Page 35 of Lost in the Reins

"I should check the horses before breakfast," he says, his voice easy but his movements deliberate. “I’ll see you out there.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone with the fading warmth of his words and the quiet that suddenly feels a lot louder than it did before.

I find Wes in the barn, where the morning light filters through weathered boards in dusty shafts. He's checking on Daisy, one of Emma's rescue goats who has a talent for escaping and a concerning addiction to Emma's stuffed animals. The sight of this tall, stoic cowboy gently examining a goat's hooves while she tries to eat his shirt is exactly the kind of authentic detail my readers would love. If only they knew how much ranching involved preventing livestock from consuming your wardrobe.

"You're staring," he says without looking up, those capable hands moving with practiced efficiency.

"I'm observing. There's a difference." I lean against the stall door, taking in the scene. "Very professional. Research purposes only."

He snorts, but I catch that hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Research, huh? Planning to write about goat maintenance in your next bestseller?"

"Could be romantic." I watch as Daisy headbutts his shoulder affectionately. "I mean, nothing says true love like hoof trimming at dawn."

"Goats are actually very romantic creatures," he says, and there's that teasing note in his voice that makes my stomach flip. "Did you know they mate for life? Form strong emotional bonds. The males even fight for their chosen female's attention."

"Really?" I step closer, genuinely intrigued.

"No." His eyes meet mine, dancing with suppressed laughter. "They're actually terrible romantics. Complete commitment-phobes. But they're incredibly loyal to their family groups. Look out for each other. Share food, stand guard while others sleep." He scratches behind Daisy's ears, earning a blissful expression that would make Instagram influencers jealous. "Sarah always said they're like the Montgomerys that way. Stubborn as heck, but fiercely protective of their own."

The casual mention of his sister catches me off guard, especially after this morning's overheard prayer. But there's something different in how he says her name now—less like an open wound, more like a treasured memory.

"So, what you're saying is…" I move closer, close enough to catch that mix of hay and coffee and pure Montana male that's becoming dangerously familiar. "Your spirit animal is basically a stubborn, protective goat with boundary issues?"

His laugh—deep and real—echoes through the barn. "Better than a romance writer who thinks cowboys do yoga at sunrise."

"Hey, that was one book!" But I'm laughing, too, even as Daisy takes advantage of our distraction to make another attempt at Wes's shirt pocket. "Though I have to admit, reality is turning out to be much more interesting than fiction."

The way he looks at me then makes my heart stutter. "Is that right?"

And suddenly we're not talking about goats anymore.

The air between us crackles with a dangerous kind of energy that makes rational people do irrational things—like fall for cowboys who pray in their kitchen at dawn and compare their family to goats. The morning light catches his eyes, turning them that impossible shade of blue that's becoming my personal kryptonite.

"The thing about reality," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my heart's doing its best rodeo impression, "is that it doesn't always follow the rules. In mybooks, this would be the perfect moment for some grand declaration or dramatic kiss."

"But?" His voice carries that quiet intensity that makes me want to simultaneously run away and move closer.

"But life's messier than fiction." I watch as Daisy attempts to eat his shirt pocket for the third time. "Case in point: I'm pretty sure I've never written a romantic scene involving a goat with an appetite for denim."

He laughs, the sound warming me more than any Manhattan coffee ever could. "Seems like a missed opportunity."

"Clearly." I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of his soap mixed with leather and hay. "Though I have to admit, my editor would probably have some concerns about the authenticity of a love story featuring livestock theft and pre-dawn prayers."

His hands still on Daisy's neck, and I realize too late what I've revealed. Smooth move, Monroe. Nothing says 'I'm totally not falling for you' like admitting you eavesdropped on a private moment.

"You heard that?" His voice is soft, but there's something else there—not anger, exactly, but a vulnerability that makes my chest tight.

"I..." I consider lying, but we've had enough fiction between us. "Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was coming down for coffee, and..." I wave my hand vaguely, as if that explains everything.

"And you heard me talking to God about you." It's not a question. His eyes hold mine, searching for something I'm not sure I'm ready to give.

"Well, me and the ranch and Emma and possibly some divine intervention regarding the feed prices." The joke falls flat, my usual deflecting humor failing in the face of his steady gaze. "Ireally am sorry. I should have made some noise or gone back upstairs or?—"

"Paisley." Just my name, but the way he says it stops my rambling cold. "It's okay."

"It is?"

"Yeah." He turns back to Daisy, but not before I catch the faint color rising up his neck. "Some things... some things maybe need to be heard."

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