Claimed by the Wylde Mountain Cowboy

1. Chapter 1

Kayla

The Second Annual Wylde Mountain Fall Roundup is in full swing and I have a trailer problem.

My boss Caroline is pointing to a tall and broad cowboy standing by the arena fence.

“Kayla, there’s a livestock trailer blocking the vendor access lane on the north side. Blue rig, horse trailer attached. I need it moved before the food truck driver loses their mind. That’s the owner right there.”

“On it.”

I grab my clipboard and walk across the field.

The Roundup is huge today. Bigger than last year, according to Caroline, and Wylde Mountain Ranch is packed with families, vendors, kids, horses, and more cowboy hats than I’ve seen in my life.

I’ve worked guest services at Wylde Mountain Lodge for just over a year, but Caroline has been pulling me into more of the events work lately. Apparently being good at keeping calm while three things go wrong at once is a transferable skill.

I like it.

Maybe a little too much.

The Roundup raises money for Cash Wylde’s youth horsemanship program, and the sixteen kids in it have been everywhere today—riding demonstrations, helping around the arena, proudly showing off the horses they’ve spent the last year learning to handle.

Half the valley seems to have turned out to support them.

It’s a good event.

A very busy event.

And at the moment, one incorrectly parked trailer is threatening the natural order of my vendor lane.

I make it to the owner.

“Hi. I need you to move your trailer about twenty feet east. You’re blocking the vendor lane.”

He looks at me.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered in a way that has nothing to do with a gym and everything to do with throwing hay bales and carrying things most people would use equipment for.

Work jacket. Boots. Jeans.

Older than me. Late thirties, probably.

Dark hair going gray at the temples. Weathered, tan face.

Irritatingly handsome.

“I was told to park here,” he says.

His voice is low and unhurried.

Also irritating.

“Apologies about that. Now I’m telling you to move it twenty feet. The food truck needs to get through.”

He doesn’t move.

He just looks at me with a flat, patient expression that gives me absolutely nothing to work with.

I wait a few seconds.

“Please?” I add.

“You added that late.”

“I was hoping the smile would cover it.”

“Didn’t.”

“Worth a shot.” I hold up my clipboard. “Twenty feet. The flags mark the new spot. Thank you, Mr.…”

“Harlan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harlan.”

I turn and walk away.

That should be the end of it.

I have volunteers to redirect, vendor questions to answer, and a hospitality table that somehow went through an entire case of paper cups before noon.

Still, something about his voice stays in the back of my head longer than it should.

I blame the gray at his temples.

Possibly the shoulders.

Definitely not the way he looked at me.

I’m working.

Thirty minutes later, I circle back toward the north side of the field.

The trailer has been moved.

Twenty-two feet east, if I’m being precise.

Which I usually am.

The food truck is through. The lane is clear. Problem solved.

Mr. Harlan is nowhere near the truck.

I find him a little later by the livestock area, helping someone wrestle a stubborn gate into place. He sees the problem, puts one large hand on the panel, fixes it, and walks away.

Useful.

That shouldn’t be attractive either.

I make another mark on my clipboard and move on.

The afternoon disappears.

I help Caroline with vendor checkout. I stack chairs.

I take over the radio when one of the volunteers has to leave early.

I find two missing extension cords, settle a disagreement over where a bakery booth is allowed to load out, and spend ten minutes convincing a little boy that the miniature horse near the arena does not belong to him just because it “likes him best.”

By the time the crowd starts thinning, my feet hurt and my ponytail is hanging on by optimism.

The Roundup is a complete success.

Which means Caroline looks happy.

Which means I’m happy.

This is the kind of work I want more of.

I’m good at guest services. I like people. I can fix a reservation problem without breaking a sweat.

But this?

Taking fifty moving pieces and turning them into something that works?

I could get used to this.

I’m helping a volunteer fold tablecloths when I glance up and see Mr. Harlan across the yard near the arena.

He’s talking to an older man I recognize vaguely from around town.

The man says something.

Mr. Harlan’s expression changes.

Not much.

With him, apparently, not much is the full emotional range.

The older man walks away.

Mr. Harlan looks across the yard.

For one second, I think he’s looking at me.

Then Caroline asks me where the final vendor checkout sheet went and I forget about him.

Mostly.

Three days later, I’m behind the front desk at Wylde Mountain Lodge, picking dried hay out of the spine of a binder clip, when the lobby door opens.

Mr. Harlan walks in.

I recognize him immediately.

Which is mildly annoying.

He walks straight toward the desk.

More annoying.

“Mr. Harlan,” I say. “Can I help you?”

“Ty.”

“Ty. Can I help you?”

His eyes settle on mine.

Brown.

I didn’t remember that.

I remembered the voice.

The eyes are apparently new information.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“If this is about the trailer, I already apologized for the mixed instructions.”

“It’s not about the trailer.”

“Roundup feedback goes through Caroline.”

“Not that either.”

“Then I’m genuinely at a loss.”

He glances around the lobby.

Two guests are sitting near the fireplace. A family is checking in at the other end of the desk.

His gaze returns to me.

“Can we talk somewhere private?”

I blink.

“I’m going to need slightly more context before I agree to go somewhere private with a man I’ve spoken to once.”

His mouth moves.

Barely.

Almost a smile.

“I need to ask you a favor.”

That does not make this less strange.

My shift ends in six minutes.

“There’s a bench by the east entrance,” I say. “Nobody uses it. I’m off at four.”

He nods.

“Four.”

He walks outside.

I watch him through the lobby windows as he crosses the parking lot and leans against his truck.

He waits.

For six full minutes.

I spend those six minutes finishing a check-in and trying to come up with a single reasonable explanation for why Ty Harlan wants a private conversation with me.

I fail.

At four, I clock out, grab my jacket, and head to the east entrance.

He’s already beside the bench.

Standing.

Of course.

I sit.

He remains standing.

“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“This is going to sound strange.”

“The bar is already set.”

Another almost-smile.

Then it’s gone.

“At the Roundup, after you told me to move the trailer, Walter Caldwell saw us talking.”

“The older man you were with later?”

His eyes sharpen slightly.

“You noticed?”

“I notice things. Occupational hazard.”

“Right.”

He shifts his weight.

“Caldwell owns four hundred acres along the eastern edge of my ranch. I’ve leased it for grazing for nine years.”

“Okay.”

“It has year-round water. Connects two sections of my property. I’ve been trying to buy it.”

I wait.

This does not yet explain why I’m involved.

“His daughter wants him to take an offer from a developer out of Bozeman,” Ty says. “Caldwell doesn’t want the land subdivided. He wants it kept in ranching.”

“That sounds promising for you.”

“It is. But he’s known my family a long time. To him, this isn’t only about who can pay for the acreage. It’s about what happens to it after he’s gone.”

That I understand.

“He wants someone who’ll stay,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been here your whole life.”

“Most of it.”

“And you already ranch the land.”

“I do.”

“So what’s the issue?”

His jaw shifts.

Interesting. Ty Harlan is uncomfortable.

“Caldwell thinks I built a ranch and forgot to build a life.”

I stare at him. “That is remarkably intrusive.”

“Walter Caldwell is remarkably intrusive.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

Ty’s mouth moves again. Quarter inch. I’m beginning to suspect this is as close as he gets to delighted.

“He thinks roots are more than owning property,” Ty continues. “Family. Community. Reasons to stay when things get hard.”

“And he thinks you don’t have those?”

“He thinks I work too much and live alone in a house meant for more than one person.”

“That sounds like his problem.”

“Usually, I’d agree.”

“But he owns the four hundred acres.”

“Exactly.”

I wait.

He looks toward the parking lot. Then back at me. “At the Roundup, Caldwell saw us talking.”

“Yes. You mentioned that.”

“He made an assumption.”

Oh.

No.

“What assumption?”

“That you and I were seeing each other.”

I stare at him. “We discussed parking.”

“I know.”

“For approximately sixty seconds.”

“I’m aware.”

“And somehow he got romance from that?”

“You smiled at me.”

“I work in hospitality. Smiling is practically a job requirement.”

“I didn’t say his logic was good.”

I press my lips together. “Did you correct him?”

Silence.

“Ty.”

“No.”

I laugh once. Not because it’s funny. Although it is a little funny. “You let an eighty-one-year-old man think I’m your girlfriend?”

“I didn’t tell him you were.”

“You simply omitted the part where I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Impressive distinction.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

I look at the mountains beyond the parking lot. Then at Ty. He has his hands in his jacket pockets and the expression of a man who knows he has backed himself into a ridiculous corner and intends to stand there with dignity.

“So now he thinks you’re settling down.”

“He thinks I might be.”

“And this somehow helps convince him you’ll still be lovingly gazing at Elk Creek when you’re seventy?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“And you came here because…”

His eyes hold mine. “I wanted to ask whether you’d be willing to let him keep believing it for a few weeks.”

I stare at him. Then I laugh. Actually laugh.

Ty waits.

“You’re asking me to be your fake girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if you’d consider it.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

“You said no.”

“Yes.”

“So the answer is no.”

Well. That was annoyingly reasonable. “I don’t even know you.”

“I know.”