Page 60 of Lost in the Reins

"What's that?"

"That it's a terrible compass for finding your way home."

He leaves me there in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by papers and projections and all the weight of choices I'm not sure how to make. Sarah's recipe book sits open on the table, her handwriting a ghost of possibilities I'm too scared to chase.

Through the window, I watch Paisley and Emma head back to the house, their heads close together in conversation. They move like they belong here, like this is exactly where they're meant to be. And maybe that's what scares me most of all—how easy it would be to believe in the future they represent.

Even if believing means risking everything I've spent my life trying to protect.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Paisley

Fun fact: you can't actually die from anticipation. Trust me, I've done extensive research on this over the past hour while standing in Martha's back room as an army of well-meaning small-town ladies fuss over my hair and dress like I'm some kind of life-sized paper doll they've been waiting decades to style.

"Hold still," Martha commands, wielding a hairpin like a weapon. "This braid needs to last through the whole competition."

"About that…" I try to catch her eye in the mirror, but she's laser-focused on her mission. "Is this really necessary? The elaborate hair, the dress that probably cost more than my first advance?—"

"Hush." She secures another pin with military precision. "This is a Pine Ridge tradition. Every detail matters."

Right. Tradition. Like this entire evening isn't just an excuse for Martha's extremely unsubtle matchmaking schemes. The Fall Festival is in full swing outside, the sound of music and laughter drifting through the window along with the scent of pumpkin spice and Martha's infamous apple pies. The whole town's turned out, dressed in their finest western wear, ready for what Martha keeps calling "an evening of magic and romance"with the kind of emphasis that should probably be illegal in at least three states.

"There." Martha steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Perfect."

I study my reflection, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. The dress is something straight out of a romance novel—deep blue with silver accents that catch the light like stars. My hair falls in an intricate braid crowned with tiny wildflowers, and there's a softness to my expression that has nothing to do with Martha's expert makeup application.

"He won't know what hit him," Carol Sue declares from her post by the door, where she's been "standing guard" (read: making sure I don't make a break for it).

"That's assuming he shows up." The words come out sharper than intended, bitter with the memory of how carefully Wes has been avoiding me since our dance practice. Since that moment in Martha's when something almost real flickered between us before he shut down again.

"Oh, he'll show." Martha's smile could power half the county. "Jake has made sure of it."

Before I can ask exactly what that means, a commotion outside draws everyone to the window. The square dance is about to start, and couples are lining up under strings of twinkling lights that transform the town square into something magical.

"That's our cue." Martha practically vibrates with excitement. "Places, everyone!"

"Martha—" I start, but she's already shooing me toward the door.

"No more stalling." She adjusts my skirt with practiced efficiency. "Sometimes the best stories are the ones we're most afraid to write."

The words hit closer to home than she probably realizes. Because that's exactly what I've been doing these past weeks—writing the scariest, most honest story of my life. Not about perfect cowboys who do sunrise yoga, but about real men who pray in their kitchens at dawn and read bedtime stories with all the voices and love so fiercely it terrifies them.

The evening air hits me like an embrace as I step outside, carrying the scent of autumn and possibility. Lanterns sway in the breeze, casting warm light across faces I've come to know as family. Emma waves frantically from her spot beside Jake, practically bouncing with excitement. Even Bernard, who Martha somehow convinced to be part of the evening's entertainment, looks imperious in his designated "performance area."

Then I see him.

And there he is—all six feet of pure heartbreak in a black western suit that makes my chest ache with wants I'm not supposed to have. Wes stands at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back, looking like every bad decision I've been trying not to make since I first stepped onto his porch.

Then he sees me, and the world stops spinning for one endless moment.

His eyes darken as they track over me, something raw and hungry flickering in their depths. "You're making this really hard, you know that?"

"What's that?" I aim for casual, missing by about the same distance as Manhattan to Montana.

"Doing the right thing." His voice comes out rough, as if each word costs him. "Walking away."

"Then don't." I step closer, close enough to catch the familiar scent of leather and coffee that's become home. "Just... not tonight. Tonight, we can pretend there's no bank notices, no failing ranch, no morning after."

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