Chapter Three – Wes
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 entryway like 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.”
I grunt in response, not trusting myself to say anything more. It’s not like I had much of a choice. When I’d agreed to this arrangement, it had felt like nothing more than a desperate solution to an even more desperate problem.
Now, with her standing here in the middle of my family’s cabin, it feels a whole lot more personal than it did over the phone. I shift my weight, the wood floor creaking under my boots. She doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, she looks calm—too calm, like she’s already figured out how to handle whatever mess she’s walked into.
Before I can dwell on it, there’s a loud clatter from upstairs, followed by Emma’s unmistakable voice calling out, “Uncle Wes! The cat knocked over the lamp, but it’s not broken! Mostly!”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Mostly,” I mutter under my breath. “Excuse me for a minute.”
I head for the stairs, but before I can make it halfway, Emma appears at the top, clutching a slightly bent lampshade. Her face lights up when she spots Paisley. “Do you write books about cats? Because our cat is kind of a menace, but he’s also really cute, so maybe he could be in a book.”
Paisley laughs. “I’ve never written about cats, but I’m all about switching things up at the moment. What’s his name?”
Emma holds up the lampshade like it’s a trophy. “His name’s Trouble.”
“Trouble,” Paisley repeats, a smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds very fitting.”
I can tell Paisley is already charmed by my niece’s wild antics. Figures. Emma’s got a way of winning people over, even when she’s hauling around a bent lampshade and a kitten that’s caused more trouble in two days than I care to recount.
“Trouble is my mom’s cat.”
Her comment gives me pause. “He’s not her cat,” I correct, my voice gruff. “Your mom didn’t even know him.”
Emma frowns, defiant. “She would’ve liked him, though. Mom always said cats are smart. They can tell when you’re sad. Trouble’s smart like that. He sleeps on my bed when I miss her.”
The knot in my chest tightens, the one that always shows up when she talks about her mom like this. I rub the back of my neck, avoiding Paisley’s gaze as she stands silently a few steps behind me, like she’s stepped into a family scene she’s got no right to witness.
“Well,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be, “if Trouble’s so smart, maybe he’ll figure out how to stay out of my way in the morning. I’m tired of stepping on his tail.”
Emma doesn’t take the bait. She just hugs the kitten tighter and steps back into her room, muttering something to Trouble about how “some people just don’t get it.”
I glance over my shoulder at Paisley, half expecting her to make some comment, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, watching Emma’s door close with a look I can’t quite place.
“Let’s get you to your room,” I say, jerking my chin toward the hall. “Before the cat tears up something else.”
She doesn’t move right away, still looking at the spot where Emma stood. “She’s got a good heart.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, already heading toward the guest room. “She gets that from her mom.”
Paisley follows me without another word, her heels clicking softly on the wood. When we reach the end of the hall, I push the door open and step aside. “Here. Bed, dresser, door that shuts. Hope you didn’t expect anything fancy.”
She steps inside, her gaze sweeping the room, but her expression stays neutral. “It’ll do.”
Colt appears in the doorway, clearing his throat. "I've got to head out. Those fence posts in the north pasture won't fix themselves." He looks at Paisley, his expression softening. "Welcome to Whispering Pines. Don't let my brother scare you off."
"Not likely," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me want to argue, even though she hasn't really said anything worth arguing about.
I wait until Colt's boots have retreated down the stairs before speaking. "Breakfast is at five." When she blanches, I almost smile. Almost. "Five-thirty if you're running late. Coffee's ready by four-thirty."
"Four-thirty?" She looks like I've just suggested she wrestle a grizzly. "In the morning?"
"Ranch doesn't run itself." I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "And since you're here to learn about authentic ranch life..."
"Right." She nods, squaring her shoulders like she's preparing for battle. "Authentic. That means early mornings and..." She glances down at her outfit. "Probably not these shoes."
"Probably not," I agree. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of Emma talking to that darn cat. Finally, I push off the doorframe. "I'll let you get settled."
"Wait." Her voice stops me halfway through turning. "About Emma... I'm sorry if I overstepped. With the cat thing."
I study her for a long moment. There's genuine concern in her expression, not just the polite kind city folks usually offer. "You didn't," I say finally. "Emma's got her own way of... processing things. The cats help, I guess."
She nods, like this makes perfect sense. "Sometimes it's easier to talk to animals than people. They don't try to fix everything."
The truth in her words hits too close to home. Makes me think of all the times I've tried to fix things for Emma, only to realize some things can't be fixed. Can't bring her mother back. Can't make the hurt go away. Can't even keep this ranch running the way it should.
"Get some rest," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Tomorrow starts early." I step into the hallway. "Bathroom's across the way if you need it. Hot water's temperamental in the morning, so you might want to shower at night."
"Noted." There's a smile in her voice now. "Any other survival tips?"
"Yeah." I glance back at her. "Lock your door at night. Otherwise, you might wake up with an entire cat colony in your bed."
That gets a real laugh out of her, light and unexpected. "I'll keep that in mind."
I head downstairs, my boots heavy on the old wood. Through the window, I can see Colt loading the last of the fence posts into his truck, and beyond him, the endless stretch of land that's been in our family for generations. Land that might not stay in our family if this crazy plan doesn't work out.
The distant sound of Emma's voice drifts down from upstairs, talking to those cats of hers in that serious tone she gets sometimes. Just like Sarah used to do—explaining everything to whoever would listen, even if it was just the barn cats. The similarity makes my chest tight.
I grab my hat from the hook by the door. Standing around thinking about the past won't get the work done, and there's always work to be done. The evening feed won't handle itself, and those fence posts Colt's hauling need to be set before dark.
But as I reach for the door handle, Emma's voice carries down again, this time accompanied by Paisley's lighter tones. Something about proper names for cats and why Trouble needs a more dignified title. The sound stops me for a moment; it's been a while since I've heard Emma laugh like that, free and easy.
Maybe that's why I agreed to this whole writer-in-residence thing. Not just for the money, though God knows we need it, but because Emma needs... something. Something I can't give her, buried as I am under the weight of keeping this place afloat.
The screen door creaks as I push it open, reminding me to add another item to my endless repair list. Outside, the late afternoon sun paints everything in that golden Montana light that makes even the rundown parts of the ranch look almost majestic. Almost.
"You're thinking too hard again." Colt's voice carries from his truck. He's leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, wearing that knowing look that makes me want to throw a fence post at him.
"Someone's got to do the thinking around here," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
He grins, pushing off the truck. "True. But maybe having a fresh perspective around here isn't the worst thing that could happen."
I shoot him a look. "You going to help set those posts, or just stand there philosophizing all evening?"
"Can't I do both?" He climbs into the cab and turns the ignition, the engine starting with a familiar rumble, and grins. "Besides, having a writer around might be exactly what this place needs. Who knows? Maybe she'll be the one to save Whispering Pines."
"Just drive," I tell him, but his words settle in my gut like a stone. Because if we can't turn things around soon, there won't be much left of Whispering Pines to save.
Though, I'm pretty sure a romance writer with designer luggage isn't going to be our salvation.
But then again, I've been wrong before. Once or twice.