Page 41 of Lost in the Reins

"Paisley!" Martha call. "I still need help with these banners before the wind takes them!"

Wes takes a step back. "I’ll let you get to it."

And just like that, he is gone again.

Chapter Eighteen

Wes

The herd moves like a river after a thaw—steady, instinctual, finding its path with no need for second-guessing. It’s the kind of simple clarity I’ve been chasing for weeks. Cattle don’t complicate things. They don’t overthink, don’t hold back from what needs doing because they’re too scared of what might happen if they try.

I shift in the saddle, the familiar creak of leather keeping time with Thunder’s stride. The frost crunches under his hooves, the cold air biting sharp enough to remind me I’m alive. From up here on the ridge, I can see the whole spread—three hundred head of Black Angus moving through the gold-streaked grass like ink on paper. Good cattle. Reliable. Unlike their owner, who can’t stop thinking about the way a certain woman stood in the barn at dawn, wearing his shirt like it was hers to keep.

Thunder snorts, the plume of his breath catching in the icy morning air. I let out a breath of my own, heavier than it needs to be, and scan the herd again. A red heifer edges too close to the boundary, testing the line like she’s looking for trouble. I lean forward in the saddle, giving Thunder the smallest nudge, and he’s already moving, his gait shifting as we cut off the heifer’sescape route. She hesitates, tail flicking once, before turning back to rejoin the herd.

Cattle are simple. They’ve got boundaries, rules, rhythms. You stick to them, and nine times out of ten, things work out the way they’re supposed to. People, though? People are a whole different story.

"That one’s got your stubborn streak," Colt calls out from the left flank. His voice carries easy across the cold air, dry as the Montana wind. He’s riding with the kind of relaxed confidence that makes everything look simple, though I know better. Nothing about moving three hundred head of cattle to winter pasture is simple.

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "You got something useful to say, or are you just here to heckle?"

He grins, unfazed. "Just noticing how the man who says feelings don’t belong in ranching seems real busy avoiding his own."

Before I can snap back, Jake crests the ridge to my right like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to join the conversation. His timing’s too good to be a coincidence. He falls into step beside me, his horse’s hooves crunching in rhythm with Thunder’s.

"Dropped Paisley off in town," he says, letting the words hang like bait on a line. "Martha looked about ready to put her to work running the whole festival."

The mention of her name hits me harder than it should, stirring up that tight, restless feeling that’s been riding me hard ever since she said those words in the barn. Words I still haven’t figured out how to answer.

"She’s helping Martha with the festival?" I ask, keeping my tone flat, like it’s just another question about the weather or the price of hay.

Jake smirks. "Martha’s ‘help’ usually comes with enough rope to tie you into something you didn’t agree to. She’s got plans, Wes. Big ones. And Paisley’s right in the middle of ‘em."

"The festival’s good for business," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Brings in money, draws attention to the ranch."

"Uh-huh." Colt’s drawl could strip paint. "Because that’s definitely why you’ve been losing sleep. The ranch’s tourism revenue."

I glare at him, but he’s already guiding his horse toward the edge of the herd, pretending to focus on a straggler. Coward.

The truth is, they’re not wrong. About Paisley. About me. About the way I’ve been dodging every opportunity to face what’s right in front of me. But admitting that out loud? That’s not happening.

I nudge Thunder toward a stubborn calf testing the boundaries, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between me and my brothers. The calf gives me a bit of trouble, but eventually, I get it back on track. By the time I rejoin the others, they’re both waiting for me with matching looks of smug satisfaction. Great.

"You can’t avoid her forever," Colt says, quieter now, his tone leveling out. "She’s not going anywhere. And this ranch isn’t big enough for you to pretend she doesn’t exist."

"I’m not avoiding her," I lie, keeping my focus on the horizon. The sun’s climbing higher now, burning off some of the frost and painting the landscape in softer shades of gold and brown.

"Yeah? Then why haven’t you done anything about the fact she’s practically wearing a ‘Montgomery Ranch’ stamp on her forehead these days?" Jake presses, his tone sharper now, his grin fading into something more serious. "Some of us see things for what they are, Wes. You’re just too proud—or too scared—to admit it."

My jaw tightens, but I don’t answer. Because what’s the point? They’ve already decided they know what’s best. Doesn’t matter that they’re right.

"Sarah would’ve called you a fool," Colt says, softer now, his voice cutting through the cold morning air like a blade. "She’d say you’re wasting time you don’t have, playing it safe when you should be stepping up."

The mention of Sarah’s name hits harder than it should. It’s been years, but her voice still echoes in the back of my mind sometimes, sharp and steady and unyielding. She wouldn’t have let me get away with this. She’d have marched into the barn, dragged me by the ear if she had to, and made me face the truth head-on. Because that’s what she did. That’s who she was.

"This isn’t about Sarah," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

"No, it’s about you," Jake says, his tone firm now. "And how you’re acting like you don’t already know what you want—like you’re waiting for permission to go after it. Newsflash, Wes: you don’t need anyone’s permission."

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