Page 4 of Lost in the Reins

“Miss Monroe.” His voice hits like gravel wrapped in honey, nothing like the smooth-talking cowboys I write about. “You’re early.”

“I... Am I?” I glance down at my phone, checking the time and noticing zero bars. Argh! Why couldn’t this writing sabbatical at least have internet? How will I ever fall asleep without doom-scrolling for an hour?

Shaking off the grief, I focus back on Mr. Montgomery. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be early. That behavior is unlike me. Not that I make a habit of being late and disrespecting someone’s time. I just mean that I don’t have many meetings or leave the house very often; therefore, I misjudge the traffic conditions and the hike from the subway, which usually makes me later than intended."

I suck in a breath after that excited ramble. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, and those eyes—Lord help me, they're the exact shade of blue that my editor says I overuse in my descriptions—study me with careful neutrality. "No subways in Montana, Miss Monroe."

"Right. Yes. Of course." I laugh nervously, like I haven't just word-vomited all over his boots. Which, by the way, are properly worn and scuffed, making my casual footwear feel even more ridiculous. "I just meant... I'm not usually... This is all very..."

"Different?" His tone stays even, professional, but something flickers in his expression before he can catch it—there and gone like Montana lightning.

"I was going to say terrifying," I admit before my filter can kick in. "But different works, too.”

He tips his chin in the subtle, super sexy cowboy kind of way that puts a ridiculous smile on my face.

I’ve definitely been writing cowboys all wrong. Honestly, after seeing this man, I’m flat-out ashamed of myself.

A half smile tugs at his mouth—the kind that would take me three paragraphs to describe properly in one of my books. "Terrifying might be a bit strong for a working ranch."

"Says the man who probably doesn't scream when he sees spiders," I mutter, then immediately wish I could take it back when his eyebrow does that perfect arch thing again. "Not that I scream at spiders. Much. Anymore. I mean, I'm totally cool with wildlife. And livestock. And whatever that is over there that's staring at me."

"That's Hope." Another voice joins us as a younger version of Wes rounds the barn corner. Same confident stride, same work-worn boots, but with a grin that suggests he finds me significantly more entertaining than the other man. "Our oldest mare. Don't worry, she only kicks strangers sometimes."

"Colt." Wes's tone carries enough warning to fill a chapter.

"What? Just warning our guest about ranch hazards." He winks at me, completely immune to Mr. Montgomery’s disapproval. “I’m Colt, by the way. Wes’s brother.”

“He trains the horses,” Wes adds, like it pained him to do so.

"Paisley," I manage, aiming for professional but landing somewhere between breathless and desperate. "I mean, yes. That's me. Hi." Oh, gosh. I'm babbling.

"Welcome to Whispering Pines." Colt's grin widens as Fernando drives away, leaving me stranded with my ridiculous luggage and two cowboys. "Hope you're ready for some authentic ranch experience."

The way he says "authentic" makes my stomach do nervous flips. Before I can craft a suitably witty response about my extensiveYellowstoneresearch, a crash from inside the barn makes me jump.

“Uncle Wes!” A young voice carries through the afternoon air. “Come look!”

Wes’s eyes widen in concern. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He sprints off to the barn, where he disappears behind the big wooden doors.

Colt chuckles. “Emma keeps Wes on his toes.” His expression softens. "Our sister, Sarah, and her husband died in a car wreck two years ago. Wes adopted Emma right after. It hasn't been easy for him, but..." He glances toward the barn, pride evident in his voice. "He stepped up without hesitation. He’s always been that way—taking care of everyone else first."

"That must have been hard on everyone," I say softly, "Especially Emma."

"Yeah." Colt shifts his weight, his boots scuffing against the wooden porch. "She's handling it better these days. Ten going on twenty, that one. Though the cat collection is getting a bit out of hand." He grins, lightening the moment. "Don't tell Wes, but I'm pretty sure I saw him sneaking cat treats into his pocket yesterday."

I laugh, grateful for the shift in tone. "Your secret's safe with me."

Colt smiles and grabs my largest suitcase like it weighs nothing—pretty sure I pulled three muscles just getting it into Fernando's trunk. "So, romance novels, huh? Emma's been talking about your books all week. Though she's not allowed to read them yet, much to her disappointment."

Another crash echoes from the barn, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a small voice negotiating feeding schedules. Before I can ask about Emma's apparent interest in my highly inappropriate-for-ten-year-olds novels, Wes emerges with a miniature whirlwind of pigtails and determination. She's clutching a small orange kitten to her chest, daring someone to try and take it from her.

“She found a stray kitten in the barn,” Wes explains.

Colt chuckles. “Another one?”

Wes nods.

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