Page 42 of Lost in the Reins

I guide Thunder back into formation, the weight of their words settling into the pit of my stomach. The truth’s a heavy thing, like wet earth clinging to boots. I don’t like it, but it’s not going anywhere.

"Paisley’s not like Jenny Collins," Colt adds, his voice steady. "She’s not here for a show or a paycheck. She’s here because she cares. And if you don’t figure out how to stop being a coward about it, you’re going to lose her."

I keep my eyes on the herd, the rhythm of the cattle’s movement grounding me. "The ranch needs me focused."

"The ranch needs a future," Jake fires back. "And maybe that future looks a whole lot brighter with her in it."

We ride in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of frost and the low murmurs of the herd. When the sun starts toclimb higher, I glance over at Colt, who’s watching me with a look that says he’s got more to say but knows when to hold his tongue.

"About that festival," he starts, his voice casual.

"Don’t push your luck," I mutter, but the decision’s already settling deep in my chest like roots finding soil. Some things are worth the risk.

Even if it means showing up at a festival I never wanted to be part of in the first place.

Chapter Nineteen

Paisley

I've been hiding in Martha's for the better part of an hour, pretending to work on festival planning while actually wallowing in my own personal soap opera. Like some kind of caffeine-addicted Greek chorus, I keep stirring my now-cold coffee, as if the answers to dealing with emotionally constipated cowboys might materialize in the murky depths. Spoiler alert: they don't.

"More coffee, hon?" Martha materializes at my elbow with a fresh pot and a knowing look that makes me want to crawl under the table and possibly never emerge. She's got that small-town oracle energy going strong today.

"No, thanks." I push my cup away with the kind of determination usually reserved for avoiding ex-boyfriends at Whole Foods. "I think I've reached my caffeine limit for one day."

She tsks, refilling it anyway because apparently, 'no' is just a suggestion in Martha's universe. "Nonsense. Besides, you might need a reason to stay, considering what's coming through that door."

Before I can ask what she's orchestrating, the bell chimes, and there he is—Wes Montgomery in all his brooding glory,looking like he's stepped straight out of one of my novels. Except my fictional cowboys never made my heart do this stuttering dance in my chest, like it's trying to learn a new rhythm and failing spectacularly.

He scans the diner, his eyes finding mine with an unerring precision that makes me wonder if he's got some kind of romance-novel-heroine GPS installed in that stubborn head of his. The afternoon light catches his profile, highlighting the stubble along his jaw that I definitely haven't been thinking about touching. Much. Okay, maybe a little. Or a lot. Whatever.

"You hungry?"

Two words. Just two simple words, delivered in that gravelly voice that somehow manages to sound both casual and loaded with enough meaning to fill a Russian novel.

"Starving, actually." I gesture to the empty seat across from me, going for nonchalant but probably landing somewhere between desperate and deranged.

A muscle ticks in his jaw—his tell when he's fighting some internal battle—but he sits down anyway. Martha materializes with menus and enough enthusiasm to power a small city during a blackout.

"The usual?" Martha asks, though she's already writing it down like the outcome is as predictable as Bernard's morning tantrums.

Wes nods, because of course, he does. He probably hasn't changed his order since high school. The man's so set in his ways, he makes geological formations look impulsive.

"Same," I say, because apparently, my brain short-circuits whenever he’s within a ten-foot radius. Stellar work, Monroe. Really showing off that fancy Manhattan education.

The silence stretches between us like taffy, sweet and sticky and impossible to break cleanly. I stir my coffee again, watchingthe cream create abstract patterns that look suspiciously like my career trajectory—spiraling with artistic flair.

Wes leans back in the booth, stretching his arm along the back of the seat like he isn't the one who stormed in here with a look that could curdle fresh milk. He lets out a slow breath, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in a rhythm that makes my nerves hum like live wires.

"You shouldn't go out with Luke." His voice is low, gruff, like he's forcing the words through a cheese grater.

I blink, my spoon clinking against the ceramic as I set it down. "Excuse me?" The words come out sharp enough to slice bread.

His gaze flicks to mine, steady but as unreadable as a poker champion's tell. "Luke. The guy who asked you to coffee earlier. He's not right for you."

A slow burn creeps up my spine, equal parts confusion and irritation. "And you've come to this conclusion how, exactly? By scowling at him from across the festival grounds? Did you perhaps consult your magical cowboy crystal ball?"

Wes exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand over his jaw in a way that makes my stomach do unauthorized gymnastics. "I know his type."

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