Page 17 of Lost in the Reins

"We don't have the marketing budget." I cut her off, but she pushes on.

"But you have the story. Three generations of careful breeding, a family legacy of quality. That's what sells these days, Wes. Not just the product, but the story behind it."

I start to argue, but the distant sound of hoofbeats makes me pause. Through the window, I catch sight of Colt bringing in the yearlings for the morning feed. Time to get back to actual ranch work instead of playing teacher to a city writer who's suddenly decided she's a business consultant.

"Listen," she says quickly, reading my expression, "just... think about it. Look at these numbers not as problems to solve, but as a story waiting to be told."

I stand up, needing distance from her words and the way they echo Sarah's old dreams for the ranch. "Stories don't feed cattle.” The words come out softer than intended. She's still watching me with those clear green eyes, wearing my old shirt like it's meant for her, making too much sense for comfort. When she tilts her head, catching the morning light, I see the faint smudge of dirt she missed behind her ear, a reminder that she's not just talking, she's trying. Actually trying. And that's more dangerous than any story she could write about the ranch.

"The yearlings need feeding," I add gruffly, heading for the door. But I pause with my hand on the handle, glancing back at her. "You coming? Or do you want to spend all day analyzing numbers?"

Her answering smile hits me like Montana sunshine—bright and warm and completely unexpected. "Lead the way, Mr. Montgomery. I've got more research to do."

Chapter Eight

Paisley

The next morning, I manage to make it downstairs in time for coffee. Actually, I've been awake since three, tossing and turning while I mull over yesterday’s events. My writer's brain refuses to shut off, spinning scenes and possibilities that have nothing to do with my books and everything to do with a certain blue-eyed rancher who keeps invading my thoughts.

"Look who's early," Colt says from his perch at the counter, already nursing what's probably his second cup of coffee. "And dressed for success this time."

I glance down at the clothes Emma helped me buy yesterday at the general store: practical jeans that actually fit and a flannel shirt that is softer than any shirt I’ve ever purchased. “Emma is a great stylist.” I laugh, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "Though I did have to talk her out of buying me a hat with more rhinestones than a Vegas showgirl."

"That's my girl." Jake grins from where he's loading his plate with what looks like enough eggs to feed half of Manhattan. "Always trying to add some sparkle to ranch life."

"Speaking of sparkle..." I pour coffee into the mug Wes silently extends toward me, our fingers brushing in a way thatdefinitely doesn't make my heart skip. "I was thinking about what we discussed yesterday. About the breeding program."

Wes's jaw tightens. “Not today.”

Oh.

His curt words stop me cold. Before I can backpedal or make a joke to diffuse the tension, he sets down his coffee mug with a decisive thunk. “The north fence needs mending.”

That gets everyone moving, which is how I find myself in the barn twenty minutes later, being handed various implements of questionable purpose while the Montgomerys move with the kind of efficiency that makes me feel like I'm perpetually in the way.

Two hours and several equipment tutorials later, we're spread out along the north fence line. The baling wire coils around my fingers as I struggle to secure the fence post. My tenth attempt, if anyone's counting. The morning sun beats down on my neck, and I'm painfully aware that my characters never seemed to sweat while doing repair work. Then again, my characters never had to deal with actual physics.

"Wrap it under, not over."

Wes's deep voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill. He steps closer, and I catch that now-familiar scent of coffee and leather that seems to follow him everywhere.

"My head knows what to do, but my hands aren’t cooperating.”

The wire slips again, and I bite back a curse that would make my editor blush. My last manuscript was full of scenes that now feel hollow compared to the reality of ranch work. A reality that includes calloused hands, aching muscles, and the maddening presence of a cowboy who makes all my written heroes feel like paper cutouts.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

He steps behind me, his leather work gloves closing over mine as he guides my movements. Even through two layers of leather, the heat of his hands registers, and suddenly, the wire isn't my biggest problem. I force myself to focus on the twisting motion he's demonstrating, not on how his chest brushes my shoulder or how the leather of his gloves creaks against mine with each careful movement.

"Writers usually do."

His soft chuckle vibrates through the space between us. I'm collecting these moments, storing them away like precious research notes. The way morning light catches on the fence wire. How leather work gloves soften with use. The precise angle needed to secure a post without stabbing yourself.

The wire finally catches, holding firm. A small victory, but my heart soars anyway. A few days ago, I thought I knew how to write about ranch life. Now I'm learning how much I never understood. Like how satisfaction feels when work-worn hands accomplish something real. Or how a single touch can rewrite everything you thought you knew about chemistry.

"Got it this time."

My triumph must show in my voice because his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary. It’s crazy how sharing honest work with someone seems so intimate. Maybe it’s from the shared purpose and sweat. I don’t know, but I’ve never experienced anything like it.

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