Chapter 1 #2
“Don’t get smart with me, missy.”
“Too late. I was born smart. It’s my curse.”
Rita bleats again, louder this time, adding her own commentary. Several people laugh, which only makes Dad’s expression darker.
“This is exactly why the McCoys think they can walk all over us,” he says, loud enough for the entire county to hear. “Because we can’t even control our livestock!”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I start to say, but I’m interrupted by the sound of slow clapping. “Rita is a pet, not livestock,” I mumble. No one cares.
I am holding my chin high as I walk away, Rita finally under control, when I spot three figures walking toward us through the crowd. My heart does something weird in my chest. The McCoy boys. All three of them. And they’re all looking directly at me.
This day just keeps getting better.
It seems Rita is not happy with the McCoy’s approach and she decides to let me know.
I’m wrestling with her leash again as we watch them move through the crowd like they own the place.
Which, let’s be honest, they kind of do.
The McCoy family has been Cedar Ridge royalty for as long as anyone can remember.
The oldest one, Wyatt, I think, has his arms crossed and a scowl that could curdle milk. The middle one is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s seen all year. And the youngest one is trying not to laugh.
I’m still staring when Rita decides she’s had enough of my control and bolts toward them.
“Rita, no!” I sprint after her, but my boots slip on a puddle of chili, and I’m suddenly airborne.
I slam into all three of them at once.
Three solid chests. Six arms reaching out to catch me. One very undignified oomph as I take down what feels like half a ton of cowboy.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and cursing. I land flat on my butt in the sawdust, staring up at three very different expressions: one annoyed, one amused, and one concerned.
“Well,” says the grinning one, Jesse, maybe? “That’s one way to meet someone.”
“We’ve met before. I’m your neighbor.”
“All grown up now,” he adds, smiling.
Rita, meanwhile, has found the youngest brother’s leather belt and is chewing on it while he tries to pull it away from her.
“Hey! This is my good belt!” He’s laughing even as he says it, which makes Rita more determined to claim her prize. “Come on, goat, let go!”
“Control your livestock,” Wyatt growls, standing up and brushing sawdust off his jeans. His eyes are stormy, and his mouth is set in a hard line.
“She’s not livestock,” I snap back, scrambling to my feet. “She’s a pet. With issues. We all have issues, you know.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jesse says, still grinning. He extends a hand to help me up, but I ignore it and dust myself off.
“Your goat has good taste,” he continues, nodding toward Rita. “That’s genuine leather. Looks like you’re losing your belt, Boone.”
“Rita, drop it!” I grab for the belt, but she dances away, trailing leather behind her like a victory banner.
Boone, who’s cracking up, finally catches one end of the belt. “Tug of war with a goat. This is a new low, even for me.”
“Just let her have it,” I say, exasperated. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still laughing. “She’s earned it fair and square.”
Rita, sensing victory, gives one final tug and trots away with her prize, smugly satisfied with herself.
“That goat is a menace,” Wyatt says flatly.
“That goat is the least of your problems,” I shoot back. “Your family’s over there destroying mine, and you’re worried about livestock control?”
“Our family?” Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your dad’s the one waving around utensils like he’s ready to kill.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to admit that. “Your grandfather started it.”
“Your dad escalated it,” Wyatt says.
“Your grandfather threw the first spoon!”
“It was a ladle, and it was self-defense!”
We’re standing there glaring at each other when Boone starts laughing again. “Y’all realize how ridiculous this sounds, right? We’re arguing about spoons.”
“Ladles,” Jesse and I correct in unison, then glare at each other harder.
“Even better,” Boone grins. “Nothing starts a family feud like kitchen utensils.”
I hate that he’s making sense. I hate that he’s cute when he laughs. I especially hate that all three of them are looking at me as if I’m some kind of exotic disease they’ve never seen before. Like they don’t know whether to be intrigued or repulsed.
“Look,” I say, crossing my arms, “I’m sorry about Rita and the belt and the whole crashing-into-you thing. I better get her home before she destroys anything else.”
“Smart plan,” Wyatt says. “Might want to invest in a stronger rope while you’re at it.”
“Might want to invest in a personality while you’re at it,” I snap back.
Jesse laughs. “Oh shit, she’s got you there, Wy.”
Wyatt’s scowl deepens, but I catch something that might be amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thompson women and their mouths,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?” I straighten up to my full height, chest back, chin up. No one talks trash about the Thompson women. No one.
He realizes he’s gone too far. “Nothing,” he says, backpedaling. “Just... nothing.”
Damn right.
“Well, since we’re on the subject, why don’t you enlighten me about Thompson women and our mouths?”
“I really think we should—” Boone starts to say, but Jesse cuts him off.
“What my charming brother means,” Jesse says, shooting Wyatt a warning look, “is that Thompson women are known for being... spirited.”
“Spirited.” I repeat the word slowly. “Like horses?”
“Like trouble,” Wyatt says under his breath.
“I heard that,” I snip.
“Good. Maybe you’ll face facts.”
“The only fact I’m facing is that McCoy men are just as pigheaded as their fathers.”
“And Thompson women are just as—”
“Just as what?” I step closer, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, ready for a fight.
But Wyatt doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s looking down at me, and something shifts in his expression. For just a second, the scowl softens.
“Nothing,” he says finally. “Just... be careful with that goat.”
Before I can ask what that’s supposed to mean, he turns and walks away.
Jesse tips his hat at me with an infuriating grin. “See you around, pretty girl.”
Boone waves goodbye, belt-less, still chuckling. “Thanks for the entertainment!”
I watch them retreat, three sets of broad shoulders and long legs, and I absolutely do not notice how well their jeans fit or how Wyatt’s dark hair curls just slightly at the nape of his neck.
Nope. Not noticing any of that.
Rita trots back over to me, Boone’s belt hanging from her mouth like a trophy. She looks pleased with herself.
“You,” I tell her, “are a terrible wingman.”
She bleats, either agreeing or disagreeing. Who knows which.
I’m trying to coax Rita to my truck when Mrs. Delaney appears beside me like a gossip-seeking missile.
“Oh my stars!” she gasps, clutching her phone to her chest. “Callie Thompson, did you just fall into the arms of all three McCoy boys?”
“I crashed into them,” I correct, tugging Rita’s leash. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Mrs. Delaney’s eyes are practically glowing with excitement. “Because it looked mighty romantic from where I was standing. Very movie-scene, if you ask me. You know that term ‘meet-cute’? I think that was one in the making, right before our very eyes.”
“The hell,” I mutter, but she either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore it.
“I got the whole thing on video,” she continues, waving her phone. “The way they all reached out to catch you? Pure poetry. I’m posting it to the community page right now.”
“Please don’t.”
“Oh, honey, it’s too late for that. This is the most exciting thing to happen at the fair since 2018 when the Ferris wheel broke down and we had to call the fire department to get Doc off the highest chair.
I remember how afraid of heights that poor man was.
He had to take some time off after that unfortunate. ..”
Rita, tired of Mrs. Delaney’s story, chooses that moment to let out a loud bleat, and the woman jumps like she’s been shot.
“That goat is still chewing that boy’s belt!” she exclaims. “Should I call animal control?”
“She’s fine. Just... difficult.”
“Difficult,” Mrs. Delaney repeats, typing furiously on her phone. “That’s a good word. Very quotable.”
I start walking faster, hoping to escape before she can say anything else, but Mrs. Delaney follows me, her thumbs moving across her phone screen at lightning speed.
“Tell me, Callie, how long have you had feelings for the McCoy boys?”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?”
“The chemistry was obvious, sweetie. You can’t fake that kind of tension.”
“The only tension here is me trying not to strangle my goat.”
And Mrs. Delaney, truth be told.
I keep that part to myself.
“Mmm-hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “And which boy do you like best? The serious one? The charming one? Or the funny one?”
“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Delaney. They’re McCoys. I’m a Thompson. Oil and water. Natural enemies. The Montagues and Capulets. Ring any bells?”
“Oh, pish. Don’t drop that silly Romeo and Juliet stuff on me,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “That old feud is just for show. Everyone knows it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
As if summoned by name, Dad appears at my elbow, his face still red from his chili confrontation. “Callie, what are you doing talking to those McCoy boys—” He spots Mrs. Delaney, clears his throat, and smiles politely. “Afternoon, Dolores.”
“Hank!” Mrs. Delaney beams at him. “I was just telling Callie how sweet it was, watching her fall into the McCoy boys’ arms. Like something out of a romance novel!”
Dad’s smile disappears. “She what?”
“Crashed,” I say quickly. “I crashed into them while chasing Rita. It was an accident. A very ungraceful, very embarrassing accident.”
“An accident,” Dad repeats slowly, his eyes narrowing. “With the McCoy boys.”
“All three of them,” Mrs. Delaney adds unhelpfully. “She took them all down at once. Very exciting.”
I close my eyes and count to five. When I open them, Dad is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“We’re leaving,” he announces. “Now.”
“Good idea,” I agree, starting toward the parking area. But Mrs. Delaney isn’t done with us yet.
“Hank, you should know, people are talking. About Callie and those boys. Some folks think it’s about time the families made peace. Let the younger generation be the change,” she says with a proud nod.
Dad’s jaw twitches. “Some folks need to mind their own business.”
“Oh, but, Hank, young love is everyone’s business! It’s romantic! It’s—”
“It’s nothing,” Dad says firmly. “Because my daughter knows better than to get involved with a McCoy.”
He looks at me pointedly when he says it, and my cheeks burn.
“Of course I do,” I say through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t touch a McCoy with a ten-foot pole.”
“Even if he was really, really good-looking?” Mrs. Delaney asks with a sly grin.
“Especially then,” I lie.
But even as I say it, I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt’s eyes, Jesse’s crooked grin, and the way Boone’s face lit up when he laughed. Which is exactly the kind of thing that’s going to get me in trouble.
“Good,” Dad says, satisfied. “Because the last thing this family needs is more drama with the McCoys.”
Mrs. Delaney looks disappointed, but she’s still typing on her phone. “Well, if anything changes, you know where to find me. I’m always happy to document young romance for posterity.”
“There won’t be any romance to document,” I say firmly.
“If you say so, dear.” But her tone suggests she thinks I’m either lying or delusional.
As we walk toward the truck, I can hear people whispering as we pass. Phones are coming out. Cameras are pointing in our direction. By tonight, half the county will have seen Mrs. Delaney’s video of me face-planting into three cowboys.
“What a mess,” I mutter.
“It’s fixable,” Dad says. “As long as you stay away from those boys.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about the way Wyatt looked at me right before he walked away, and the way Jesse called me “trouble” like it was a compliment, and the way Boone’s laugh made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Zero cowboy contact,” I say under my breath as I load Rita into the back of the truck. “That’s the plan. Zero contact, zero drama, zero complications.”
Rita bleats skeptically, Boone’s belt still hanging from her mouth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. “I mean it.”
But even as I say it, I have the sinking feeling that Rita and I both know I’m lying.
The McCoy boys are trouble. Capital T, heartbreak-waiting-to-happen, family-feud-reigniting trouble.
And I absolutely, definitely, completely do not want anything to do with them.
Absolutely.
Definitely.
Completely.