Page 51 of Lost in the Reins

"Always," I say before I can catch myself. It comes out like a promise, one I'm not sure I have the right to make.

His eyes meet mine over Emma's sleeping form, and for a moment, everything I’ve been trying not to feel crashes over me like a Montana storm. Because Emma’s right—there is something here, something real and terrifying and worth waiting for.

If only one of us was brave enough to admit it.

“I took your truck,” I blurt out, because apparently, my brain-to-mouth filter stops working when he looks at me like that. "To get Emma. I probably should have asked, but?—"

"It's fine." He cuts me off, but there's something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I hear you got lost."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Who told you that?"

"Small town." Now he's definitely fighting a smile. "Mrs. Miller saw you drive past her place. Three times."

"In my defense," I whisper, careful not to wake Emma, "your road signs are more like suggestions than actual directions. And Martha's landmarks are historically accurate but navigationally useless."

He actually chuckles at that, the sound warming me more than Sarah's quilt. "Next time, just call Jake. He knows all the shortcuts."

"Next time?" I catch the implication in his words—that there might be a next time, that maybe he's not as determined to push me away as I thought.

His expression sobers, that wall starting to come back up, but Emma shifts in her sleep, mumbling something about Turkish Delight, and his face softens again.

"You're good with her," he says quietly. "She trusts you."

"She makes it easy." I brush a stray curl from Emma's forehead, hyperaware of how close Wes is standing, how the afternoon light catches his eyes and turns them that beautiful shade of blue. "She's got this way of seeing right through people's walls."

"Wonder where she gets that from." His voice carries a hint of humor, but there's something else there, too—something that makes my pulse skip like a scratched record.

"Must be a Montgomery trait." I meet his eyes, feeling brave or stupid or maybe both. "Along with the stubborn streak and emotional constipation."

He exhales sharply, like I've landed a hit he wasn't expecting. "Paisley?—"

But whatever he's about to say gets cut off by Emma stirring between us, her eyes fluttering open. "Uncle Wes?"

And just like that, the moment shatters. Wes shifts back, that careful distance returning to his eyes, though something softer lingers at the edges.

"Hey, kiddo." He crouches beside the couch, all his attention focused on his niece. "Heard you're playing hooky."

"Didn't even get to the spelling test," she mumbles, and my heart does that squeezing thing again at how small she sounds.

"Tragic," he says, using the exact same tone I did earlier.

Something warm unfurls in my chest, and I know there’s no hope.

I love this man.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wes

I'm dying. At least, that's what it feels like as another coughing fit racks my body. The ranch house has become a quarantine zone, with Jake and Colt keeping Emma at their place while Paisley and I suffer through whatever plague our niece so generously shared with us.

"Stop being dramatic." Paisley's voice comes from the other end of the couch, rough with congestion. She's wrapped in Sarah's old quilt, looking about as miserable as I feel. "It's just a cold."

"Says the woman who spent twenty minutes this morning comparing her headache to being trampled by Butch." I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make my muscles scream. "At least I've got experience being sick. You city folks probably call a doctor if you sneeze twice."

She throws a tissue at me, but her aim is off. Probably the fever. "I'll have you know I once worked through an entire book launch with bronchitis."

"Explains the yoga scene." The words come out raspier than intended, triggering another coughing fit.

---