Page 19 of Lost in the Reins

We make our way back toward the barn, Kevin strutting ahead of us like some feathered parade marshal. The wind picks up, whipping my hair around my face despite Emma's careful braiding. The temperature drops so quickly that I can feel it through my flannel shirt.

"Colt, take the south pasture," Wes calls out over the rising wind. "Jake?—"

"North field, got it." Jake's already mounting up, his earlier playfulness replaced by focused determination.

"What about me?" I have to raise my voice as another rumble of thunder rolls across the valley.

Wes pauses in tightening his horse's cinch to look at me. "You're with me. We need to check the western fence line before this hits."

My stomach does a little flip at the thought of riding out in this weather, but there's no time for second thoughts. Wes is already swinging into his saddle, extending a hand down to me.

"Unless you'd rather stay here?"

I grab his hand, letting him pull me up behind him. "Not a chance. I came for an authentic ranch experience, remember?"

The sky opens up just as we clear the barn, and suddenly, I understand why Montana storms have their own chapter in weather books. The rain doesn't just fall—it assaults, hitting so hard the drops sting through my shirt. Thunder cracks overhead, close enough to make my teeth rattle, and lightning splits the sky in jagged bursts of white.

I tighten my grip around Wes's waist, grateful for his solid warmth as the horse picks up speed. The world narrows to the rhythm of hoofbeats, the smell of rain-soaked leather, and the way his muscles flex as he guides us through the storm. My hair plasters to my face, and my new jeans are probably ruined, but I can't bring myself to care. There's something wildly exhilarating about racing a storm across Montana grassland.

"You okay back there?" Wes calls over his shoulder, his voice nearly lost in the wind.

"Never better!" And surprisingly, it's true. I'm soaked to the bone, probably looking like a drowned rat, clinging to a cowboy in the middle of what feels like biblical weather, and I've never felt more alive.

Chapter Nine

Wes

"You're burning it!" Emma hollers, her words turning into a gurgled laugh. "Grilled cheese is not supposed to be charred."

I press my thumb and forefinger against my temples, staring at the financial reports spread across my desk. The sound of their laughter drifts in from the kitchen, making it impossible to focus on the numbers that keep blurring together.

"Uncle Wes!" Emma's voice carries through the house. "Paisley's trying to poison us with burnt cheese!"

"It's called caramelized!" Paisley protests, her laughter mixing with Emma's in a way that makes my chest tight. "It's very gourmet."

"It's very black," Emma counters. "Even Kevin wouldn't eat this."

I shouldn't go in there. I've got feed calculations to review, supplier contracts to negotiate, and a stack of bills that aren't going to pay themselves. But my feet are already moving, drawn by the sound of my niece's unbridled joy—something that's been too rare since Sarah died.

The scene in the kitchen stops me cold. Paisley's got butter on her cheek, her borrowed flannel shirt—mine, again—rolledup to her elbows as she wrestles with what appears to be a grilled cheese sandwich turned crime scene. Emma's perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching the disaster unfold with the kind of delighted horror only a ten-year-old can muster.

"I swear," Paisley's saying, waving a spatula like a conductor's baton, "in Manhattan, this would cost twenty dollars and be called 'artisanal.'"

"In Manhattan," Emma says with perfect Sarah-like sass, "they probably know the difference between golden brown and charcoal."

Something in my chest constricts at how easily they've fallen into this rhythm, like Paisley's always belonged in our kitchen, burning grilled cheese and making my niece laugh. It's dangerous, this comfort. This sense of rightness has no business settling into our lives.

"The trick," I find myself saying, stepping fully into the kitchen, "is to lower the heat."

They both jump, Paisley nearly dropping the spatula. The flush that creeps up her neck makes me wonder if she's remembering this morning's fence repair lesson, her back pressed against my chest as I showed her the proper wire technique. I sure haven't forgotten.

"Uncle Wes!" Emma brightens. "Save us from Paisley's cooking!"

"My cooking is perfectly fine," Paisley defends, but her eyes dance with humor. "It's just... adventurous."

"That's one word for it." I move to the stove, gently taking the spatula from her hand. Our fingers brush, and I pretend not to notice how she catches her breath. "Though I'm pretty sure 'hazardous' might be more accurate."

"Says the man who probably learned to cook over a campfire," she retorts, but steps aside, letting me take over. Herhip bumps mine as she moves, and I focus very intently on the blackened sandwich in the pan.

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