Page 9 of Lost in the Reins

"Welcome to ranch life," Wes says, and I swear there's almost a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hope those boots are broken in."

They're not. They're so not. And judging by the knowing looks all three brothers are sharing, they're well aware of it.

"Don't worry," Jake adds with a wink. "The blisters only last the first week or so."

"I don't suppose there's any chance the authentic ranch experience includes a grace period?" I ask hopefully. "You know, for city girls who've never seen a sunrise that wasn't on Instagram?"

Three identical looks of amusement answer that question, and I'm struck again by their similarities—all tall enough to make me feel petite despite my not-insignificant height, all blessed with those Montgomery blue eyes and dark hair, though Wes's is cut shorter and more precisely than his brothers'. It's their expressions that set them apart: Jake's playful, Colt's good-natured, and Wes's carefully controlled but with that hint of humor he can't quite hide.

Great. Just great. Somehow in the span of twelve hours, I've gone from being a semi-successful romance author to being the comedic relief for three authentically handsome cowboys.

"Well." Colt pushes off from the counter he's been leaning against, setting down his coffee mug with a decisive thunk. “As much as I’d like to keep picking on our writer-in-residence, we really must put her to work so she can’t claim we didn’t give her a real ranch experience.”

Jake laughs heartily and stands, grabbing a handful of work gloves from a hook by the door. He tosses a pair at me that I barely catch. "Here. You'll want these."

"Are they heated?” I ask, examining the worn leather.

"Nope." He grins. "Just the ones with the fewest holes."

The air hits me like a slap of reality—crisp, sharp, and definitely not Manhattan as the cats follow us out the back door to the barn, where my impending humiliation awaits.

"Here." Wes hands me a flashlight, his fingers brushing mine again. In the beam of his own light, I catch that hint of amusement still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Try not to point it at the horses. They're not fans of unexpected spotlights."

"Right, because that would be the worst thing I could do out here." I sweep the beam across the ground, watching my step. "As opposed to, say, falling face-first into something I'd rather not identify."

Jake snorts from somewhere behind me. "Don't worry. You develop a sixth sense for that kind of thing eventually."

"Eventuallybeing the keyword," Colt adds helpfully. "Give it a month or two."

The barn looms ahead, and even in the dark, it's beautiful in that weathered, authentic way my readers would love. Or at least, they'd love reading about it from the comfort of their perfectly climate-controlled homes. The reality—complete with mysterious sounds and equally mysterious smells—is something else entirely.

"Ladies first," Jake gestures toward the door with an exaggerated bow.

"Such a gentleman," I mutter, gripping my flashlight like it might protect me from whatever awaits inside. "I don't suppose there's a beginner's guide to mucking stalls? Something with pictures or maybe a warning label?"

"Yeah." Wes steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he reaches for the door. "Don't drop the pitchfork on your foot."

"That's it? That's the entire guide?"

"Well," Colt says thoughtfully, "you might want to watch out for?—"

A loud snort from inside the barn makes me jump, my flashlight beam jerking wildly across the ceiling.

"—the horses," he finishes with a grin. "They tend to be curious about newcomers."

"Curious is one word for it." I edge inside, trying to look confident despite my heart doing its best to escape my chest. "I prefer 'judgmental.' Look at that one—she's definitely judging my outfit."

"That's Athena,” Wes says, moving past me with a fluid grace that makes everything look easy. "And she judges everyone. You're in good company."

"Oh, good. At least the horse's standards are as high as my agent's."

The brothers push past me, moving around with practiced efficiency, flipping on lights and greeting horses like old friends. It's oddly beautiful, in a rustic, potentially tetanus-inducing way. The kind of beauty I try to capture in my books but always end up sanitizing for mass appeal.

"Here." Wes appears at my side, holding out a pitchfork like he's bestowing a sacred weapon. "Your first lesson in authentic ranch life begins now."

I take it gingerly, trying to channel every farm girl heroine I've ever written. None of them, I realize now, ever had to deal with actual manure. "Just so we're clear, if I pass out from the smell, someone will make sure the horses don't trample me, right?"

Chapter Five

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