Corralled By Cole (Silver Spoon Cowboys #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

REINE

I’m sitting in my usual corner booth at Molly’s Diner, pretending to review my notes for tomorrow’s horse auction.

I act like I’m focused on my work, but I’m only half-listening to my own internal monologue.

Next to Thunderbolt’s name, I’ve written “DO NOT FUCK THIS UP” in highlighter underneath his stats. Yeah. No pressure or anything.

My heart lurches as I stare at the neon stars next to Thunderbolt’s name. Damnit. I hate this. The entire ranch is counting on me to get this sale right, and all I want to do is lock Thunderbolt in the back pasture and throw the key in the creek.

I scrub a hand across my face, pretending it’s just dust making my eyes sting.

Who am I kidding? I freaking love that horse.

He’s more loyal than ninety percent of the humans I’ve met.

But feelings don’t pay overdue electric bills or keep Grams’ ancient furnace from exploding on a cold Montana night or keep the asshole’s trying to steal our ranch at bay.

If we don’t get top dollar for Thunderbolt, we lose everything.

My chest squeezes tight. Tomorrow is gonna fucking suck.

My skin starts prickling, and I glance up, telling myself it’s just my nerves, but I’m lying. Fuck. I know someone’s looking at me.

I try not to glance up right away, but I totally cave after three seconds.

That’s all the self-control I’ve got. My eyes go straight to the far corner, and that’s when I see the hottest cowboy I’ve ever encountered in real life.

Holy hell. He’s a walking wet dream, straight out of every romance cover I’ve ever hidden in my nightstand.

Square jaw, dark stubble, and a mouth I want to kiss more than my next breath.

His hair’s messy in a “I just rolled out of bed and still look hot as fuck” way, even with the top flattened by the black cowboy hat that’s now sitting in the center of the table.

Wide shoulders stretch his plaid shirt to the limit.

I can see his chest under the open collar, tan and probably carved out of marble. And those hands. Big. Capable.

He’s got this look in his eye, too. Slow and lazy, but underneath it, I swear he’s plotting something. My pulse trips over itself. He smirks, and I about melt through the cracked vinyl booth. I’m completely, embarrassingly obsessed.

He’s sitting in a booth on the far side of the small diner, acting like he owns the place, one arm stretched across the back of his booth, sleeves pushed up to show off sun-tanned forearms with elaborate tattoos.

He smirks again when our eyes meet, and I swear my girly parts wake up and celebrate while my face goes up in flames.

Holy shit. I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash and pretend to check my phone. Then I re-highlight Thunderbolt’s notes like a psycho with a marker addiction. But I can feel his gaze burning straight through my skull.

I risk another peek and get nailed by that same look. My pulse hammers. He’s still smirking, like he’s got a direct line to my dirty thoughts and approves.

I barely resist the urge to fan myself. Get your shit together, Reine.

When he looks away to answer his phone, I decide it’s time to turn tail and run. I gather my stuff fast, trying not to drop my phone or my dignity, but I’m pretty sure my face is tomato-red.

Outside, I suck in a lungful of cold Montana air. It doesn’t help. If anything, I’m even more flustered. I jam my notes in the passenger seat, hop in my truck, and gun it back toward the ranch with my thighs pressed tightly together.

The drive home is all rolling hills and frostbitten grass, the kind of landscape that looks boring in postcards but feels like a punch in the gut if you ever leave it.

I’m not sentimental, but there’s something about the way the morning sun catches on the crust of ice along the fence posts that makes me want to punch a hole in the universe and climb through to a place where nothing ever changes.

Instead, I roll down the window and let the wind whip my hair into knots, because it’s better than thinking about strangers with dangerous smiles.

The Rolling R Ranch is only ten miles from town, but it might as well be ten years.

Nothing about it says “money” anymore, not since Dad left and the bank started circling like vultures.

The barn could use a good coat of paint, and the gate groans every time I drag it open.

But the horses don’t care, and neither does Louise, my grandmother and the current boss in charge of everything but my love life.

I park the truck and grab my notes, hoping Grams won’t notice my current state. No such luck. She spots me from halfway across the corral and gives me her patented “don’t think you’re fooling me, kid” stare.

“So?” Her voice carries like a rifle shot. “What’s up with you? Auction nerves or did someone piss in your Cheerios at Molly’s?”

I do my best to look casual, but I’m sure she sees right through my act.

“Just running through the lineup again, Grams.” I jerk my chin toward Thunderbolt, who’s currently showing off for the mares like he’s the king stud.

“Hoping the big lug gets what he’s worth tomorrow.

” Fuck. We need it if we’re going to keep The Rolling R Ranch running for another year.

Grams snorts, wipes her hands on her jeans, and marches over to me. “He’s going to bring a good price. I feel it in my bones.”

I glance sidelong at her. “Your bones also told you I’d win prom queen, Grams.”

She grins, all teeth and crow’s feet. “I was only off by a few votes, sassypants.”

My phone buzzes. I check the screen. Just a weather alert.

Darn. No excuse to run away from my grandmother’s X-ray vision.

I shove the phone back in my pocket. “I’m not worried about Thunderbolt.

I know he’s worth the asking price. But I’m worried about the buyers.

Last year’s batch looked like they couldn’t pick out a stud if he bit ‘em in the ass.”

Grams laughs, loud enough to send a cluster of chickens fluttering. “You let me handle the old boys’ club. You just talk up Thunderbolt like he’s the best damn thing since sliced bread.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s basically the horse version of sliced bread, Grams. Except, you know, with more attitude.” And I can’t believe I have to sell him. But there’s no other way to save the family ranch. We need money and lots of it. Fast.

She cackles and swats me on the shoulder. “There’s my girl. Go on, then. Give him a brush down before you dive into those spreadsheets again. He gets antsy if he doesn’t get his daily dose of praise.”

I mutter something about diva stallions and head for the gate. Thunderbolt is already doing his best supermodel walk along the fence, muscles rippling and tail flagged high. Show-off. I swear he knows tomorrow’s the big day. He prances over like he expects a red carpet and a bucket of carrots.

“Easy, big guy,” I say, running my hand over his glossy mane.

He leans into my hand, all attitude and horsepower, and gives me the world’s most obvious “Where’s my treat?

” look. I dig in my jacket pocket, come up with a half-smashed peppermint, and feed it to Thunderbolt.

He snorts, lips twitching, then tries to mug my hand for more.

Greedy bastard. “Hey, save some for tomorrow, showboat. You want to look like a million bucks, not a sugar-high toddler.”

Thunderbolt lifts his head and stands even taller, like he knows I just complimented him.

I rub circles on his shoulder and try to ignore the fact that my hands are a little shaky.

Not from nerves. Definitely not from thinking about a certain cowboy and his cocky grin.

I’m absolutely not the kind of girl who gets flustered by a random dude in a diner. Oof.

Thunderbolt nuzzles my neck, snorting horse snot all over my collar. “Thanks, buddy.” I wipe my jacket sleeve with my hand. I can’t believe I have to sell my best friend in order to save the family farm. Life sucks sometimes.