Page 66 of Lost in the Reins

My email to Miranda is shorter than my usual rambling updates. Just the manuscript attached and a simple message:

You told me to find authenticity. I found something better. I found love.

Here's what happens when a city girl doesn’t write about fake cowboys.

- P

The send button feels heavier than it should, weighted with more than just a finished book. Because this isn't just another novel—it's the story I needed to live before I could write it. The story of how sometimes, the best endings are really just better beginnings.

Downstairs, I hear movement in the kitchen. Wes is probably making coffee strong enough to strip paint and going through his morning routine of prayers and quiet contemplation beforethe day properly begins. Soon, Emma will bounce down for breakfast and question whether Martha really cried into her clipboard last night—she did, twice. It’s all so normal, so… cherished.

My finger hovers over the mouse. One click, and it's done. My heart is bound in digital pages, winging its way to New York through the Montana morning air. The cursor blinks at me, patient as a confession booth.

I click send.

And just like that, it's done. My eyes burn from the all-nighter, and I probably have more pie filling in my hair than actual writing talent, but none of that matters. Not when I can hear Wes's boots on the stairs, coming to check on me like he has the last three times since he woke up.

I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop of joints that have been hunched over a keyboard too long. Outside my window, Montana wakes up in shades of gold and promise.

A knock on my door breaks through my post-manuscript haze. "You alive in there?"

Wes's voice carries that mix of concern and amusement I've come to cherish. "Barely," I call back, running my fingers through my pie-crusted hair. “I make no promises about coherency.”

The door creaks open, and there he is, looking unfairly alert for this hour, holding two cups of coffee like peace offerings. "Thought you might need this." He pauses, taking in my disheveled state with a raised eyebrow. "But you might want to consider actual sleep at some point."

"Sleep is for people who don't have deadlines." I make grabby hands at the coffee, earning one of those rare full smiles that still makes my heart stutter. "Besides, I'm done. Just sent it to Miranda."

He settles beside me on the window seat, close enough that our shoulders brush. The contact sends warmth through me despite my exhaustion. "The new book?"

"Mm-hmm." I inhale coffee steam like it might actually replace eight hours of missed sleep. "I should probably warn you: you might recognize some characters.”

His arm slides around my waist, tucking me against his side like I belong there. Maybe I do. “That so?”

“Well, there’s this incredibly stubborn rancher who’s terrible at expressing feelings...” I trail off as his fingers find my ribs in warning. “Though he does make excellent coffee, so I kept that part accurate.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work.” But his voice has gone soft, thoughtful. “Think your readers will buy it? A story about real ranch life instead of designer cowboys?”

I twist to look at him, catching something vulnerable in his expression before he can hide it. “That’s the thing about truth,” I say quietly. “Once you find it, nothing else feels real enough.”

His free hand comes up to brush pie crumbs from my cheek, the touch lingering, and something shifts in the air between us. The warmth from moments ago cools like Montana shadows stretching across morning light.

"So." His voice comes out rough, carrying weight I'm suddenly afraid to measure. "When do you head back to Manhattan?"

I pull back slightly, missing his warmth even as I create space to think. "I... haven't really thought about it. With the festival and the book..."

"Paisley." Just my name, but it carries volumes. His hand drops to his lap, fingers curling like he's holding back something painful. "The ranch... I'm selling it.”

"What?" The word comes out barely above a whisper. "But the heritage tourism, the programs your brothers talked about?—”

His jaw does that clenching thing that still makes my heart hurt. “It isn’t enough, and the bank's been more than patient."

No. Not now. Don’t do this to us now. “So yesterday, at the festival..."

“It wasn't pretend." He meets my eyes then, and something in my chest cracks at the raw honesty there. "Not for me. But with you going back to Manhattan?—”

"We could try long distance," I cut in, desperate suddenly to hold on to whatever this is between us. "Lots of couples manage?—”

"No." The word drops between us, and his hands flex against his thighs. I recognize the gesture. He’s holding back. "I couldn't... Seeing you through screens, missing morning coffee and bedtime stories... It would kill me slower than letting you go now."

---