Camille's Cowboy

Chapter 1 City Boots, Country Dreams

Camille knew she had made a questionable decision when she found herself standing in the middle of her Chicago bedroom holding a pair of brown cowboy boots like they had personally offended her.

“They’re too stiff,” she said.

Harper, stretched across the foot of Camille’s bed with the comfort of someone who had never once helped pack anything properly, glanced up from her phone.

“They’re boots, Camille. Not house slippers.”

“They look painful.”

“They look expensive.”

“They were expensive.”

“Then your feet will suffer with dignity.”

Camille lowered the boots into her open suitcase and immediately took them back out again.

Across the room, Zoe stood in front of Camille’s closet, inspecting the contents with the seriousness of a museum curator evaluating a suspicious painting.

“You packed three blazers.”

“I like blazers.”

“You are going to a ranch.”

“I’m aware.”

“You packed a white blazer.”

“It’s casual.”

“It has gold buttons.”

Kendra, seated neatly in the chair near the window, folded a sweater and placed it inside the suitcase.

“Leave her alone,” she said. “Some people need structured tailoring when confronted with livestock.”

Camille pointed at her. “Thank you.”

Kendra smiled. “I was teasing you.”

Camille sighed and dropped onto the edge of the bed.

Booking a week at the Double Star Dude Ranch in Montana had seemed like a reasonable idea three months ago.

At the time, she had been sitting in her office after another endless marketing presentation, staring at a computer screen full of sales projections and wondering when her life had become a collection of meetings, takeout containers, and disappointing dates.

The ranch advertisement had promised peaceful mornings, mountain views, horseback riding, and a chance to unplug.

Camille had clicked the reservation button before she could talk herself out of it.

Now the trip was real. Cowboy-boot real.

Harper set down her phone and sat up. “I still say you’re going to meet someone.”

“I am going to relax.”

“With someone.”

“No.”

“And, he’s going to be a sexy Black cowboy.”

Camille laughed. “There are not going to be any Black cowboys.”

The room went quiet.

Zoe slowly turned away from the closet.

Harper blinked.

Kendra stopped folding.

Camille looked from one face to another.

“What?”

Zoe folded her arms.

“You really just said that with your whole chest.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

“Camille,” Zoe said, “there were thousands of Black cowboys.”

“In history books?”

“In actual history.”

“Well, nobody showed them in the movies.”

“That is not the same as them not existing.”

Harper leaned forward. “You are going to Montana with no historical knowledge and a white blazer. This trip is already entertaining.”

Camille rolled her eyes. “I’m not going there looking for romance. I’m going because I need quiet.”

That part was true. Romance had become exhausting. Camille had spent the last several years meeting men who wanted companionship without responsibility, attention without effort, and understanding without offering any in return.

Her most recent date had spent nearly an hour explaining why commitment was an outdated social structure, then asked whether she wanted to meet his mother the following weekend.

Camille had deleted the dating apps before she reached home. Love, she had decided, was no longer a goal. Peace was.

“I want mountains,” Camille said. “Fresh air. Horses. Maybe a nap.”

Harper grinned. “And a tall cowboy named Luke.”

“Why Luke?”

“Every ranch has a Luke.”

Zoe nodded. “Or a Wyatt.”

Kendra zipped one side of the suitcase. “Possibly a Caleb.”

Camille slipped the boots back into the bag. “I am not meeting a Luke, Wyatt, Caleb, or anybody else.”

Harper raised one eyebrow. “Famous last words.”

Two days later, Camille stood beside a ranch shuttle in Montana and discovered that Harper’s teasing was not the most irritating thing in the world.

That honor belonged to gravel. Her suitcase wheels refused to cooperate, dragging behind her as though they had reconsidered the entire trip.

Camille tugged harder.

The suitcase tilted.

A woman wearing a wide straw hat stepped around her.

“You all right?”

“Perfect,” Camille said, as the suitcase tipped onto its side.

The woman smiled politely and kept walking.

Camille stared at the ranch ahead.

The main lodge sat beneath tall pine trees, its broad wooden porch lined with rocking chairs. Beyond it stretched miles of golden grass, rolling hills, and mountains rising in the distance beneath a sky so blue it looked painted.

She stopped struggling with the suitcase.

For the first time since landing, she forgot to be irritated.

Chicago had beauty, but it was crowded beauty.

Steel, glass, lakefront light, and city streets full of movement.

This was different.

Here, the land seemed to breathe.

Camille inhaled deeply and felt something inside her loosen.

Maybe she had made the right decision after all.

A ranch employee carried her suitcase to the lodge, saving both Camille’s dignity and her shoulder. After checking in, she wandered outside with a folded property map and a growing suspicion that she was walking in the wrong direction.

She followed a path toward the stable, where several guests stood near a row of horses.

A man’s voice carried across the yard. “Stay calm and let the horse know you’re calm.”

A nervous teenager raised her hand.

“What if I’m not calm?”

“Then lie politely.”

The group laughed.

Camille looked toward the speaker.

He stood beside a chestnut horse, one hand resting gently against its neck.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Dark jeans.

Brown boots worn at the toes.

A black cowboy hat cast a narrow shadow over his face, but not enough to hide his smile.

Camille stopped walking.

The man turned slightly, revealing warm brown skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and the kind of easy confidence that made the whole ranch seem to arrange itself around him.

Her first thought was that he was extremely handsome.

Her second was that her friends could never know.

He looked toward her.

Their eyes met.

He tipped his hat. “Afternoon.”

Camille’s brain offered several reasonable replies.

Her mouth chose none of them.

She waved.

He walked over. “You lost?”

“No.”

She glanced at the map.

“Possibly.”

His smile widened.

“I’m Luke Henry.”

Camille nearly laughed out loud. Of course his name was Luke.

Somewhere in Chicago, Harper was probably feeling mysteriously victorious.

“Camille Scott.”

Luke shook her hand. His grip was warm, steady, and brief. “First time at a ranch?”

“Is it obvious?”

“You’re holding the map upside down.”

Camille looked down. It was obvious.

She flipped it over. “I was testing it.”

“Did it pass?”

“Barely.”

Luke laughed, and Camille felt the sound settle somewhere unexpectedly soft inside her.

A horse leaned over the fence and nudged her shoulder.

Camille jumped.

Luke reached for the horse’s halter. “That’s Daisy. She likes meeting new people.”

“She has an aggressive way of introducing herself.”

“She believes in enthusiasm.”

Camille carefully placed a hand against Daisy’s nose.

The horse’s warm breath brushed her palm.

“She’s sweeter than I expected.”

“Most horses are.”

Camille glanced at Luke again.

She hesitated, then decided honesty was better than awkward silence. “I have to admit something.”

“That sounds serious.”

“I didn’t expect to see a Black cowboy.”

Luke’s expression remained relaxed. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“I hope that wasn’t offensive.”

“It wasn’t.”

He rested one arm along the fence. “Most folks learned about the West from movies. Those movies left out a whole lot of people.”

Camille thought of Zoe’s expression back in her apartment. “So my friend was right.”

Luke continued. “After the Civil War, a large number of working cowboys were Black. They worked cattle drives, trained horses, competed in rodeos, and built ranches. Men like Nat Love, Bill Pickett, and Bose Ikard were part of the West, even if Hollywood acted like they weren’t.”

Camille stared at him. “I never learned any of that.”

“A lot of people didn’t.”

There was no anger in his voice, only quiet certainty.

Camille looked across the open land, then back at Luke. “So this ranch has history too?”

“My family’s been ranching for generations.”

Something in the way he said it made her curious. Not only about the ranch but about him.

Luke nodded toward the horses. “We have a beginner trail ride tomorrow morning. Daisy’s one of the calmest horses here.”

Camille eyed the horse. “Well, she just attacked me with her nose.”

“She was expressing interest.”

“In what?”

“Your potential.”

Camille laughed.

Luke’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary.

“You should come,” he said.

Camille looked at Daisy, then at Luke. “I’ll think about it.”

“That usually means no.”

“It means I need time to imagine falling off a horse in several different ways.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

The words were simple. Still, something about the way he said them made Camille believe him.

Luke tipped his hat and returned to the group.

Camille watched him walk away, then caught herself and immediately turned back toward the lodge.

She had come to Montana for peace. Not to romance a handsome Black cowboy named Luke, who knew how to make history sound personal and promises sound easy.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Harper appeared.

Met any cowboys yet?

Camille looked back toward the stable. Luke was laughing with one of the guests, sunlight resting across his shoulders.

She fibbed and typed a reply.

No.

Then, after a moment, she added:

And don’t ask me again.

Harper responded almost immediately.

His name is Luke, isn’t it?

Camille locked her phone without answering.

The ranch had been peaceful for less than one hour.

Already, it was becoming complicated.