Page 26 of Lost in the Reins

"You're thinking too hard again." His voice breaks through my reverie. "I can practically hear you writing this scene in your head."

"Occupational hazard." I adjust my seat as Athena turns, proud that I only grab the saddle horn a little bit. "I have to admit, this is nothing like what I imagined. In my books, the heroine's first ride is always this magical moment where she instantly bonds with the horse and gallops off into the sunset."

"Instead of clutching the saddle horn and overthinking?" The amusement in his voice makes me want to kick him, but that would require letting go of my death grip on the saddle, so I settle for a glare.

"I'm not overthinking. I'm... analyzing. Processing. Trying to figure out how I got everything so wrong in my books."

"Not everything." He guides us toward the center of the arena, his stride matching Athena's pace perfectly. "Just the details."

"Like what?" The morning sun is starting to warm my back, and I'm slowly—very slowly—beginning to relax into the rhythm of Athena's movement.

"Like how it feels." His hand shifts on my leg, adjusting my position again. "The trust. The connection. The way you have to let go of control to find your balance." His eyes meet mine. "That part you got right."

"Yeah?" Something warm unfurls in my chest, and this time, it has nothing to do with fear. “You think so?”

I manage a real smile, feeling braver by the minute.

“I think if you were willing to face your fears and come all the way here to learn how to be a better writer, you must really care about your craft.” A flush creeps up his neck.

“That doesn’t mean I’m a great writer, though.”

He grimaces. “Maybe I read a paragraph or two of one of your books.”

“No way!” My excited gesture makes Athena snort, and I quickly return my hand to the saddle. "Wait until I tell your brothers their stoic older brother reads romance novels."

"Tell them and I'll let go of this bridle."

"You wouldn't dare." But we both know he would never. That's the thing about Wes Montgomery—for all his gruff exterior, he's possibly the most trustworthy person I've ever met. Which makes him infinitely more addictive than any fictional cowboy I've ever written.

"Try me." His smile—the rare, full one that transforms his whole face—makes my heart do something complicated in my chest. "Though I have to warn you, Athena takes criticism ofher rider very personally. Almost as personally as Bernard takes disrespect."

"Is every animal on this ranch dramatic, or just the ones I interact with?"

"Must be something about you." His voice carries a warmth that has nothing to do with the rising sun. "Bringing out the character in everything you touch."

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine too closely. Instead, I focus on the steady rhythm beneath me, the way my body is starting to understand this dance of balance and trust. "So," I say, aiming for lightness, "when do I get to try that sunset gallop my heroines are so fond of?"

His laugh—deep and real—echoes across the arena. "Let's start with walking without strangling my saddle horn. Then maybe, if you're lucky, I'll teach you how to trot without falling off."

"How romantic." But I'm laughing, too, letting go of some of the tension I've been holding. "I suppose this is more authentic than my usual scenes."

"Reality usually is." He steps closer, adjusting my reins with careful movements. "Even if it takes longer to get to that sunset ride."

Chapter Twelve

Wes

"Feed's running low, and we're almost out of mineral blocks." Jake drops the inventory sheet on the kitchen table like it's burning his fingers. "Going to need more baling wire, too.”

I rub my temples, staring at the numbers that mock me from the page while my coffee grows cold. The feed supplier’s already called twice about our account, and the list of what we need keeps growing longer than the list of what we can afford. Some days feel designed to test exactly how much pride a man can swallow before breakfast.

“I’ll make a supply run.” The words taste like surrender. Wilson’s will extend credit—they always do—but every extension feels like another nail in the ranch's coffin.

"I'll come with you."

Paisley's voice catches me off guard. She's standing in the doorway, hair still damp from her morning shower, wearing one of my old flannels like she has any right to make it look that good.

"Town's not exactly exciting." I focus on the invoices, pretending I haven't noticed how that shirt hangs past her hipsor how she's rolled the sleeves up just enough to show delicate wrists that are starting to callus from real work.

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