Claimed by the Cowboys (Three Times the Cowboy #5)

1. Piper

CHAPTER 1

Piper

June

I just love the farmers market.

Honestly. I know it might be kind of cliché, but as I finally settle in behind the table I just finished setting up, I take a deep breath and let the cool early summer air into my lungs.

Yeah. I love it here.

“Hey, Piper! What did you bring today?”

I smile at Kevin, the dairy farmer who’s in the neighboring booth. We’ve worked out a couple of trades already this year, and I can see him eyeing the pickled asparagus I brought for this week.

“Oh, I still have some beets and pickles, a couple of jars of the candied jalapenos from the greenhouse, but I managed to get the asparagus canned, and that’s really the feature of this week.”

Kevin saunters over. He’s an older guy, sporting his semi-permanent outfit of Carhartt overalls and a very grimy plaid shirt. He eyes the neatly stacked jars that I have on the table, then looks at me. “How many gallons for a couple of jars of each?”

I shrug. “I’d do a full gallon and a couple of containers of heavy cream?”

“Sold,” Kevin grins. He makes his selection and hands me my goods. I can’t help but notice that they’re already set aside in a cooler, and it makes me smile even more.

It’s part of what I love about the farmers market. We’re a community. We look out for each other; we know each other.

It’s like having a really big family. Which, I guess, is the only family that I really have at the moment.

The thought sends a ripple through me, like a cloud over the sun. The smile drops from my lips, and I look down, taking a deep breath to move through the old pain.

I’ve always wanted a big family.

Growing up, it was just my sister, Blaire, and me. Our parents died in a car accident, and we were raised in a small town in Colorado by our grandparents. They were pretty standoffish when raising us, but I owe my love of gardening (and my extensive knowledge of canning) to them. Even though my sister and I practically raised ourselves, I truly believe my grandparents did the best they could, because they weren’t prepared to raise two little girls again.

Blaire and I experienced this very differently. I liked being part of a small town and the community that came with it. Blaire, on the other hand, decided to run as far away as she could, as quickly as she could. She became one hell of an investigative reporter.

I never really wanted to do that. When I graduated from the University of Colorado Boulder, I earned a degree in marketing, with a half-hearted effort. I really wanted to get married and start a family, but no one at CU really caught my eye at all.

Somehow, after graduation, that half-hearted degree turned into a really big job in tech in San Francisco. With like… a lot of money.

All the money in the world, however, couldn’t fix my terrible dating history with men.

When our grandparents passed, I pooled some of my earnings and my small inheritance, and I bought a farm in Montana. And now, I grow lots of things. I pickle and can lots most of those things. What I don’t pickle or can, I take pretty pictures of, and I sell. I have an Instagram account that does reasonably well, in terms of reach and value. It’s nowhere near what I did in San Francisco, but for now, it works.

I’m just here to heal. I’ve sworn off men entirely, and I’m embracing my life as the weird garden lady.

I take a second to re-arrange my jars after Kevin goes back to his booth. The layout is very important, after all. Having an appealing spread entices people to come and browse.

It’s one of the very important lessons I’ve learned from my idol, Mary Marco. Lots of people don’t know this about her, but she was a badass long before she was an icon of home décor. Like, my girl traded stocks with the big boys before it was even a thing for women to trade on Wall Street. Then, when she decided she was bored of that and wanted to cater food for her friends, her catering business became a multi-million-dollar sensation overnight.

Never underestimate the power of a woman who knows how to lay a table, is all I’m saying.

The bell rings, heralding the start of the market, and I put a genuine smile on my face. It’s literally so cute that they ring a bell to start the market.

I love it here. I really do. And if I keep telling myself that, like it’s going to patch over the hole inside of me that I feel around accepting the fact that a big family isn’t part of my future anymore? That my voluntary man-diet (which is absolutely necessary) is keeping me from having kids, which I am desperate to do?

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

I keep my head high. I make sure that the beets catch the morning light just right, so everyone can see how beautiful and ruby-red they look.

And I carry the heck on.

A mere five hours later, the pleasant morning has turned to a full-on summer day, and I’m breaking a sweat as I break down my tent and table.

The jars sold out. They always do. Posting the process of making all of my canned goods on my account usually draws a pretty good crowd. People love to get the finished product when they’ve seen me go through the process of making it, and today’s group was no exception. I even had a couple of people pull me aside to take a picture, which I gladly agreed to.

Even though growing the social media presence of Little Sister Farms isn’t my priority, it’s not like I can just turn off everything that I’m really good at. I know how to get people invested in what I do, and I know that if I wanted to, I could probably follow Mary Marco’s lead and turn this little farm into a big business…

Chill out, Piper. Healing era. Remember?

I huff, returning my focus to the plastic table, which absolutely doesn’t want to fold…

“You really should just go to Costco and get a new one,” a voice rumbles from over my shoulder.

A smile spreads across my face, and I turn to see a very tall shape blocking the summer sun. “Hey, Brent.”

“Hey, Pipes. How’d it go today?” Brent Hayward grins back at me.

I stand and shade my eyes from where the sun is beaming behind him, giving him a kind of halo. Brent’s the kind of handsome that makes you catch your breath a little bit. Tall, broad-shouldered, his biceps flex a little as he shifts on his feet. His dark hair soaks in the light, gleaming like a blackbird wing in the sun, and his green eyes practically sparkle in his tan face.

It’s a good thing I’ve known him since we were kids, or I’d be absolutely gobsmacked by how handsome he looks right now. Remembering someone with a bucktooth and a black eye gives you a little perspective.

Well. I try to remember it, anyway. Sometimes it’s kind of hard. Because when he looks at me like that, my heart tends to skip a beat, and my pulse goes up by about fifty beats, and my blood feels kind of spicy, so… yeah. I wouldn’t by any means say that I’m unaffected by that smile.

But, as Mary Marco would say, the best hostess is like a duck. Calm on the outside, even if they’re paddling like hell underneath the water. And I’m nothing if not radiating calm.

I shrug, realizing Brent is still waiting on my answer. “Oh, you know.”

His grin widens. “How fast did you sell out?”

“Three hours.”

Brent gives a little excited hoot, and I turn to the table again, his excitement contagious as it tugs yet another smile out of me.

“Come on, Pipes. That’s amazing,” he says. I freeze, tensing a little as I feel Brent come up behind me, his arms ghosting over mine.

“Oh, it’s just luck. Lots of people sold well today,” I murmur.

Sheesh. His arms are so distracting as he grabs the metal joist that’s sticking, keeping the table from folding down. I swear I can see every single curve in the muscles of his forearms, and the fact that he smells a little like sweat and hay shouldn’t make me nearly as flustered as it is.

Brent is a friend. One of my very best friends. He and two other guys, Tate and Dalton, are the whole reason that I moved to this little town.

They bought a ranch here years ago, and when the neighboring property was up for sale and I was in the market, I jumped on the opportunity that they pointed out.

Other than my sister, I do not have any family. I have sworn off dating for good because I simply can’t do it anymore. I am in my healing era. Being close to friends, good ones like Brent, Tate, and Dalton, was an intentional choice to facilitate that healing.

But the whole I’ve sworn off dating thing is really a problem right now. Because it’s making me look at Brent like he’s a slice of USDA prime beef. Which, around these parts, is definitely what’s for dinner.

The metal joist finally pops, the noise jarring me from my undeniably thirsty fantasy. Brent leans back, and the rush of oxygen cools me down, giving me a little perspective.

“Come on. Let’s just go to Costco, and you can get another table.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s like a six-hour round-trip to Costco, Brent. I’m not going to do that right now.”

“You got all the asparagus out and pickled this weekend. What else is on your agenda today?” I frown, ready to tell him all about the way I wanted to make a post about the improvements I made to the chicken coop, when his finger wags in front of my face. “Do not post any pictures of that fancy chicken house. It’s disturbing.”

I laugh. “It’s not disturbing, it’s adorable.”

Brent huffs, eyeing me with mock disdain. “Piper. The whole thing looks like a gingerbread house. You literally gave it scalloped eaves and put a huge candy button on the door.”

“And it’s freaking a-door-able,” I say with a beaming smile.

Brent coughs out a laugh. “Really? That’s the pun?”

“It’s the title of the whole post, actually.” I smirk at him.

Rolling his eyes, Brent grabs the folded table from me and walks it over to my vintage blue Ford. “Piper. They’re chickens. They’re literally the dumbest animals on earth.”

I hold a hand over my chest. “I think you’re severely underestimating all of my girls.”

“I think you’re delusional. Your girls?”

“Well, except Reginald.”

Brent makes a face and loads the table into my truck. “I can’t believe how much you paid for that rooster.”

I am fully aware of how costly the fancy Dominique hens and rooster were. However, their cheery black-and-white checkered feathers and red combs translate to amazing pictures.

“But they’re so cute!” I say as we walk back to gather my tent.

Brent rolls his eyes again, but I know he’s not serious. He appreciates my ability to present life on the farm in a very aesthetically pleasing way. I know he does, because every time I come up with something cute, he’s the first one there to inspect it. Followed, of course, by Tate and Dalton.

In a matter of seconds, Brent has the little tent disassembled and placed in the truck, and he’s helping me count through my register. The routine is somewhat familiar. I’m not exactly sure when, nor am I sure that it’s actually a routine because it’s nutlike he’s here every week, but it definitely happens often enough that Brent knows both the set-up and shut-down routine.

It’s kind of scary, how quickly Brent and I fall into this easy pattern with each other. It doesn’t matter whether we’re doing this, or riding, or even working on cooking something in my kitchen. Brent just helps. He doesn’t take over and he doesn’t boss me around. He just… helps.

And the fact that he does it so easily, like it’s just natural for him, is something that I love about him.

When everything is packed in the truck, Brent dusts his hands off on his jeans. I make a point not to look, because if I start to think too hard about those thick thighs, I know I’m going to need a little self-care date tonight, but I can’t help a glance.

I quickly look away. His thighs are so muscled, they remind me of tree trunks.

“So. What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” he asks.

The question jolts me out of my thigh-induced panic. “Uh. Nothing, I guess. One of the hens is a little broody, so I need to get her in an Epsom salt bath, and I was going to shoot some content, but other than that, I was planning on just recovering from yesterday’s epic asparagus spree.”

He nods, giving me a look that makes my already warm blood heat up just that much more. “Well. If you’re not occupied for dinner, would you fancy coming over? Tate has some kind of roast he’s making.”

Ooooh. The prospect of a home-cooked meal by the one and only Tate Kirkland sounds way more fun than hanging out with an angry chicken. “Can I bring anything?”

Brent leans forward, his green eyes trained on me. The look is intense, and without meaning to, I shiver.

No. Stop it. Brent is your friend, dummy.

“Just your pretty little self, darlin’,” he says with a smirk.

Rolling my eyes, I pretend to bat him away. “Whatever, weirdo. I’ll see you later.”

“Later, Pipes.”

I make a conscious effort not to look at his backside (which is, of course, proportionate to his thighs) as he walks away. Huffing another sigh, I tug the door to my vintage truck open and hop into the refurbished cab.

Brent is gorgeous. Heck, they all are. But looking is as much as I’m ever going to do.

I have terrible, terrible luck with men. Like, the worst ever. I think I might be cursed. It’s clear that no man on earth is going to give me the type of relationship I want. Or at least, not the men who seem to pick me to date.

It’s awful, because it’s stalling my desire to have kids and a family.

These guys are my friends. They’re the best part of my life most days.

Would I ever risk ruining the friendship I have with them for something as stupid as my cursed love life? Nope. Not in a million freaking years.

So am I going to go over to their house and salivate over all three of them? You bet.

But I, Piper Cassidy, am in my healing era. I can’t be a good parent without it, and I need some kind of hard reset from dating in order to get to that step.

And no farm boy, no matter how cute or how muscular his thighs are, is going to pull me out of that.