Page 24 of Lost in the Reins

"Wes?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks." She hefts her bucket, matching my stride toward the feed bins. "For letting me learn. Even if you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself sometimes."

I catch myself before responding. There's something about the way she says it—not just the words, but the underlying vulnerability beneath her humor.

"You're doing fine," I say finally, measuring feed into the buckets with practiced motions. "Better than most city folks who come out here."

"High praise indeed." She bumps my shoulder with hers as she reaches for the scoop. "Though I notice you didn't deny enjoying my disasters."

"Entertainment's hard to come by out here." I watch her carefully measure feed, noting how she's already learned the right proportions. "Gotta take it where we can get it."

She shoots me a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated. "Well, I'm glad my ongoing humiliation provides such quality ranch entertainment. Should I schedule my next mishap before or after lunch?"

"Knowing you? Probably both." The words come out softer than intended, wrapped in something that feels dangerously like affection.

Chapter Eleven

Paisley

"Ican't do this." I take another step back, bumping into the fence rail. "I'll just observe. Take notes. Write about it from a safe, ground-level perspective."

"Scared?" Wes's voice carries that hint of challenge I'm learning to recognize, the one that makes me want to simultaneously prove him wrong and hide in the barn with Kevin the peacock. He's leaning against the fence, morning sun catching the stubble on his jaw, looking unfairly attractive for someone who's about to witness my imminent humiliation.

"Terrified, actually." I watch Athena watching me, pretty sure she's plotting my demise. "You know, in my last book, I wrote an entire scene about a sunset trail ride without mentioning how absolutely massive horses are in real life. My heroine just 'gracefully mounted her trusty steed.’” I wave my hand between us and the mountain of animal. “I had no idea there'd be so much... horse."

"Imagine that." His lips twitch. "A horse being horse sized."

"Mock all you want, cowboy." I cross my arms, trying to channel confidence I definitely don't feel. "But I've seen what these majestic creatures can do. Emma showed me all her barrelracing videos. I'm pretty sure attempting to ride would violate several clauses of my life insurance policy."

"Athena's gentler than Bernard." Wes pushes off from the fence, moving toward me with a fluid grace that still makes my heart do inconvenient things. "Though, if you prefer, we could start you off with something smaller. Maybe a pony? Or one of those coin-operated rides outside the grocery store?"

The teasing glint in his eyes is ridiculously cute. "Very funny. I'll have you know I was champion of the grocery store pony circuit, thank you very much."

"Explains a lot." Wes moves closer, leading Athena with the kind of easy confidence I've been trying to capture in my books for years. "But I hate to break it to you—real horses require slightly more skill than dropping a quarter into a slot."

"Really? Because I've got a whole collection of quarters in my purse. We could just—" I break off as Athena nudges my shoulder with her nose, sending me stumbling backward. His hands catch my elbows, pulling me close and steadying me with a grip that's both gentle and firm.

"You good?" His voice rumbles through me, and suddenly, I'm very aware of how close we're standing. Close enough to catch that mix of coffee and leather and something uniquely him that's becoming dangerously familiar.

"Define 'good.'" I step back, trying to get my heart rate under control. Whether it's racing from the horse’s proximity or Wes’s proximity is anyone's guess. "Because if by 'good' you mean 'absolutely terrified but trying really hard to hide it,' then yes. I'm fantastic."

His expression softens, just a fraction. "You trusted me when we were repairing the fence together.”

"That was different." I eye Athena, who's watching our exchange with regal patience. "Fences don't have opinions. Orteeth. Or the ability to remember that time I wrote about a cowboy doing downward dog on horseback."

"You really wrote that?" The corners of his mouth twitch again. "No wonder your reviews are struggling."

"Hey!" I poke his chest, momentarily forgetting my fear in favor of defending my creative choices. "That scene got me an Agatha nomination, I'll have you know. The judges called it 'uniquely imaginative.'"

"Is that what they called it?" He catches my hand before I can poke him again, his callused fingers wrapping around mine with a casual intimacy. "Look, you want authenticity? This is it. You can't write about ranch life if you never get on a horse."

"Watch me." But even as I say it, I know he's right. I've been at Whispering Pines for almost two weeks, learning everything from fence repair to goose etiquette. I've faced down Bernard, survived Kevin's dramatic performances, and only fallen in manure once. Okay, twice, if you count yesterday’s incident with the wheelbarrow, which I don’t because technically, that was Jake's fault.

"Paisley." The way Wes says my name, soft but firm, is swoon-worthy. It’s like he can see right through my deflections. "Do you trust me?"

And that's the real issue, isn't it? Not just trusting the horse, but trusting him. Trusting myself. Trusting that maybe, I'm capable of more than writing sanitized versions of ranch life from the safety of my Manhattan apartment.

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