Lassoes & Lies
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Synopsis
Coming Next in the Bluegrass Ridge Ranch Mystery Series...
How will Cussy save the ranch?
Will she go ahead with Uncle Amos's wild rodeo plan?
And what secrets are bucking to the surface now that the Bluegrass Belles are back in town?
Saddle up for Lassoes & Lies, the next charming—and chaotic—installment in the Bluegrass Ridge Ranch Mystery series, where rodeo dreams, small-town scandals, and a murder with too many motives collide under the Kentucky stars.
Preorder now and return to Bluegrass Ridge, Kentucky where nothing stays buried for long.
Release date: June 6, 2026
Publisher: Tonya Kappes Books
Print pages: 223
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Lassoes & Lies
Tonya Kappes
Chapter One
The sun hadn’t fully crested the horizon when I stepped out onto the porch with my coffee mug in hand, but the Bluegrass Ridge Ranch was already buzzing with activity. The air hung thick and humid, the way it did in Kentucky during early summer mornings, carrying the scent of fresh-cut hay and horses and the promise of another scorching day ahead.
Champ pressed against my leg, his blue heeler instincts already on alert as he surveyed the property. I scratched him behind his ears absently, my gaze traveling over the sprawling pastures and the rodeo arena that had consumed the last three months of my life.
“You’re up early.” Colt Morgan’s deep voice rose behind me as his boots thudded against the weathered porch boards.
I turned and saw him leaning against the railing, coffee mug in hand, his storm-blue eyes already assessing the day ahead. Even at this ungodly hour, he looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a ranching magazine with his worn jeans that fit just right, a faded denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and that battered cowboy hat that somehow made my heart do an uncomfortable little flip every time I saw it.
Not that I was noticing. Because Colt Morgan was engaged to Libby Culpepper, and I had absolutely no business noticing anything about him beyond his exceptional skills as my ranch manager.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted before taking a sip of coffee. “This week, Colt. We’ve got until the end of the week to get these opening ceremonies nailed down.”
His jaw tightened slightly, the only outward sign that he felt the same pressure that had been sitting on my chest like a boulder for weeks now.
“We’ll be ready,” he assured me.
“Will we?” I gestured toward the arena with my mug, sloshing coffee dangerously close to the rim. “The announcer’s booth still needs the sound system installed. We’ve got fifty-seven competitors. And the vendor booths…”
I didn’t even get started on all the trailers and RVs that would be parked in the field where most of those folks slept.
“Are being set up as we speak,” Colt interrupted gently. “The sound system’s being installed this afternoon.” He paused, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “You’ve got to learn to trust the process, Cussy.”
Easy for him to say. He’d been born and raised on ranches and worked this land for years alongside Uncle Amos. He knew what he was doing.
Me? I’d been a city girl who couldn’t tell a heifer from a bull. Now I was supposedly running the whole operation. The weight of that responsibility felt crushing on mornings like this, all because Uncle Amos left this farm to me, not his own children, to both keep up and operate as a moneymaker.
“The process,” I repeated, trying not to sound as skeptical as I felt. “The process that involves betting the entire ranch on a rodeo that’s never been held before, in a town where half the people think I’m an outsider who doesn’t deserve to be here?”
Colt’s expression softened, and he moved closer, close enough that I caught the scent of leather and cedar that always seemed to cling to him.
“The process that’s going to save this ranch,” he said quietly. “That’s going to honor what Amos built here. What he wanted you to build.”
I swallowed hard, emotion tightening my throat. Uncle Amos. His Bluegrass Ridge Ranch Revival Plan had been brilliant. According to the files in a folder he’d left for me, his plan was to turn part of the ranch into a venue for an annual rodeo and livestock showcase, bringing in sponsorships, ticket sales, and vendors.
But plans that looked brilliant on paper didn’t always translate to reality, and if this rodeo failed, I pushed the thought away. Couldn’t go there. Not now.
“Speaking of what needs doing,” Colt said, clearly sensing my spiral and redirecting, “we should do a final walk-through of the arena before folks start arriving. Make sure everything’s in place.”
“Lead the way,” I said, grateful for something concrete to focus on.
We fell into step together, Champ trotting ahead of us as we proceeded toward the arena. The morning light was strengthening now, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and I had to admit that, despite my anxiety, the place looked pretty spectacular.
The rodeo arena was the crown jewel of the operation. We’d rebuilt the old livestock ring, expanding it and adding proper fencing, chutes, and pens. The bleachers could seat five hundred people, and we’d already sold out opening night. The announcer’s booth perched above everything else, giving it a clear view of the entire arena.
Beyond the main ring, we’d created areas for the various competitions like barrel racing, bull riding, bronc riding, and calf roping. Stock pens were ready for the animals Troy Banner would be delivering later today. And stretched out behind all of it, a midway of vendor booths would sell everything from funnel cakes to handmade leather goods.
The setup was ambitious. Maybe too ambitious.
“Stop it,” Colt said.
“Stop what?” I asked.
“Whatever you’re thinking that’s making you look like you want to throw up,” he muttered.
I shot him a look. “I don’t look like I want to throw up.”
“You absolutely do. You get this little crease right here”—he reached out like he was going to touch the spot between my eyebrows then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hand—“every time you spiral.”
“I am not spiraling,” I protested, even though I absolutely was.
We’d reached the arena now. Colt unlatched the gate and held it open for me. The morning sun caught the fresh paint on the fences, making everything gleam. I could see Jake and a couple of the other ranch hands already at work, double-checking the chutes and gates.
“Morning, Cussy!” Jake called, waving. “Looking good, ain’t it?”
“Looking great,” I called back, meaning it.
We continued to walk the perimeter of the arena, Colt pointing out last-minute details as I took mental notes. The dirt in the ring needed one more leveling. The timer system for the barrel racing needed to be tested. The bucking chutes could use another coat of paint on their interiors.
Those small things could be managed before the event and would make everything look cleaner and tidier.
“What about the prize money?” I asked as we paused near the main chute. “Everything secure there?”
“Locked in the office safe, all fifty thousand dollars of it,” Colt confirmed. “Grand prize winner gets twenty-five. Second place gets fifteen. Third place gets ten.”
Fifty thousand dollars. The number made my stomach clench. That was money we didn’t really have, money we’d cobbled together from sponsors and ticket sales and a chunk of my own rapidly dwindling inheritance from Uncle Amos. But offering that amount was also necessary. You couldn’t attract top-tier competitors without top-tier prizes.
And we needed those top-tier competitors to draw the crowds that would make this whole venture worthwhile. Everything was connected, a carefully balanced house of cards that could topple with one strong wind.
“Stop spiraling,” Colt said again.
“I’m not… Okay, fine, I’m spiraling a little.” I leaned against the fence, watching as the sun climbed higher and flooded the arena with light. “It’s just a lot of pressure, Colt. If this doesn’t work, if we don’t make enough money to cover the debts and keep this place running…”
“Then we’ll figure something else out,” he insisted. “But it’s going to work, Cussy. You’ve put in the work. The town’s excited, the sponsors are happy, and we’ve got competitors coming from six states. This is going to work.”
I wanted to believe him. God, did I want to believe him.
“Besides,” he continued, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice, “if it doesn’t work, at least we’ll go down in a blaze of glory. They’ll be talking about the Bluegrass Ridge Ranch Rodeo Disaster for generations.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s your idea of a pep talk?”
“I’m a ranch manager, not a motivational speaker.” He grinned, and for a moment, the weight on my chest lightened.
This rapport had developed between us over the past few months. It was an easy rhythm in which we worked together seamlessly, each of us anticipating the other’s needs and balancing the other’s strengths and weaknesses.
Our relationship was professional. Completely professional.
Except for the moments when our hands would brush as we reached for the same gate latch, or when I’d catch him looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, or when my heart would do that stupid flipping thing every time he smiled.
Professional. Right.
“Cussy! Colt!” Rowan’s voice carried across the arena, and I turned to see my best friend jogging toward us, her chestnut-brown hair was bouncing in a ponytail. She’d fully embraced the role I’d given her as “event coordinator,” which seemed to primarily involve wearing a headset, carrying a clipboard, and bossing people around with cheerful efficiency.
“Okay, so I just got off the phone with the sound system people.” She was slightly out of breath when she reached us, waving her clipboard. “They’re running behind schedule, which means they won’t be here until a little later this afternoon, so we might have to push the equipment test to this evening instead of this afternoon.”
“That’s fine,” Colt said calmly. “We’ve got Jake’s crew finishing up some painting this afternoon anyway. Evening test works.”
Rowan jotted a note on her clipboard. “Great. Also, the Bluegrass Mercantile called to confirm their vendor booth setup, and Jincy Etta from Sugar Maple Sweets wants to know if she can have two booths instead of one because she’s bringing both her baked goods and Nettie Faye’s preserves.”
“Give her two booths,” I said immediately. Jincy Etta’s baking was legendary, and Nettie Faye’s preserves were some of the best in the county. If Jincy wanted more space, she could have it. “Anything else?”
“The Boot Scootin’ Babes called about running the concession stand, which, yes, they obviously are, but Tallulah wanted to confirm they could wear their matching pink shirts with the bedazzled cowboy hats.”
I bit back a smile. The Boot Scootin’ Babes, the local ladies’ line dancing group that included my cousin, Tassie, Libby Culpepper, and several other prominent Bluegrass Ridge women, had become our unlikely allies over the past few months. They’d thrown their considerable social weight behind the rodeo, and I wasn’t about to quibble over bedazzled anything.
“Tell them yes, absolutely, bedazzle away,” I said.
“Done.” Rowan made another note then looked up with a grin.
A truck rumbled up the main drive, and we all turned to watch the vehicle approach. Champ’s ears perked up, and he gave a soft woof.
“First arrivals?” I guessed.
“Looks like it.” Colt checked his watch.
Soon, this arena would be packed with people. Competitors would ride and rope and race. Vendors would hawk their wares. The Boot Scootin’ Babes would serve funnel cakes and sweet tea with bedazzled enthusiasm. And somewhere in all of it, somehow, we’d make enough money to save this ranch.
We had to.
“You okay?” Colt had appeared beside me again, those blue eyes studying my face.
“Yeah,” I said and surprised myself by meaning it. “Yeah, I think I am.”
He flashed a real smile that reached his eyes and did that annoying thing to my heartbeat. “Good. Because here comes the fun part.”
“The fun part?”
“The competitors start arriving this afternoon. You’re about to meet some real characters.”
I groaned. “Define ‘characters.’
“Let’s just say rodeo people are… colorful.”
“That’s not ominous at all.”
He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “Welcome to the rodeo business, Cussy. Buckle up.”
I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I’d survived inheriting a ranch I didn’t know how to run. I’d survived solving my uncle’s murder. I’d survived learning to ride a horse without falling off more than a dozen times.
I could survive a rodeo.
Probably.
“All right, then,” I said, lifting my coffee mug in a mock toast. “Let’s do this.”
“That’s the spirit.” Colt clinked his mug against mine.
As we stood there in the morning sunlight, surrounded by the controlled chaos of ranch preparations, with Champ pressed against my leg and Rowan babbling excitedly about sound systems and vendor booths, I let myself feel it—the tiniest spark of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, this crazy plan would work.
***
By late morning, the ranch had transformed into a hive of activity. Trucks rumbled up and down the main drive with supplies. Ranch hands swarmed over the vendor booths, making last-minute adjustments and repairs.
And in the middle of it all, Nettie Faye appeared with lunch.
“Y’all are going to work yourselves into the ground,” she announced, setting up a spread of sandwiches, sweet tea, and homemade cookies on the tailgate of Uncle Amos’s old F-150. “Eat. That’s an order.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The moment I bit into one of her famous chicken salad sandwiches, I realized I’d forgotten to eat breakfast entirely.
“Bless you, Nettie Faye,” Rowan said through a mouthful of cookie.
“Someone’s got to keep you girls from running yourselves ragged.” Nettie Faye fixed me with that knowing look of hers, the one that suggested she could see straight through me. “How you holding up, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Remember to breathe this week. This rodeo is going to be a success, but you can’t enjoy it if you’ve worried yourself sick.”
“I’m not worried sick. I’m just… strategically concerned,” I said, only for Colt to snort into his sweet tea.
“Strategically concerned,” Nettie Faye repeated, patting my shoulder. “Well, you concern yourself right over to the house around dinnertime. I’m making pot roast, and I won’t have you skipping another meal.”
Before I could protest, she was heading back toward the house with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested she had a thousand other things to manage.
“She’s not wrong, you know,” Colt said quietly after she’d left. “You need to take care of yourself this week. It’s going to be intense. Running a rodeo is a big deal.”
“Says the man who was here before sunrise,” I replied.
“I’m used to it. You’re still adjusting,” he protested.
This was the thing about Colt Morgan. He could be gruff and demanding and completely infuriating. But he also saw me, really saw me, in a way that made me feel both exposed and understood.
Dangerous territory, my brain warned. He’s engaged. Off-limits. Do not pass go, do not collect romantic feelings.
I shoved the thoughts aside and focused on my lunch.
“Oh!” Rowan looked up, phone in hand. “I almost forgot. Libby called while you were dealing with the stock delivery. She wants to come by this afternoon to ‘check on things.”
I felt Colt stiffen beside me.
Libby Culpepper. His fiancée. The woman he was supposedly going to marry, even though I’d noticed to my hatred the engagement ring sitting more and more often in his desk drawer instead of on her finger.
“Did she say when?” Colt asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“She mentioned something about seeing you while the Boot Scootin’ Babes do a final run-through of the concession stand setup.” Rowan’s eyes flickered between us as she picked up on the tension but wisely said nothing.
“Fine,” Colt said shortly. “I’ll be working on the south pasture fence anyway.”
In other words, he’d make sure he wasn’t around when Libby appeared.
The situation between them had been deteriorating for months, something I had tried very hard to ignore while simultaneously being hyperaware of every detail. They barely spent time together anymore. When they did, their interactions had a brittleness, like they were both going through the motions of an engagement neither of them believed in any longer. That was when she’d throw the ring at his chest, jump in her fancy car, and zoom out of the ranch, leaving a massive dust pile behind her.
But it wasn’t my business. Couldn’t be my business.
“I should get back to work,” I said, standing and brushing crumbs from my jeans. “That equipment test isn’t going to run itself.”
“I’ll come with you,” Rowan offered. “I want to make sure the sound system can handle Cody Price’s announcer voice. That man could wake the dead.”
We spent the afternoon testing equipment, arranging vendor booths, and dealing with a minor crisis when one of the bucking chutes jammed. The sound system crew had arrived, not at three as promised, but at two thirty, which Rowan declared a minor miracle. By the time we were finished, I was sweaty, exhausted, and covered in dust.
I watched from the arena as Libby Culpepper drove up and climbed out of her. She looked like she’d stepped off the pages of a Southern Living magazine in a sundress and wedge sandals, her red hair in perfect curls and not a smudge of dirt anywhere on her.
She spotted me immediately and waved, her smile bright but not quite reaching her eyes.
“Cussy! How wonderful to see you!” She was lying through her teeth.
“Libby,” I greeted her, wiping my hands on my jeans and trying not to feel like a complete mess in comparison. “Rowan said you wanted to check on the concession stand setup?”
“Oh, yes, but also, I just wanted to see how everything’s coming along.” Her gaze swept over the arena, the vendor booths, the stock pens. “My goodness, you’ve been busy. This all looks so… rustic.”
She waved a dismissive hand.
“The Boot Scootin’ Babes are excited to help,” she continued. “Tassie’s been talking about nothing else. And of course, I want to make sure everything reflects well on Bluegrass Ridge. First impressions and all.”
“We’re working hard to make it a success,” I said evenly.
“I’m sure you are.” She paused, scanning the area again. “Is Colt around?”
“He’s working on the south pasture fence,” I said, which was true but also a polite way of saying he’d deliberately made himself scarce.
Something flickered across her face. Hurt? Anger? The expression vanished too quickly to tell.
“Of course. Always working.” She smiled again, but it was strained. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to catch him later. Can you show me the concession stand?”
I spent the next half hour walking Libby and two other Boot Scootin’ Babes through the concession area, answering questions and trying to ignore the pointed comments about how much work still needed to be done.
By the time they left, I was ready to collapse.
“That woman is exhausting,” Rowan declared, appearing at my elbow the moment Libby’s SUV disappeared down the drive.
“Do I need to remind you how you were chummy with her the first month you were here until you got to really know her?” I asked, reminding Rowan how all the Boot Scootin’ Babes had practically tried to turn Rowan into a clone of them and almost succeeded. “She’s just worried about the town’s reputation,” I said, trying to be charitable.
“She’s worried about you and Colt.”
“There’s nothing between me and Colt.”
“Sure there isn’t.” Rowan gave me a knowing look. “Just like there’s nothing between her and Colt anymore, which is why they’re definitely totally still getting married.”
“Rowan,”
“I’m just saying what everyone can see. That engagement is deader than roadkill, and she knows you’re the reason why.”
“I am not…”
“You don’t have to be doing anything for her to see it, Cussy. The way you two look at each other? The way you work together? Even I can see it, and I’m romantically oblivious on my best day.”
I wanted to argue. To insist she was wrong. To protect myself from hope that could only lead to disappointment.
But I was too tired for lies.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” I said quietly. “He’s engaged. End of story.”
Rowan opened her mouth to respond but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she just squeezed my shoulder. “Come on. Nettie Faye’s pot roast waits for no woman.”
We walked back to the ranch house together as the sun started its descent toward the horizon. Champ trotted ahead of us, stopping occasionally to make sure we were following. The arena stood proud and ready behind us, with the vendor booths lined up like soldiers and everything in place for the week ahead.
I paused at the porch steps, turning back to look at it all, the arena where dreams and debts would be decided. The ranch that had become my inheritance, my burden, and my home all at once.
The evening light painted everything in shades of amber and gold, and for just a moment, I let myself believe.
This plan was going to work. The rodeo would be a success. The ranch would survive. Maybe everything Uncle Amos had believed about me—that I could do this, that I belonged here—was true.
“You coming?” Rowan called from the doorway.
“Yeah,” I said, taking one last look at the arena. “I’m coming.”
The sun sank lower, stretching shadows long across the pastures. Somewhere in the distance, cattle lowed. The ranch hands on the evening shift called to one another, their voices carrying on the humid air.
I was ready for this week to end.
end of excerpt
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