Page 10 of Lost in the Reins

Wes

Watching Paisley Monroe try to muck stalls is like watching Emma learn to ride—equal parts entertaining and concerning. She's holding the pitchfork like it might bite her, standing at the edge of the stall as if an extra foot of distance will somehow make the job less offensive.

"You actually have to go in," I tell her, leaning against the door frame. "The manure won't jump onto the fork by itself."

She shoots me a look that probably intimidates her Manhattan coffee baristas. "I'm strategizing."

"Strategizing." I test the word, fighting back a smile. "About manure."

"Yes." She lifts her chin, defiant despite the way her hands are trembling on the pitchfork. "I'm developing a systematic approach to minimize... splash damage."

From the next stall over, I hear Colt trying to disguise his laugh as a cough.Real subtle, brother.

"Here." I step into the stall, carefully not mentioning how her boots—probably worth more than my monthly feed bill—are already showing signs of defeat. "The trick is to get under it, not just push it around."

"Under it," she repeats faintly. "Right. Because that's so much better than pushing it."

She takes a tentative step forward, and I have to give her credit—at least she's trying. Most city folks would've run screaming by now. Her perfume—something fancy that has no business being in a horse stall—mixes with the barn's earthier scents as she moves past me.

"Like this?" She stabs at the bedding with all the grace of a drunk trying to spear an olive.

"Little less aggressively," I suggest, watching her balance waver. "You're mucking stalls, not fighting off rustlers."

"I'd rather fight rustlers," she mutters but adjusts her grip. "At least they don't smell like—" She breaks off, wrinkling her nose. "Actually, never mind. I don't want to think about what this smells like."

She's starting to get the hang of it, though her technique needs work. A lot of work. The kind of work that makes me wonder if she's ever actually touched a tool before today. But she's determined, I'll give her that. Even with her hair falling in her face and sweat starting to shine on her forehead, she keeps at it.

"You're doing fine," I lie, because lying seems kinder than telling her she's mostly just rearranging the mess instead of removing it. "Just remember to?—"

That's when Chester decides to make his move on the mouse that's been taunting him all week. The barn cat launches himself from a hay bale, sending Paisley spinning around just in time to see what probably looks like a furry missile aimed at her head.

And that's when everything goes sideways. Literally.

Her scream could probably be heard in Manhattan as she stumbles backward, pitchfork flying one way while she goes down the other. I lunge forward, but I'm not fast enough to catchher before she lands in exactly the spot she's been trying so hard to avoid.

She’s crying.

And covered in horse manure.

“It’s in my hair,” she sobs, still lying in the corner of the stall she was mucking.

“What the heck happened?” Colt appears at my side, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Did you trip her?”

I give him a flat look. “No, I didn’t trip her. She fell on her own.”

“There was a rat,” she wails. “A gigantic rat!”

Great. Just great.

I've dealt with spooked horses, angry bulls, and even that time Jake thought he could ride Thunder blindfolded. But a crying romance writer covered in manure? That's a new one.

"It wasn't a rat," I say, keeping my voice steady as I crouch down beside her. Then I spot the actual culprit—a tiny field mouse darting between hay bales with Chester in hot pursuit. "It was just a mouse. Chester was chasing it."

"A mouse?" She looks horrified, scrambling to her feet so fast she nearly loses her balance again. I catch her elbow before she can face-plant a second time. "That thing was not just a mouse. It was huge and terrifying and—" She breaks off as Chester saunters past, looking mighty pleased with himself, the mouse hanging from his mouth by the tail. "That's not... That can't be..."

The rest plays out exactly like some scene from one of her romance novels—except I'm pretty sure her cowboys don't spend their mornings trying not to laugh at manure-covered writers while their barn cats show off their hunting prowess.

This woman's going to be the death of my sanity. And it's not even six a.m.

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