Page 37 of Lost in the Reins

"Processing." I test the word, remembering that morning in the barn—the way his hand felt on mine, how his eyes darkened when I admitted this wasn't just research anymore. How quickly he remembered very important work that needed doing somewhere else. "Is that what we're calling emotional constipation these days?"

Jake snorts coffee out his nose, which serves him right for trying to drink and drive these roads. "Look," he says once he's recovered, "Wes is... complicated."

"Like Kevin the peacock?"

"Worse." Jake's grin fades into something more serious. "He's been carrying everything since Sarah died. The ranch, Emma, all of it. He's not used to letting anyone help with that load."

I think about Wes praying in his kitchen at dawn, asking for guidance. About how he reads to Emma every night, doing all the voices even when he's exhausted. About the quiet strength it takes to keep a family legacy alive while raising your sister's daughter and somehow finding time to teach a city writer about ranch life.

"I'm not trying to carry his load," I say softly, watching the town appear on the horizon. "I just... I want to walk beside him while he carries it."

Jake reaches across the seat, squeezing my hand. "He'll figure it out. And if he doesn't, well..." His grin turns wicked. "There's always the Fall Festival. Nothing says 'stop being an emotionally constipated idiot' like a public square dance."

I groan, already dreading what Martha has planned. "You're all terrible people."

"Yep." He pops the P with obvious satisfaction. "Welcome to the family."

Fifteen minutes later, Martha bursts out of her shop like she's been spring-loaded, practically vibrating with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to check for escape routes. The woman's been not-so-subtly plotting my romantic destiny since that first coffee encounter, and now I've basically gift-wrapped her an opportunity by volunteering for festival planning.

"Paisley!" She engulfs me in a hug that smells like cinnamon and barely restrained matchmaking schemes. "And Jake! What a wonderful surprise. Though..." She pulls back, scanning the parking lot with the tactical precision of a wedding planner on a mission. "I could have sworn Wes mentioned he was coming to town today.”

Jake, the traitor, just grins. "Did he now? Must have slipped his mind. You know how he gets all wrapped up in his... duties.”

I shoot him a look that would wither less resilient men, but he just winks and slides back into the truck. "Have fun planning, city girl. Try not to let Martha talk you into anything too sparkly for the square dance."

"I hate you,"I mouth as he starts the engine.

"Love you, too!" he calls out the window, pulling away with a cheerfulness that definitely means I'm in trouble. "Remember, sometimes the best romance scenes involve public humiliation!"

Martha's eyes light up like Christmas came early. "Speaking of romantic scenes..." She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the shop with the kind of determined grace that makes resistance futile. "Wait until you see what I have planned for the couples' competition."

"Couples' competition?" My voice definitely doesn't squeak. Much. "Martha, I don't think?—"

"Of course, you'll need a partner." She bustles me through the door, where approximately seventeen different Pinterest boards worth of fall décor mock me from every surface. "Someone tall, perhaps. Good with horses. Maybe even loves children.”

I groan, letting my head thunk against the nearest pumpkin-spice-scented display.

"Now, I was thinking," Martha continues, seemingly oblivious to my slow descent into festival-induced madness, "the couples' competition could start with a three-legged race—very symbolic of partnership, don't you think?—and then move into a pie-eating contest. Of course, some couples might need a little nudge to participate," she adds with the kind of pointed look that could pierce armor.

I lift my head from the pumpkin display, suddenly suspicious. "Martha. What exactly does this competition involve?"

Her innocent expression could give Emma'sI didn't feed the cats extra treatsface a run for its money. "Oh, just some traditional festival games. Square dancing, of course. Maybe a little roping demonstration. And the grand finale..." She pauses for dramatic effect, which is never a good sign. "A kiss under the harvest moon!"

"Absolutely not." I straighten up so fast I knock over a decorative gourd. "No way. Not happening."

"But think of the romance!” She actually clasps her hands together like some kind of small-town fairy godmother. "What better research for your next book than participating in small-town traditions?"

"Pretty sure forced public displays of affection won’t help me become a better writer.” I rescue the gourd before it can roll into what appears to be an entire forest worth of artificial fall foliage. "Besides, Wes would never?—"

"Who said anything about Wes?" But her eyes practically twinkle with mischief. "Though now that you mention it, he is quite good at roping. Very... capable hands."

Lord, help me.

"Martha." I try for stern but land somewhere between desperate and hysterical. "We are not going to engineer some Hallmark movie moment for this festival.”

"Of course not, dear." She pats my arm consolingly while simultaneously steering me toward a table laden with event planning binders. "We're going to engineer several Hallmark movie moments. I've been planning this festival for thirty years—I know what I'm doing."

"That's what I'm afraid of." I sink into a chair, surrounded by more Pinterest-worthy autumn décor than a craft store explosion. "I do have to point out that your chosen target is currently avoiding me like I’m carrying some exotic disease that specifically targets emotionally unavailable cowboys.”

---