Page 38 of Lost in the Reins

Martha’s laugh could probably be heard in the next county. “Oh, honey. That man's not avoiding you because he doesn't care. He's avoiding you because he cares too much." She starts pulling out color swatches that all look suspiciously like variations on romantic sunset hues.

“You think so?”

“Iknowso.” She holds up two nearly identical shades of burgundy. "Now, which do you think says 'fall in love under harvest moonlight' better?"

I drop my head into my hands, wondering if it's too late to go back to Manhattan where the most complicated relationship in my life was with my coffee delivery app. "You're going to do this whether I cooperate or not, aren't you?"

"Absolutely." Her satisfaction is practically radioactive. "Now, about your square-dancing outfit..."

Chapter Seventeen

Paisley

Iglare at my phone, rereading Martha’s seventh text about festival preparations and seriously considering faking my own death—if only to avoid figuring out how to get to town without asking Wes for a ride. The coffee he left brewing is the only evidence he’d even existed in this kitchen today. Well, that and the lingering scent of leather and soap, which has the infuriating ability to make an empty room feel like him.

Emma is at Sarah Beth’s for a sleepover, leaving me with no convenient excuse to casually hitch a ride. Not that it matters—Wes vanished at dawn, like some kind of brooding cowboy cryptid. Again.

The kitchen feels too quiet without Emma’s morning chatter or Jake’s terrible jokes. Even Bernard’s imperial honking seems subdued, like the whole ranch is conspiring to give me space to think. Unfortunately, thinking is the last thing I want to be doing.

The screen door creaks—that specific creak I’ve learned means someone tall is trying to open it quietly. My heart does an entirely unauthorized flutter before I remember Wes is supposedly on the far side of the property, avoiding me with Olympic-level dedication.

"Please tell me there’s coffee left."

Colt’s already at the counter, reaching for a mug.

"Jake drank half the pot before heading out to check fences, and Wes?—"

He glances up, takes one look at me, and smirks. "Lemme guess. Pulled his signature disappearing act?"

I wave a hand vaguely. "Oh, you know. Classic Wes. Rides in, brews coffee, leaves no trace but the distinct scent of avoidance and mild disapproval."

Colt snorts as he pours his coffee. "Sounds about right." He takes a sip, then gives me a look that is entirely too amused. "You sure you don’t wanna start strategically leaving a trail of breadcrumbs? Maybe some cattle feed? See if we can lure him into a conversation?"

I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. "Oh, no, I’d hate that. Imagine if we had to make direct eye contact. The horror."

Colt grins, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah, that man’s got a talent for avoidance. But I gotta say, watching him pretend he’s not completely tangled up over you is some of the best entertainment this ranch has seen in years.”

I nearly drop the cream pitcher. "I’m sorry—what now?"

"You heard me." Colt leans against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. "The man is a walking disaster every time you're around. It’s like watching a deer try to look casual in traffic."

"Oh, sure," I say, rolling my eyes. "Is that what we’re callingbolting like I’ve got an infectious diseasethese days?"

Colt shrugs, far too relaxed for a man who is dismantling my reality. "That’s what I call Wes Montgomery realizing he’s not in control of something for the first time in his life. And is handling it terribly."

My phone buzzes again—Martha—because she clearly doesn’t understand that I am in the middle of an existentialcrisis. I sigh, glancing at the screen, then back at Colt. "Any chance you’re heading into town? Martha’s threatening to send a search party if I don’t show up to help with decorations."

His grin is pure Montgomery mischief. "Need a ride that doesn’t involve awkward silence and brooding stares?"

"More like need a ride that doesn’t involve explaining to Martha why her favorite emotionally constipated cowboy has decided I’m an airborne toxin."

"Well, then." He drains his cup and stands, keys already jingling in his pocket. "Let’s go see what fresh chaos Martha’s brewing up for this festival. Fair warning: the whole committee’s probably assembled by now, and they’ve all got opinions about everything. Including my brother’s romantic prospects."

I groan but grab my jacket—his jacket, really, since I seemed to be collecting Montgomery hand-me-downs like a weirdly sentimental raccoon.

As we step outside, the crisp morning air bites at my cheeks, and I pull the borrowed jacket tighter around me. Colt tosses me a knowing glance as he jingles his keys.

"You know," he says, smirking as we head for his truck, "you could always take the direct approach with Wes. Just corner him. Force a conversation. Maybe even—heaven forbid—flirt a little."

---