Page 77 of Lost in the Reins

I should leave it. I should fold it neatly and set it aside, treat it like the past—something to be acknowledged but not carried with me. Instead, I grab it, my fingers tightening around the soft, worn fabric as I shove it into my bag. A reckless, sentimental move. But I can’t seem to help myself.

I pause, gripping the edge of my suitcase as the reality of what I’m doing slams into me.

I don’t know what Miranda’s up to.

I don’t know if I’m ready to face Wes again, to stand in that kitchen and see for myself if Emma’s right—if he really does stare at my coffee mug like it might tell him what to do.

But I do know one thing….

I’m going back to Montana.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Paisley

The road stretches ahead like an old friend—one with bad breath and a habit of tripping you when you're not looking. Every pothole and rut feels familiar instead of frustrating. Three months ago, I counted every cell tower and plotted my escape route to the nearest decent coffee shop. Now? The empty signal bars on my phone feel like a hall pass to sanity.

Fernando hums along to some country song, shooting me smug little looks in the rearview mirror like he knows something I don’t. Which he probably does. He’s chauffeuring my life changes again, only this time, I’m packing exactly one practical bag and more optimism than I have any right to.

“You missed the turn,” I say, nodding at the crooked fence post marking the way home. The word home catches in my throat. When did that happen? “It’s past the Thompson place, where the fence?—”

“Broke last spring,” he finishes, grinning. “I remember. Also noticing that you haven’t asked about Wi-Fi yet.”

I snort. Last time, I clutched my phone like it contained the meaning of life. “Funny how priorities change.”

The morning mist lifts like a bad stage effect, revealing the ranch in slow motion: the weathered barn, the fence I helpedmend—poorly—and the chicken coop where I learned that peacocks are judgmental jerks. Everything is exactly as I left it. And yet, somehow, it feels sharper, more real than Manhattan ever did.

My fingers tighten around my bag. No designer luggage this time. Just jeans, boots, and a single scarf. Partly because I know it makes Wes’s eyes darken in a way that should be illegal, and partly because I want to see Bernard’s look of absolute disgust when I wear it near the chickens.

The crunch of gravel under my actual boots—broken in by work, not Instagram—feels like crossing a finish line. Or a battlefront. Either way, every living creature on this property definitely heard Fernando’s car roll in and is just politely pretending otherwise.

Jake’s by the barn, feeding the animals. He hasn’t seen me yet, but I’d bet good money everyone inside the house has already clocked my arrival and is just waiting for the drama to unfold.

The porch steps loom ahead, their creaky boards holding years of Montgomery footsteps. I know exactly which ones will betray a sneaky exit or an early morning arrival.

How am I supposed to face him?

What if Emma’s wrong? What if that porch light wasn’t an invitation but just… forgetfulness? What if?—

HONK.

The sound splits the quiet like a judge’s gavel. Bernard, the world’s most dramatic goose, waddles toward me, neck extended like he’s gearing up for a TED Talk on abandonment issues. The last time I stood here, he chased me across the yard. Now, he stops a foot away, inspecting me like a returning criminal.

“I missed you, too, you unhinged feather duster,” I whisper.

To my shock, he doesn’t attack. He just circles me once, taking in the boots, the jeans, and the way I’m not clutching myphone like a stress ball. Then, with what I swear is a nod of approval, he lets out a softer honk.

The screen door squeaks—the exactWes is trying to be quietsqueak I remember.

My heart stops. Then starts again. Loudly.

I turn, gripping my bag like a shield. And there he is.

Wes Montgomery, standing in the doorway, coffee mug halfway to his lips, looking at me like I’m either a ghost or a bad decision he’s about to make anyway.

The morning light turns his eyes an unfair shade of blue. He hasn’t shaved—probably too busy brooding at the coffee maker to bother. The stubble along his jaw makes my fingers twitch, which is not helpful.

“Hi,” I manage. Not exactly the confident, rom-com-worthy entrance I’d planned, but we’ve never done normal.

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