Mr. August by K.R. Foster

February 20, 2011

Hello, everyone! *Waves*

I’ll be the first to admit that I was nervous about writing for this anthology. I tend to dwell in the land of fantasy and science fiction, and honestly had no intention of writing a contemporary cowboy romance.

However, my younger sister always tells me that I should forever be willing to try something new; as usual, she’s right.

Sometimes writing is like trying to breathe underwater without an oxygen tank—useless and impossible—just one step away from death. But sometimes, on occasion, a story just wants to be told and the words pour from my fingers without hesitation. Those are the stories that I most enjoy working on. Luckily for me, Mr. August is one of the stories that doesn’t want to drown me. *Grins*

Mr. August isn’t what I expected it to be, certainly didn’t head where I thought it would, and proved to me once again that the words are the mistress and I’m their slave. I hope you enjoy this daylong ride outside my comfort zone; I know I did!


Colby Fremont, owner of Ghost Creek Ranch, has learned everything he needs to know about city boys. They’re only good at one thing—leaving. But famous photographer Ethan Walker won’t get off Colby’s property, no matter how many times Colby tells the damned boy that he isn’t interested in being in Ethan’s cowboy calendar.


Colby Fremont huffed in annoyance and yanked open his front door to stop the incessant knocking. He took one look at the man on his front porch, glared, and slammed it shut again.

“Mr. Fremont! I—”

“No!” he snapped, perfectly aware that his gruff voice would carry through the door. When the knocking started up again almost immediately, he turned and stalked across the wood floor of his living room, boots clomping loudly.

The doorbell started ringing at the same time as knuckles rapped again, and Colby barely restrained the urge to take his shotgun off the wall and blow a hole through the door. He most certainly was not going to participate in that… travesty. Ugh.

After turning the corner and entering his large and empty kitchen (his workers were actually out working like honest men), he strode toward the back door, scooping his beaten brown Stetson off the table and onto his head along the way.

Smirking once he realized the aggravating harassment of his front door had ceased, Colby twisted the doorknob, opened the back door, and walked right into the bastard who was no longer on the front porch.

“Mr. Fremont, I’m—”

“Can’t you read, boy?” Colby asked, looking down his nose at the overly hyperactive runt who couldn’t possibly have graduated from college yet.

The too-thin lips snapped shut for just a moment. “Of course I can!”

“You sure? Because I’ve lived here my whole life, boy, and I distinctly remember there being a Private Property: No Trespassing sign way down by the mailbox.” He gestured off east, toward the dusty road that led onto his ranch. “It’s black and orange—damn near impossible to miss.”

“I did see it, Mr. Fremont.” The kid stuck out his chin, which lacked even the barest hint of stubble. Had the runt even hit puberty yet? His brown hair flopped in his eyes like a puppy dog, that girly haircut all those actors in Hollywood seemed to favor.

“Then why’re you here, boy?” he drawled.

Additional Information:

To purchase Riding Double, the anthology that contains Mr. August and several other cowboy tales, please go here: Riding Double.

My other published stories can be purchased here: K.R. Foster.

Additionally, feel free to e-mail me if you would like to discuss my stories, offer constructive criticism, or just talk about writing. My e-mail is

Thank you! Happy reading!

K.R. Foster

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