Page 25 of Lost in the Reins

"Fine." I square my shoulders, channeling every brave heroine I've ever written. "But if I die, I'm haunting you first. And then my agent. Actually, no—agent first, then you. She's the one who sent me here."

"Noted." He guides me toward Athena's side, his hand warm against the small of my back. "Though if you're taking requests,could you maybe haunt Jake instead? He still owes me twenty bucks from last month's poker night."

The laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, easing some of the tension in my chest. "Deal. But only if you promise not to let Athena throw me into next Tuesday."

"She hasn't thrown anyone since last Wednesday." His deadpan delivery makes me whip my head around, only to catch that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. "Kidding. Come on, city girl. Time to earn those cowboy romance credentials."

"Okay, just like we practiced. Left foot in the stirrup, grab the horn and back of the saddle, then push up and swing your right leg over." Wes demonstrates the motion, his hands positioned to spot me. "I won't let you fall."

I take a deep breath, eyeing the stirrup like it personally offended me. "You know, in my books, the heroine always mounts in one fluid motion. Very graceful. Very romantic. No mention of the fact that this stirrup is approximately six feet off the ground."

"Less talking, more mounting." But his voice holds that gentle amusement I'm starting to crave. "Unless you'd prefer I toss you up there?"

"Don't you dare." I grip the saddle, remembering yesterday's ground lesson. My fingers find the familiar spots—horn, cantle, just like he taught me. "However, I have to admit, that might make a good scene. Very romantic, the whole sweep-her-off-her-feet thing."

"Reality's better." His hands hover near my waist, ready to assist. "Trust your instincts."

Right. Instincts. Because those have worked out so well for me lately. Still, I manage to get my foot in the stirrup without tangling myself up completely. Small victories. The leather creaks as I grip the saddle, and I'm suddenly very aware of Wesstanding close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.

"Now push up and?—"

"If you say 'swing your leg over' one more time, I might have to kill you." But I'm already moving, using muscles I definitely didn't know I had two weeks ago. For one terrifying moment, I'm suspended between earth and sky, totally dependent on my own strength and Wes's steady hands.

Then somehow, miraculously, I'm sitting in the saddle. Actually sitting on a real, live horse. The view from up here is both exhilarating and terrifying, like being on top of a very temperamental mountain.

"I did it!" The triumph in my voice makes me sound like Emma when she masters a new trick with the cats. "I'm actually on a horse! A real horse! And I didn't even fall or kick anyone in the face or—" I look down at Wes, who's watching me with an expression that makes my heart stumble. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" But his eyes are soft, holding something that feels dangerous this early in the morning.

"Like..." I wave my hand vaguely, then quickly grab the saddle horn when Athena shifts beneath me. "Like I just did something amazing instead of just basic horse-mounting that every ten-year-old in Montana can probably do in their sleep."

"Maybe because you did”—he adjusts my right stirrup with careful movements—“do something amazing. Two weeks ago, you were writing about horseback yoga. Now you're actually riding."

"I wouldn't call this riding yet." I try to remember everything he taught me about posture, about feeling the horse's movement. "More like perching precariously and praying."

His hand settles on my knee, adjusting my position. The contact sends warmth shooting through my jeans. "Relax yourhips," he instructs, voice lower than strictly necessary for a riding lesson. "Move with her. Don't fight it."

"‘Relax,’ he says." I try to loosen my death grip on the saddle horn. "While sitting on top of a living, breathing mountain. Totally reasonable request."

But I attempt to follow his instructions, letting my body settle into the rhythm of Athena's breathing. It's strange how alive everything feels up here—the subtle shift of muscle beneath the saddle, the morning breeze playing with loose strands of my hair, the warmth of Wes's hand still resting on my knee.

"Better." His approval shouldn't make my stomach flutter, but it does. "Now, gentle pressure with your legs—not too much, just enough to let her know you're there."

I comply, and Athena takes a step forward that feels like an earthquake. "Oh!" The sound escapes before I can catch it, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. Not exactly the confident cowgirl image I was going for. "That's... different."

"Different good or different bad?" Wes moves with us, one hand on Athena's bridle, the other still steadying my leg. The morning sun catches his eyes, turning them an impossible shade of blue that I've definitely overused in my novels. Though now I'm thinking maybe I haven't described it enough.

"Different..." I search for the right words. "Different real. Like the difference between writing about swimming and actually being in the water." Another step, another small adjustment of my balance. "In my books, the heroine always knows exactly what to do. Very intuitive, very natural. I never wrote about how it feels to trust something this powerful. To just... let go and believe you won't fall."

His fingers tighten slightly on my knee. "You won't fall." The quiet certainty in his voice makes me look down at him, catching something in his expression that has nothing to do with riding lessons. "I've got you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I murmur, the words slipping out before I can catch them. Because he does have me—not just physically steadying me on this horse, but working his way past all my carefully constructed walls with his quiet strength and hidden smiles.

"Afraid of falling or afraid of trusting?" His question hits too close to home, making me wonder if we're still talking about horseback riding.

"Both?" I attempt a shaky laugh. "At least with actual falling, I know what to expect. Road rash, bruised ego, possibly a broken bone or two. The other kind of falling..." I trail off, suddenly very aware of how personal this conversation has become. "Let's just say it's not as easy to write about now that I know what it actually feels like."

A comfortable silence falls between us as Athena takes another careful step. Wes guides us in a slow circle, his boots leaving precise prints in the arena dirt. I'm starting to understand why my heroines always fall for the quiet cowboys. There's something about his steady presence that makes me feel both completely safe and utterly terrified.

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