Page 34 of Lost in the Reins

At the bottom of the stairs, I pause. The glow of the kitchen light spills faintly into the living room, and I hear a low murmur. For a moment, I think Wes might be on the phone, but as I step closer, the words become clear.

It’s him. Praying.

I stop, my bare feet pressing into the cool wood floor, suddenly unsure if I should keep going or turn around. His voice is low, steady, almost soothing in its cadence. He isn’t asking for anything big, not like the grand gestures of faith I’ve read about. No, his words are quiet, almost conversational, as if he’s speaking to an old friend.

"…Thank You for watching over Emma. Help me be what she needs. And if you could, Lord, show me how to keep the ranch running without losing it. I’ll work as hard as I have to—I just need some direction."

There’s a pause, and I hear him take a shaky breath.

"Help me trust that you’ve got a plan, even when I can’t see it. And Lord… thank you for Paisley. I don’t know what you’re doing there, but she’s been good for Emma. She’s been… good for me, too."

My chest tightens. I want to back away, to give him privacy, but my feet won’t move. It’s not that I’m trying to eavesdrop; I’m just stuck. Stuck on the rawness in his voice, the vulnerability he’s so careful to hide in the daylight.

This is a side of Wes Montgomery I never expected to see. The man who scowls more than he smiles, who runs his ranchand his family with a stubborn kind of determination, on his knees in the kitchen, surrendering to something bigger than himself.

And somehow, in this quiet moment, he feels more like the hero of one of my novels than ever before.

The chair creaks as he shifts, and I realize he’s finishing. If I stay here, he’ll catch me, and I’m not ready to explain why I’m standing in the dark like some sort of emotionally overwhelmed creeper. I step back quietly, retreating to the shadows of the staircase.

When I hear the scrape of the chair and the soft clink of his coffee cup on the table, I finally breathe again. My pulse is racing, and I press a hand to my chest as if that’ll calm me.

What is this man doing to me?

I should feel awkward, maybe even embarrassed for hearing something so personal. But I don’t. Instead, all I feel is a pull. Stronger than anything I’ve written in my books, stronger than I ever expected to feel for a man I barely knew three weeks ago.

And that might be the scariest part of all.

After a few minutes, I take a deep breath and make my way to the kitchen, deliberately letting my feet fall heavier on the floorboards to announce my presence. Wes is at the counter now, pouring coffee into two mugs—including my chipped blue one that Emma picked out.

"Morning," he says without turning, voice steady like I hadn't just witnessed his most private moment.

"Morning." I accept the coffee he hands me, our fingers brushing. The warmth seeps through the ceramic, grounding me. "You're up early."

"Always am." He leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of his mug. In the soft glow of the range light, his expression is unreadable. "Sleep okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. The quiet here… it’s different. It’s good." I hesitate, then add, "But I guess you already knew that."

He chuckles softly, and the sound warms something inside me. "Takes getting used to. Not sure I’d trade it for city noise, though."

"I wouldn’t blame you," I say, smiling faintly. "There’s something… grounding about this place. Like it slows everything down."

"That’s the idea," he says, his gaze steady on mine. "But it’s not just the place, you know. Sometimes it’s what you let yourself hear in the quiet."

I blink at him, surprised by the insight, and he shrugs, looking almost self-conscious.

"You hear things differently when there’s no noise to drown it out," he explains. "Sometimes it’s your own thoughts. Sometimes it’s something bigger."

I swallow hard, his words settling into the spaces I’ve been trying to ignore. "Like...faith?"

He nods, his expression softening. "Yeah. Like faith. Doesn’t have to be perfect or pretty. Just has to be real."

I look down at my coffee, his words tumbling around in my mind. Real. I’ve spent so much of my life crafting stories, creating characters with bigger-than-life qualities, that sometimes I forget what real even feels like. But standing here, with Wes in the pre-dawn quiet of his kitchen, I’m starting to remember.

"You’re a hard man to figure out, Wes Montgomery," I say softly, looking up at him.

He smiles faintly, his eyes warm despite their usual intensity. "Maybe. Or maybe you’re just looking too hard."

The air between us feels charged, like the space in a story right before the characters finally stop dancing around whateverit is that’s been building. But instead of leaning into it, Wes pushes off the counter and sets his mug in the sink.

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