"So do some of our guests," Asher says. "Remember Mr. Johnson from last month?"
"That was chewing tobacco, not actual spitting."
"Still spitting."
I finish in the bathroom and follow them to the bedroom, where Trent's already claimed his usual territory in the middle of the bed.
"Move over," I tell him. "Some of us need space to sleep."
"You've got the whole left side."
"I've got about six inches and whatever's left after you stretch out."
"That's plenty for someone your size."
I climb into bed anyway, squeezing between Trent and Asher while Gavin settles on the other side. It's ridiculous that four adults share one bed, but somehow we've made it work. Mostly by accepting that personal space is a luxury we gave up somewhere around month two.
"You know," I say, listening to the familiar sounds of the ranch settling down for the night, "Aunt Maybelle probably never imagined we'd turn this place into a tourist circus."
"Your aunt knew exactly what she was doing," Gavin says. "Woman didn't leave you a ranch by accident."
"She left me a failing ranch. The tourist thing was my idea."
"Was it though?" Trent asks. "Or did she know you'd figure out how to make it profitable?"
"She couldn't have predicted Sir Clucks-a-Lot becoming a social media star."
"That bird's always been an attention seeker," Asher says. "She probably counted on it."
Outside, as if summoned by the mention of his name, Sir Clucks-a-Lot lets out one of his middle-of-the-night crows. Probably alerting the world that he's still in charge around here.
"Think he knows he's famous?" I ask.
"Think he's planning his next career move," Gavin says. "Celebrity endorsements, maybe a reality show."
"Don't give him ideas."
"Too late. I saw him posing with that travel blogger yesterday. He's got natural camera instincts."
"Great. A rooster with Hollywood ambitions."
"Could be worse," Trent says. "Could be a rooster with political ambitions."
"Don't even joke about that."
As I drift off to sleep, wedged between three men I somehow convinced that running a guest ranch was a good idea, I can't help but laugh at how ridiculous my life has become. Chaotic, profitable, and completely impossible to explain to anyone who doesn't understand why people pay good money to shovel horse shit and get terrorized by poultry.
Even if that reality includes a fame-hungry rooster and the distinct possibility that we'll eventually cave and buy goats for yoga classes.
Especially then.
