Page 65 of Lost in the Reins

Her breath catches. "And what's that?"

"You." I kiss her again, soft and sure, right there in front of God and Martha and the whole town. "Us. Whatever this is becoming."

"Even with the bank breathing down your neck?" She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "The ranch struggling? All those reasons you gave for pushing me away?"

"Especially then." I stroke my thumb across her cheek. "Because maybe Jake's right. Maybe some things are worth fighting for, even if you're not sure you can win."

"We'll figure it out." She leans into my touch, fierce and certain. "Together. Though first..." She glances down at our still-bound legs. "Maybe we should finish this race?"

I laugh, pulling her closer. "Could just stay here. Give the town something to really talk about."

"Pretty sure Martha's about to have a stroke if we don't at least cross the finish line." She nods toward where Martha stands, practically vibrating with matchmaking satisfaction. "If we come in last, Emma's never going to let us forget it."

"Worth it." I kiss her one more time, quick and sweet, before straightening. "Ready to scandalize some more livestock?"

Her answering smile could power half of Montana. "Born ready, cowboy. Born ready."

The stars wheel overhead as we make our way toward the finish line at our own unhurried pace, still bound together by Martha's expertly tied bandana. Every few steps, one of us stumbles, leading to barely contained laughter and steadying hands.

"You know," Paisley says, gripping my shirt as we navigate a particularly tricky turn, "if I wrote this scene in one of my books, my editor would say it's too unrealistic."

"This seems pretty real to me." I steady her as she wobbles, my hand warm against her waist.

"That's exactly it." She looks up at me, her expression soft in the festival lights. "The messy parts, the stumbling, the way nothing goes quite according to plan… it's better than anything I could write."

We cross the finish line dead last to enthusiastic cheering from Emma and knowing looks from my brothers. Martha's already scribbling something on her clipboard that probably has nothing to do with race times and everything to do with wedding plans.

"Ready for the rest of the events?" I ask, working on the knot binding us together. "Or should we quit while we're behind?"

"Not a chance, cowboy." The festival lights catch in her eyes, turning them amber gold as she grins up at me. "We've got a reputation to redeem. Besides," she adds softly, "I'm starting to think some things are worth looking foolish for."

The warmth in her voice hits me square in the chest. Because she's right: Some stories are worth fighting for, even the messy, complicated, beautifully real ones.

From across the square, Emma's voice carries clear and bright. "Come on! They're setting up for the pie-eating contest!"

"Pie-eating contest?” Paisley’s eyes widen with mock horror. “You didn’t mention that part.”

“Scared?” I tug her closer, finally freeing us from Martha’s expert knot work.

“Of ruining this dress? Absolutely.” But she’s already moving toward the tables, pulling me along. “I have to warn you, I've got years of stress-eating manuscripts under my belt. I might surprise you."

And looking at her there, backlit by lanterns with determination written across her face, I realize maybe that's what love really is: finding someone who makes you brave enough to try new things, even when you're pretty sure you're going to end up covered in pie filling.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Paisley

Irub my tired eyes, staring at theSendbutton like it might bite me. Sunlight creeps through my window. Somewhere between barn disasters and bedtime stories, this room stopped feeling temporary.

The cursor blinks on my screen, patient as a Montana morning, while my completed manuscript sits in the attachment field of an email to Miranda. I've been up all night, fueled by coffee and the lingering euphoria of the Fall Festival. My hair still smells faintly of blueberry pie, a battle scar from a competition that would have mortified my old Manhattan self. But that version of me who wrote about pristine cowboys doing sunrise yoga feels like a stranger now. She never knew how it felt to have Wes Montgomery look at her like she was something precious while wiping pie filling from her chin, or how Emma's laughter could fill an entire town square with pure joy.

Gah, Emma. The way she'd bounced around us all night, practically vibrating with satisfaction every time Wes pulled me closer during the dance. "See?" she'd whispered when I'd helped her get more punch, her eyes bright with that mix of sass and wisdom. "I told you he just needed time."

My lips still tingle from Wes's kisses—not just the first one that had the whole town cheering, but the slower, softer ones afterward. The ones that felt like promises neither of us are quite ready to voice but can't help making anyway. Even now, I can feel the phantom press of his hands on my waist, steady and sure as we'd swayed under festival lights that turned everything to gold.

This manuscript is different from anything I've written before. No perfectly pressed jeans or designer boots in sight. Just real people with real scars and real love—the kind that builds slowly through morning coffee and evening chores and all the quiet moments in between. The kind that terrifies you because it's worth more than your own fears.

I've written what I know now—how a family builds itself from broken pieces and stubborn hope. How love sometimes looks like a gruff cowboy reading bedtime stories with all the voices, even when he's exhausted. How home isn't always where you planned to find it, but somehow finds you anyway.

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