Page 39 of Lost in the Reins

I scoff. "I think I'd have better luck taming a feral mustang with a pool noodle."

Colt just laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah, well… might be worth seeing who breaks first."

As I climb into the passenger seat, I tell myself I’m not interested in that particular experiment. But the tiny, traitorous part of me—the one that notices every glance, every hesitation, every lingering trace of leather and soap—isn’t so sure.

By nine a.m., the town square looks like Pinterest has exploded, having been doused in pumpkin spice and sprinkled with small-town enthusiasm. Everywhere I turn, people are hanging decorations, setting up booths, and generally transforming Pine Ridge into something straight out of a Hallmark movie—if Hallmark movies featured Martha running the show like a general with a clipboard instead of a rifle.

"Paisley!" She spots me like a heat-seeking missile and waves me over to a group of women currently engaged in what looks like a battle to the death with a tangled mess of fairy lights. "Come meet everyone!"

What follows is twenty dizzying minutes of introductions, each name attached to a story that predates indoor plumbing. Betty Ann apparently delivered half the town—including all three Montgomery brothers. Carol Sue taught kindergarten to “everyone worth knowing” for three decades. Rachel’s grandmother started the Fall Festival back when Pine Ridge was more dirt road than town square.

They are warm, welcoming, and armed with the kind of deep-rooted history that makes me feel both included and completely out of place. These women have known each other forever, speaking in shorthand, their laughter laced with memories that span generations—births, weddings, funerals, and everything in between.

"Your books are just delightful," Carol Sue says, handing over a strand of lights. "Though I have to say, ranch life here is a bit different."

"So I’m learning." I accept the ladder Rachel offers. "But honestly, the reality is turning out to be way more entertaining than the fiction."

Betty Ann’s wink could power the entire town. "Especially certain parts of reality?"

I go for an Oscar-worthy display of innocence. "No idea what you’re talking about."

Their collective laughter could probably be heard from the next county.

"Oh, honey." Carol Sue pats my arm. "That boy’s been different since you showed up. Reminds me of when he was in my class—always so serious, except when Sarah could get him to laugh."

"You should’ve seen him in high school," Rachel says, fingers working through a particularly stubborn knot of lights. "Captain of the rodeo team, straight As, and still found time to help on the ranch. Girls were practically lining up to catch his eye."

Betty Ann snorts. "Not that he noticed. Too busy being responsible. That boy came out of the womb already worried about cattle prices."

"Though he did try to impress Jenny Martinez with his cooking once," Carol Sue muses.

I brighten. "Oh, the smoke alarm incident?"

Betty Ann cackles. "Set off every alarm in the school trying to make her a birthday cake. Poor thing was so mortified, he wouldn’t look at an oven for months. Sarah had to teach him how to cook just so he wouldn’t starve."

"From what I hear," Rachel says, gaze far too knowing, "his grilled cheese has improved considerably."

I focus very hard on untangling lights. "He’s a good teacher. Patient. Even when I’m absolutely terrible at anything ranch-related."

Carol Sue’s smile softens. "Honey, that man’s never been patient with anyone but Emma. Until you."

Before I could even begin to unpack that particular statement, Martha’s voice cuts through the morning like a church bell.

"Paisley! Can you help me with these banners? My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I need someone with artistic sense to make sure they’re straight!"

Betty Ann shoos me away with a grandmotherly grin. "Go on. We’ve probably embarrassed the poor man enough for one morning, even if he’s not here to turn that adorable shade of red."

I make my way toward Martha, where she is locked in a losing battle with what appears to be enough fabric to mummify the entire town square. The morning sun has warmed the air just enough to make my borrowed flannel cozy, and the scent of pumpkin spice drifts from the diner’s open door.

That’s when I notice him—tall, broad-shouldered, and definitely not from Pine Ridge, judging by the way his boots are just a little too clean and his smile a little too practiced. He’s been helping set up the dance floor, but now he is making a beeline for me with an expression that suggests he has intentions.

And not the fun kind.

The stranger closes the distance with the kind of easy swagger that suggests he either sells used cars or has a side hustle as a cowboy-themed perfume model. I can practically hear a slow country song playing in the background as he tips his too-clean hat and flashes a practiced smile.

"Well, hey there." He leans against the banner Martha and I just wrestled into place. "I don’t think we’ve met."

I resist the urge to take a step back. Not because he is creepy—more because I have zero interest in playingFlirt with the NewGuywhen my brain is already a tangled mess ofWhy Is Wes Avoiding MeandHow Many Times Can a Man Mysteriously Disappear Before It’s Considered a Superpower?

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