Page 67 of Lost in the Reins

"Wes—”

"You've got a life there. A career."

“So?” My voice catches on everything I'm afraid to lose.

The silence stretches between us like Montana shadows at dawn, full of things we're both afraid to say. Wes's coffee sits untouched, steam curling into the air like the last wisps of festival magic fading away.

"So, this is it?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. "One perfect day at the festival and then back to reality?"

Wes's jaw works, that muscle ticking beneath his skin, which means he's fighting something inside himself. "The land's worth enough to clear the debts." His fingers tighten around his mug. "Found a place in town. Small, but it'll do."

"And the ranch?" I can't quite keep the tremor from my voice. "All that history?"

"Sometimes holding on too tight is what makes you lose your grip completely." His voice cracks on the last word. "Bank's been patient, but..."

"But what about us?" The question hangs between us like morning frost, delicate and dangerous.

His eyes meet mine, dark with something that looks too much like goodbye. "You've got deadlines. Book tours. A whole life waiting in Manhattan."

"And what if I don't want that life anymore?"

"Paisley." Just my name, but it carries the weight of everything he's trying not to say. "I can't ask you to give up everything for a man who can't even keep his family's legacy alive."

"You're not asking." I reach for his hand, needing to touch him, to anchor us both in this moment before it slips away. "I'm choosing. There's a difference."

His fingers lace with mine, rough and warm and familiar. "And six months from now? When you're missing your friends, your career, everything you built?"

"Bold of you to assume I have friends in Manhattan." The joke falls flat, lost in the gravity between us. "I've never felt more alive than I do here. More real."

"That's the festival talking." But his thumb traces circles on my palm, betraying him. "The romance of it all."

"No." I tug my hand free, suddenly angry. "That's me talking. The woman who's spent three months learning every creek and fence line of this place. Who knows exactly how you take your coffee and which flannel shirts are your favorites and the way you pray every morning."

I meet his gaze steadily. "And every morning, I fell a little more in love with the man who asks God to help him be what Emma needs, who works himself to exhaustion trying to save a legacy he thinks he's already lost."

A sound escapes him—pain or protest or maybe both. "Don't."

"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" I press closer, brave or stupid or maybe both. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Reality instead of romance novel fantasy?"

His hands come up to frame my face, rough and gentle all at once. "You deserve better than a man who's lost everything."

"You haven't lost everything." I cover his hands with mine, holding him there. "Not yet. Not unless you let go."

For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel his breath hitch. But then he pulls away, creating a distance that feels like miles.

"The realtor's coming Tuesday." His voice is steady now, controlled. "Figure we can be moved out by the end of the month."

And just like that, reality crashes back in with all the subtlety of a Montana winter. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun streaming through my window.

"When do you head back?" he asks, and I hate how careful his voice sounds. Like he's handling something fragile. Like he's already practicing distance.

"I..." The words stick in my throat. Because the truth is, I don't want to go back. Not to Manhattan, not to my old life, not to a world that suddenly feels as artificial as my old cowboys doing sunrise yoga.

But looking at him now, seeing the walls coming back up behind his eyes, I realize maybe I don't have a choice. Maybe some stories don't get the ending you write for them, no matter how much truth you pour onto the page.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Wes

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