Page 70 of Lost in the Reins

"You sound like Dad." Her voice catches. "Right before... before the accident. When he and Mom were fighting about money. About changes." She wraps her arms around herself. "He didn't want to listen either."

The comparison hits like a knife between my ribs. Because she's right: Paul had been the same way near the end. Proud. Stubborn. Refusing to see that Sarah's ideas about tourism and diversification might save what traditional ranching was slowly killing.

"Your dad was trying to protect what mattered," I say softly.

"And look how that worked out." The bitterness in her voice sounds wrong coming from someone so young. "He lost Mom anyway. And now we're losing everything else, too."

I reach for her, but she backs away. The distance between us feels wider than just the few feet of bedroom floor.

"I know you're trying to protect me," she says, her voice steadier now. "Like you always do. But maybe..." She swallows hard. "Maybe sometimes protection hurts more than taking a risk."

Chapter Thirty

Paisley

Fun fact: it's really hard to maintain dignity while ugly crying into a goose's neck. Especially when said goose is Bernard, who normally treats physical affection as a personal affront to his royal heritage. But here we are, me sobbing into his feathers while he tolerates it with imperial disdain.

"I'll miss you, too, you dramatic nightmare," I whisper, and he honks softly—probably telling me I'm creasing his perfectly arranged plumage. Kevin watches from his perch, judging my emotional breakdown with his usual peacock superiority. For a second, I swear he looks almost sympathetic. Or maybe that's just the tears blurring my vision.

My suitcases mock me from the porch—designer luggage that somehow survived three months of ranch life, now looking as out of place as I feel. They're packed with borrowed flannels I couldn't bring myself to return and bubble bath bottles that still smell like Emma's laughter. Funny how you can pack an entire broken heart into two carry-ons and a laptop bag.

"The prodigal writer returns to Manhattan." Jake appears beside me, his attempt at humor falling flat. "Though I gotta say, you're a lot better at handling Bernard than when you first got here."

"Turns out, all he needed was someone who understood his flair for drama.” I try for lightness, but my voice catches. "I never did figure out his obsession with stealing hats."

Jake's laugh sounds forced. "Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved." He pulls me into a fierce hug that smells like hay and family. "You're making a mistake, you know. Both of you."

"Yeah, well." I pull back before I can start crying again. "Turns out, some cowboys are too stubborn even for a romance writer to fix."

Colt joins us, his usual calm presence somehow making this harder. "Sarah would have liked you," he says quietly. "She would have seen how you fit here."

The words hit like a physical blow. Because that's the thing about the Montgomerys: they sneak past your defenses with quiet truths that cut deeper than any dramatic declaration. Sarah's presence lingers everywhere here—in Emma's laugh, in the recipe cards I memorized, in the way this place feels more like home than anywhere I've ever been.

Martha's going to be devastated. She had our wedding menu planned before our first kiss, complete with color-coordinated napkins and Bernard as the ring bearer. Given his tendency to steal accessories, that might have been overly optimistic.

I hear boots on the porch steps, and my heart does its usual unauthorized gymnastics routine before I remind it that we're supposed to be practicing dignity in defeat.

"Your cab's here."

Wes's voice carries that carefully controlled tone that means he's holding something back. I turn slowly, taking in the sight of him one last time. He looks like he hasn't slept, shadows under his eyes making the blue even more intense. My fingers itch to smooth the worry lines from his forehead, to shake some sense into his stubborn head, to write a different ending to this story.

Instead, I straighten my spine and manage a nod. "Thanks for everything. The ranch, the research..." I swallow hard. "It was exactly what I needed for the book."

"Right." His jaw does that clenching thing that still makes my stomach flip. "The book."

Something splinters in my chest, sharp and final. Because this is how it ends—not with grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but with careful distance and words we're both too scared to say. The writer in me wants to fix it, to craft the perfect line that would make him see what he's throwing away. But real life isn't like my novels. Sometimes the hero's too stubborn to accept his own happy ending.

"Tell Emma..." My voice betrays me. I clear my throat and try again. "Tell her I left some new bubble bath under the sink. Cotton candy scented. Her favorite."

He nods once, that same controlled movement I remember from my first day here. Like he's holding himself back from something. "I will."

The cab driver honks, impatient with our painfully polite goodbye. I grab my suitcases, hefting them with arms that are stronger now from months of actual ranch work instead of Manhattan's overpriced boutique gyms.

"Goodbye, Wes."

He doesn't answer, just tips his hat in that maddeningly formal way that makes me want to throw something at him. Preferably Bernard, who's still watching this disaster unfold with regal disapproval.

The cab smells like cigarettes and stale coffee—nothing like leather and dawn prayers and home. As we pull away, I don't look back. Can't look back. Because if I do, I might see something in his expression that would make me stay. And he's made it crystal clear that staying isn't an option anymore.

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