Page 3 of Lost in the Reins

A new email pops up from Miranda:Sent you the ranch owner's info. Try not to ask him about sunrise yoga in your first conversation.

With trembling fingers—thanks, eighth cup of coffee—I open the attachment. And promptly choke on my biscotti.

Wes Montgomery stares back from my screen, looking nothing like the clean-cut cowboys I write about. He's leaning against a fence that's definitely seen better decades, work shirt rolled up to reveal forearms that make my writer's brain short-circuit. But it's his expression that catches me: intense, focused, like he's carrying the weight of that fourth-generation legacy in his eyes.

I click through the attached bio, each detail making my anxiety spike higher. Single father. Struggling ranch. Looking to diversify into heritage tourism while maintaining traditional operations.

Great. Just great. A hot, brooding cowboy with emotional baggage and a kid. Because this situation needed more complications.

Chapter Two

Paisley

I’m not like most people. I love to talk to my Uber drivers.

“So, the cell reception out here is a little…” Through the window, I see nothing but mountains and one winding road with no gas station or Buc-ee’s. “Nonexistent.”

Fernando, the driver who met me at the airport with a giant smile and a sign with my last name spelled wrong, glances at me through the rearview mirror.

"Pretty spotty," he agrees cheerfully, like he's not actively participating in my personal crisis. "But the views make up for it! And most folks out here prefer it that way. Keeps life simple."

Simple. Right. Like living without Instagram updates and TikTok notifications is somehow spiritually enlightening. I check my phone again—still no bars, which means no way to googleHow to not look like a complete idiot when meeting real cowboys.

"You know what else keeps life simple?" I mutter, watching another mountain vista roll past like some kind of torture-by-scenery. "Reliable Wi-Fi and indoor plumbing. Both of which I'm starting to seriously doubt exist at my destination."

"Whispering Pines?" Fernando takes a turn that makes my designer luggage slide ominously in the trunk. "Oh, they've gotindoor plumbing. Mr. Montgomery even put in one of them fancy hot water tanks last year. Whole town talked about it for weeks."

Great. I'm headed to a place where basic utilities qualify as breaking news. This is fine. Totally fine.

“Do you know if there is a coffee house or internet café close to Whispering Pines? I need the internet to work.”

Creating imaginary characters and faraway towns can all be dreamt up in my head, but researching and maintaining a presence on social media needs Wi-Fi. I’m already on thin ice with Miranda; if I shirk my social media duties, she will surely cut my contract with her expensive manicure and expect the thirty-thousand-dollar advance I received paid back in full. Now, I’m not the worst with money, but, like most people, I have debt to pay off and a student loan that will never go away.

Fernando chuckles like I've just told the world's funniest joke. "Martha's Diner's got Wi-Fi. Password's 'welcome2montana'—hasn't changed since they installed it in '08." He catches my horrified expression in the rearview. "Signal's not great, but the pie makes up for it. She does this thing with local berries that'll make you forget all about your Instagram followers."

I seriously doubt any pie, no matter how locally sourced, could make up for technological exile.

"Here we are!" Fernando announces with the enthusiasm of someone delivering me to a spa retreat instead of my own personal witness protection program.

Whispering Pines Ranch, est. 1892.

The sign's seen better centuries, its weathered wood telling stories about generations of ranchers who probably never had to worry about their Twitter—or whatever it’s called now—engagement metrics. Beyond it, the ranch spreads outlike something straight off my book covers—except real, and significantly more terrifying.

"You're sure there's no Starbucks hidden behind that barn?" I ask weakly, watching my designer wheels meet authentic Montana dirt. "Or maybe a secret underground coffee bar? Speakeasy situation?"

"Nope." Fernando sets my bags down with cheerful finality. "But Mr. Montgomery makes the best coffee this side of the mountain. Just don't tell Martha I said that."

Before I can explain that my career literally depends on caffeine and cellular data, the barn door swings open. And suddenly, all my carefully crafted cowboys feel like cartoon sketches compared to the very real, very authentic rancher heading our way.

Wes Montgomery moves like he owns the ground he walks on—which, technically, he does. But it's more than that. He carries authority like other men wear cologne, natural and understated but impossible to ignore. His stride eats up the distance between us while my writer's brain short-circuits trying to catalog details I definitely shouldn't be noticing while I’m here on business.

Oh, good gracious. My cowboys do yoga at sunrise and smell like designer aftershave. This man probably bench presses hay bales and smells like actual manual labor.

Wow. Just wow.

I’ve never been speechless before.

My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as he approaches. Not a single one of my witty one-liners seems appropriate right now. Especially since he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of alien who just landed in high heels that are definitely not made for ranch life.

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