Page 11 of Lost in the Reins

"That's your giant rat-hunter," Colt confirms, not even trying to hide his grin anymore. "Chester's been keeping the barnmouse-free for years. Well, mostly mouse-free. That little one's craftier than most."

Paisley stares at the cat, then at her manure-covered designer jeans, then back at the cat. Her bottom lip trembles. "I thought... I mean, it sounded so... and then I slipped, and now everything's ruined, and these jeans cost more than?—"

"Hey." I cut her off before she can work herself into another crying jag. "It's just clothes. And technically, you're getting the ranch experience you came for. Mice, manure, and all."

She lets out a watery laugh that catches me off guard. "Pretty sure my readers don't want to read about a heroine face-planting in horse manure because she got scared by a mouse that wasn't even as big as her phone."

"Why not?" Colt asks. "Sounds more authentic than riding off into the sunset.”

I shoot him a warning look while Chester takes his prize outside.

"The shower's free," I tell Paisley, ignoring the way my chest tightens when she looks at me with those tear-filled green eyes. "Go get cleaned up. We'll finish here."

"But I'm supposed to be learning?—"

"You've learned plenty for one morning." I gesture to her outfit. "Like why we don't wear designer clothes to muck stalls. And why Chester's worth his weight in gold when it comes to keeping the mice population down."

She glances down at herself and lets out another of those watery laughs. "I don't suppose this is the kind of authentic detail Miranda was hoping for?"

"Probably not." I find myself fighting a smile. "But at least you've got a story to tell."

"Yeah." She sniffs, wiping at her eyes and only managing to smear more dirt across her face. "Chapter One: How Not to Impress Cowboys—A Cautionary Tale of Mice and Manure."

Something in my chest shifts at that, but I push it aside. She's here for research, nothing more. Even if she does look oddly endearing with hay in her hair and determination in her eyes.

"Go on," I say gruffly, turning back to the stall. "Before Emma wakes up and decides to document your first ranch disaster in her diary."

That gets her moving. She practically runs for the barn door, only stumbling twice on her way out. I watch her go, telling myself I'm just making sure she doesn't fall again.

"Not a word," I warn both brothers, who look entirely too amused by the whole situation.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Colt picks up the abandoned pitchfork while Jake leans against Thunder's stall, grinning like it's Christmas morning.

"I gotta say," Jake adds, "your authentic ranch experience is off to an interesting start."

I grunt and get back to work. The sooner we finish here, the sooner I can check on... the stalls. Just the stalls.

Not the city writer who's currently leaving manure-tracked footprints all the way back to my house.

I make a mental note to thank Chester later. That mouse had been evading him for weeks.

I lean against Athena's stall, watching Colt gather the soiled bedding while Jake tosses fresh hay. "Sarah would've known how to handle all this."

"The manure or the writer?" Jake's attempt at humor falls flat when he sees my expression.

"The marketing. The finances. All of it." I run a hand through my hair, forgetting about the gloves until it's too late. "Sarah had connections. She knew how to talk to people, how to make them see the value in what we do here."

"That's why we need this," Colt says quietly, leaning on his pitchfork. "The writer, the marketing plan, all of it. Sarah's gone, Wes. We can't keep running this place like nothing's changed."

Jake nods, his usual playfulness gone. "He's right. I checked the books last night. Feed prices are up another 30 percent, and our margins were already razor-thin."

I grunt, but they're both right. Sarah handled all our social media, built relationships with buyers, and managed the books with the kind of precision that came from actually understanding spreadsheets. Now we're three brothers trying to keep a legacy alive while raising her daughter, and the numbers don't lie.

"We should convert the old bunkhouse," Jake says, voicing the idea he's been pushing for months. "Turn it into one of those luxury glamping experiences the tourists love. Combine it with riding lessons, maybe some of those farm-to-table dinners Sarah was always talking about."

"We're ranchers," I say flatly. "Not a theme park."

"We're going broke," Colt counters, his voice sharper now. "Diesel's through the roof, and our cattle prices barely cover expenses. Sarah knew we needed to diversify. That's why she started the heritage tourism research in the first place."

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