Page 33 of Lost in the Reins

"Night, troublemaker.” Colt gives her a bear hug that lifts her feet off the ground and makes her giggle. "Try not to smother in all that cat fur tonight.”

To my surprise, both brothers stop to give me quick, friendly hugs before shrugging into their coats. The casual affectioncatches me off guard—so different from my Manhattan life of air kisses and careful distance.

"Night, city girl," Jake calls over his shoulder as they head out. "Good luck with bedtime. Last time it went until midnight—something about needing just one more chapter and three more bedtime stories."

Emma bounces on her toes. "That's because it was getting to the good part!"

"Sure, it was, kiddo." Colt laughs, zipping up his coat. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with trying to stay up past your bedtime."

The brothers make their exit into the cold Montana night, leaving me alone with Wes and Emma, who's already employing advanced negotiation tactics to delay bedtime.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimes nine, and Emma immediately perks up like she's been waiting for this moment all evening.

"Story time!" She bounces on her toes, already in her unicorn pajamas with Trouble tucked under one arm. "Uncle Wes, we have to find out what happens to Edmund!"

Wes shifts in his chair, and I catch the faintest hint of color creeping up his neck. "Emma, I'm sure Paisley doesn't want to?—"

"Actually," I cut in, unable to resist the way his ears are turning red, "I'd love to hear what happens next. Though you'll have to catch me up on the story so far."

Emma's face lights up like Christmas came early. "It's about these kids who find a magic wardrobe, and there's a witch who's made it always winter but never Christmas, and Edmund's been really stupid and eaten this magic Turkish Delight?—"

I settle deeper into the couch, charmed by her enthusiasm. She might have Sarah's looks, but that rapid-fire excitement is pure Montgomery.

"You sure?" Wes cuts in, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’s holding the book like it might bite him. "We're halfway through, and?—"

"Oh, just read," Emma commands, and Wes clears his throat three times before opening to the dog-eared page. He stares at it for a long moment like he's forgotten how words work.

"I'm sure." I grab the old quilt from the back of the couch—the one Emma told me Sarah made during her pregnancy—and settle into the corner. "I haven't heard a good bedtime story in ages."

Emma doesn't wait for further discussion. She wedges herself between us like a small, pajama-clad pillow, her head finding that spot on Wes's shoulder that seems made just for her. Trouble arranges himself across all our laps like some kind of feline seat belt.

When he starts reading, Wes's voice is different from anything I've heard from him before. Deeper, softer, with a rhythm that speaks of countless nights just like this one. He does voices—actual different voices for each character—and something in my chest constricts at how much practice that must have taken. How many nights he's spent making this story come alive for the little girl who has lost everything else.

I should be taking notes. This is exactly the kind of authentic detail my books have been missing. But instead, I find myself watching him—the way his forehead crinkles when he does the Witch's voice, how his free hand absently strokes Emma's hair as he reads. The steady rise and fall of his chest, strong enough to support a child's grief, yet gentle enough to bring magic into her world every night.

The words start to blur together, warmth and safety wrapping around us like Sarah's quilt. Emma's breathing deepens first, then Trouble's purring turns to tiny snores. Wes'svoice trails off mid-sentence, his head tipping back against the couch as sleep claims him, too.

For a long moment, I just look at them. This impossible man who can break horses and fix fences and still make time to read bedtime stories. This little girl who's piecing together a new kind of family from love and loss and fairy tales. Even the cat, who's somehow worked his way under the quilt without any of us noticing.

I ease the book from Wes's hands, careful not to wake him. His fingers are still holding the page, like some part of him wants to finish the story even in sleep. The quilt I'm wrapped in is soft with age and love, and it seems right somehow to drape it over them instead.

In the dim light of the old table lamp, they look like something out of a different kind of story. Not the glossy romance novels I've been writing, but something more real. Something about family and healing and the quiet kind of love that shows up in bedtime stories and borrowed blankets.

I turn out the lamp, navigating the familiar creaks of the floorboards in the dark. Tomorrow, Wes will probably be embarrassed about falling asleep mid-chapter. Emma will demand to know what happens next. And I'll have to face the fact that I'm falling for more than just research material.

But for now, I leave them to their dreams, carrying the warmth of this moment up the stairs with me like a treasure.

Chapter Fifteen

Paisley

Iwake before my alarm, which is becoming a habit. My body's internal clock has adjusted to ranch time faster than my brain has. Three weeks ago, four a.m. would've been when I was finishing my writing for the day, not starting it.

Last night's Jenga game replays in my mind—Emma's laughter, Jake's terrible jokes, the way Colt hugged me goodbye like I was already family. Even now, hours later, the warmth of that moment lingers. In Manhattan, my nights were filled with deadlines and takeout containers, the silence of my apartment broken only by the city noise eleven stories below. Here, the quiet feels different. Lived in. Like the house is holding its breath, keeping watch over the family sleeping under its roof.

I spent two hours last night trying to write, but instead of crafting the steamy scenes my editor expects, I found myself describing the way Emma fell asleep during story time, her head tucked against Wes's shoulder. How his voice changed when he read, softer and deeper, bringing Narnia to life in ways C.S. Lewis probably never imagined. The way the firelight caught his profile, making him look less like my fictional cowboys and more like something real. Something worth staying for.

The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, trying to avoid the spots I know will creak. Three weeks, and I already know which floorboards will give me away—the one outside Emma's room that groans no matter how carefully you step, the loose board by the hall window that Sarah marked with red nail polish so no one would trip. These little details that make a house a home and turn a stranger into family.

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