. Nowhere to pass the buck.

He turns back to me. “Keep heading up this road,” he says, pointing, and I can feel my initial excitement draining. I see there’ll be no chivalry from this cowboy. “Walk over to the barn and ask for Cruz. He’ll help you.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Satisfied, the cowboy gives a curt nod and turns his horse, heading back out to the field. I watch him go in slight incredulity at his lack of helpfulness. But that seems to be the pattern of the day.

Grabbing my suitcase, I continue my trek.

By the time the first building comes into view, my feet are tired, my arms are sore, and I’m sweating more than I’d like to admit. Apparently, Pilates doesn’t prepare one for carting a suitcase through the dirt for miles on end.

The building is most definitely a barn. At least it looks like a barn. There are a few trucks parked outside as well, so I assume someone’s around here somewhere. After taking a short moment to catch my breath, suitcase in hand, I make my way toward the large, already-open barn doors.

“I can’t believe this,” I mutter quietly to myself as I step inside, rounding the corner and nearly running straight into someone.

I shriek in surprise, taking a quick step back.

The man before me seems utterly unphased. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, tan muscles glistening with sweat because … holy shit, he’s shirtless.

I feel my cheeks redden ever so slightly.

The man huffs, setting down the bale of hay he’d being carrying—carrying. I guess that’s what cowboys do. He looks me up and down, and I feel myself bristling slightly.

He cocks his head. “You’re either lost … or filming a country music video.” He inclines his head toward my fashionable, pink, now-very-dusty western boots. They felt like an appropriate fit this morning, but now I only feel silly in them.

I suck in a breath. “I’m not lost. I’m your boss’s niece.”

He nods. “Ah. Definitely lost, then.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m at Thatcher Ranch, aren’t I?”

The hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “You’re in a barn, Princess. The Thatchers live on the other side of the property.”

My eyes widen slightly at the usage of the word “princess.” Patronizing, rude, and … demeaning. I take a deep breath. I knew that Uber driver had taken me to the wrong entrance. “Excuse me?” I ask.

“I said you’re on the wrong side of the property,” he repeats.

I roll my eyes. “I heard that. I was referring to the princess part.”

He wipes his hands on his dusty jeans with a smirk. “You sure look like a princess to me.”

Irritation washes over me for seemingly the thousandth time today, but I feel like arguing with this stranger isn’t going to get me anywhere.

“Are you Cruz?” I ask simply.

Surprise flickers across his face.

I wave it off. “Some guy on a horse told me to ask for you. I was told you could help with my bags.”

He snorts. “I doubt he said anything about bags.”

“Well, I’m saying something about bags,” I retort, taking a deliberate step away from my suitcase and pointing at it. He might as well put those ginormous muscles to use. Those sweaty, glistening, completely naked muscles …

Cruz stares me down for a long moment, neither of us bending. Until finally, with a smirk, he says, “Okay, Princess. Want me to carry you over the mud while I’m at it?”

The idea of being scooped up in this man’s large, strong arms sends something akin to butterflies dancing through my lower stomach, but I refuse to let him know that.

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep and not at all helpful to the current butterfly situation I’ve got going on. I frown harder.

He strides toward me, effortlessly lifting my suitcase off the ground as if it weighs nothing at all, and marching out of the barn. I follow after him. His back to me, he inclines his head toward the truck parked out front, tossing my suitcase unceremoniously into the bed with a loud clunk.

I wince. That suitcase is part of a set I got for my birthday last year. An expensive set.

“Get in,” Cruz says, hopping into the driver’s seat.

I do as he says, clamoring into the passenger side. He grabs a wadded-up t-shirt from the dash, pulling it over his head and down his torso. It doesn’t help to dampen the appeal of him. Well, the physical appeal of him. Personality wise, so far he’s not making a very favorable impression.

He doesn’t even wait for me to buckle before he’s backing up and heading down the dirt road.

We ride in a somewhat awkward silence for a few moments before Cruz breaks the ice. “So you’re Theresa’s niece, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m staying here for the summer.”

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

He grunts like it’s a bad thing.

“So, what’s there to do around here?” I ask. “When the Uber drove through town it seemed rather … desolate,” I admit. I truly hope there’s more to Cedar Ridge, Montana than that pathetic strip of town we’d flown past in the span of about sixty seconds.

Cruz snorts. “Desolate?” he echoes. “I think I’d use the word peaceful.”

I bob my head, looking out the window. I suppose a cowboy would think that. Isn’t that their whole schtick? Living off the land and all that?

Although I suppose “peaceful” is exactly what my mother intended for me to find out here.

I try to push thoughts of her out of my mind.

Cruz gestures to the window. “I mean, look around. Look at those mountains,” he says.

I duck my head to better see out the front window. He’s right. From what I’ve seen of Montana so far, it is pretty gorgeous. Despite the fact that I spent about an hour of my day trudging down a dirt path with a heavy suitcase in tow.

“Sure, but pretty scenery isn’t everything. What do you do?” I reiterate.

Cruz shoots me a look like I’m crazy. “You sit on your porch and you look at it.”

Hm. I can see we don’t exactly share the same idea of “fun.”

He chuckles softly, and there those fucking butterflies go again. The contradiction of his looks and personality is stark.

“What do you normally do for fun?” he asks me.

I shrug. “You know, normal things. Going out with friends, attending parties, drinking.” Typical twenty-five-year-old stuff.

I shoot him a sidelong glance, suddenly wondering how old he is.

He seems to be about my age, maybe a bit older.

I’d peg him in his late twenties. His shaggy dark hair is disarmingly hot, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s part Latino.

He scoffs and shakes his head.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What, are cowboys above partying or something?”

“Princess, I’m sure your little city parties have got nothin’ on a cowboy party.”

Now it’s my turn to scoff. “Okay, big boy.”

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, especially when I see the corners of Cruz’s lips turn up ever so slightly and his eyes widen in amusement.

I huff out a quick breath, crossing my arms and turning to face the window.

His finding joy in my discomfort is not exactly the warm welcome I’d been hoping for upon arrival.

Within a few minutes, I see a ranch house come into view—one that I’m pretty sure is the main house where Theresa lives, along with my cousin, Tate, and his family. As soon as Cruz puts the truck into park, I’m out the door and reaching into the truck bed to grab my luggage.

But my arms aren’t exactly long enough.

Chuckling—and only making me madder—Cruz reaches in and snaps up my suitcase, bringing it around the back of the vehicle and setting it down in front of me.

My chin held high, I simply state, “Thank you,” before turning on my heel and marching straight toward the house.

“Sure thing, Princess,” I hear him call after me. His usage of that name again sets off something inside of me—something close to hatred. “See you around.”

“I certainly hope not,” I mutter under my breath.