Page 5 of Lost in the Reins

“How many does that make now?”

“Four.” Wes shakes his head and lets out a massive sigh. “My niece is an animal lover,” he tells me like that’s a bad thing.

"Nothing wrong with loving animals," I say before my filter can kick in. "Though I have to admit, my experience is mostly limited to that one goldfish I managed to keep alive for almost a week. And my sister's cat, who only tried to murder me twice."

"We can teach you!" Emma bounces on her toes, somehow managing to keep the kitten secure despite her excitement. Her jeans are covered in hay and what I really hope is just mud, and there's a smudge of something questionable on her cheek that she doesn't seem to notice or care about. "I know all about animals. Uncle Wes says I'm like the cat whisperer, except I also whisper to horses and chickens and that one really grumpy goat that Uncle Jake bought at auction."

"Does he now?" I eye Wes, catching the way his shoulders tighten at my attention. The man clearly doesn't know what to do with a city writer asking questions about his niece’s Dr. Dolittle tendencies. "And what does this grumpy goat have to say about my arrival?"

"He's not much for conversation today," Emma informs me with complete seriousness. Her eyes, exact copies of her uncle’s, study me with frank curiosity. "But the chickens are super excited. They love meeting new people, even if they're wearing..." She pauses, taking in my definitely not-ranch-appropriate outfit with the kind of judgment only a ten-year-old can deliver. "Interesting shoes."

"Emma." Wes's voice carries that particular blend of exasperation and affection that makes my writer's brain want to take notes. "Why don't you go put that kitten with the others while I show Miss Monroe to her room?" He turns those stormy blue eyes my way, and suddenly, breathing feels like an optional activity. “Unless you’d rather tour the chicken coop first?”

“Oh, no, room first. Definitely room first." I edge slightly away from the barn where said chickens are probably plotting my demise. "I should probably change into something more... chicken-appropriate before meeting any judgmental livestock."

"Smart choice," Colt says, already heading toward the house with my suitcases. "Though I notice you packed like you're moving in rather than staying for three months." He eyes my extensive luggage with brotherly amusement. "You know we do have laundry facilities, right? Even if they're not quite to Manhattan standards."

"I like having options," I defend, following them toward what looks like something straight off my book covers: a sprawling ranch house that's seen generations of cowboys come and go. Much like my impractical shoes, which are already protesting their introduction to authentic Montana dirt. "And backup options. And backup options for my backup options. Also, has anyone ever mentioned that gravel is surprisingly... gravelly?"

Emma skips ahead of us, the kitten still cradled in her arms like precious cargo. “Uncle Wes says over-planning is just another way of worrying," she announces with all the wisdom of her ten years. "Like how he checks the coffee maker three times every night, even though it hasn't broken since I was five."

"That's different," Wes mutters, and I catch the way his ears redden slightly. He takes my carry-on—the only bag Colt left for him—with the kind of casual strength that makes my romance writer heart skip beats. "Coffee's essential for ranch operations."

"Speaking of essential operations..." I stumble slightly on the porch steps, and his free hand catches my elbow with automatic grace. The contact sends electricity straight through my designer jacket. "Please tell me the rumors about your coffee-making abilities are true. Because I have a feeling I'm going to need industrial-strength caffeine to survive this ranching experience.”

Chapter Three

Wes

I’ve finally hit rock bottom.

Standing on the porch, I grip the railing worn smooth by generations of ranchers who have more sense than I do and watch as the Manhattan romance writer waltzes into my life. Her eyes take in everything—the peeling paint, the sagging boards, the dust clinging to every surface. She doesn’t say a word, but her lips press together like she’s holding back a grimace. If she has second thoughts, she doesn’t voice them. Instead, she stands at the bottom of the porch, clutching her purse like a lifeline.

"Come on up," I say, jerking my chin toward the stairs. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, but Paisley doesn’t flinch. She squares her shoulders, the strap of her oversized purse cutting into her delicate arm, and marches up the steps. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. I’ve seen bulls with less determination.

The screen door groans as I push it open. I glance back at her, half expecting her to bolt, but she steps inside. Her gaze sweeps the cabin—worn leather furniture, patched curtains, and a coffee table that’s seen more boots than coffee mugs. She doesn’t say a word, though her eyebrows twitch upward just a hair.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, holding the door open just long enough for her to step inside. She pauses in the entrywaylike she’s trying to decide if the floorboards are sturdy enough to hold her.

She finally steps in, her heels clicking softly against the wood. The sound feels foreign here, like a bird that’s landed somewhere it doesn’t belong. Her gaze lingers on the walls lined with faded photos—my parents on their wedding day, my sister and brothers as kids, Emma grinning with a missing tooth while holding a baby goat. It’s like she’s trying to piece together the story of this place, or maybe figure out how she fits into it.

“You’re braver than I thought,” I say, my tone laced with dry humor. “Most people would’ve turned around by now.”

Paisley glances at me, her lips quirking into a wry smile. “I’ve written enough romance novels to know that the hero’s house is never perfect. It builds character.”

I snort. “Builds character, huh?” I shake my head, shutting the door behind her. “Well, don’t expect any grand gestures or dramatic declarations while you’re here. We’re fresh out of fairy tales.”

Her smile widens, just enough to show she’s not intimidated. “Don’t worry. I’m more interested in authenticity than perfection.”

“Good,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall. “Because that’s all you’re gonna find here. Authenticity, dirt, and maybe a few splinters if you’re not careful.”

She lets out a soft laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this. It’s light, unguarded, and for a second, I feel the cabin shift. Not physically—Lord knows this place has stood its ground through blizzards and droughts—but something intangible changes. It’s like the air carries a little more weight, or maybe I’m just imagining things. I have been up since three a.m. this morning.

“Is my room upstairs?” she asks, looking at me like she’s sizing up the situation again. Her eyes hold a steady curiosity, not judgment.

I glance at the narrow staircase, its banister worn smooth from years of Emma’s sticky fingers and my family’s hurried steps. “Yes. It’s small, but it’s got a bed and a door that shuts. Should be all you need.”

“Small is fine.” She sets her purse on the floor by her feet, not bothering to look at the cracks in the walls or the layer of dust on the mantle. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

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