Chapter Eleven – Paisley
Chapter Eleven
Paisley
" I can't do this." I take another step back, bumping into the fence rail. "I'll just observe. Take notes. Write about it from a safe, ground-level perspective."
"Scared?" Wes's voice carries that hint of challenge I'm learning to recognize, the one that makes me want to simultaneously prove him wrong and hide in the barn with Kevin the peacock. He's leaning against the fence, morning sun catching the stubble on his jaw, looking unfairly attractive for someone who's about to witness my imminent humiliation.
"Terrified, actually." I watch Athena watching me, pretty sure she's plotting my demise. "You know, in my last book, I wrote an entire scene about a sunset trail ride without mentioning how absolutely massive horses are in real life. My heroine just 'gracefully mounted her trusty steed.’” I wave my hand between us and the mountain of animal. “I had no idea there'd be so much... horse."
"Imagine that." His lips twitch. "A horse being horse sized."
"Mock all you want, cowboy." I cross my arms, trying to channel confidence I definitely don't feel. "But I've seen what these majestic creatures can do. Emma showed me all her barrel racing videos. I'm pretty sure attempting to ride would violate several clauses of my life insurance policy."
"Athena's gentler than Bernard." Wes pushes off from the fence, moving toward me with a fluid grace that still makes my heart do inconvenient things. "Though, if you prefer, we could start you off with something smaller. Maybe a pony? Or one of those coin-operated rides outside the grocery store?"
The teasing glint in his eyes is ridiculously cute. "Very funny. I'll have you know I was champion of the grocery store pony circuit, thank you very much."
"Explains a lot." Wes moves closer, leading Athena with the kind of easy confidence I've been trying to capture in my books for years. "But I hate to break it to you—real horses require slightly more skill than dropping a quarter into a slot."
"Really? Because I've got a whole collection of quarters in my purse. We could just—" I break off as Athena nudges my shoulder with her nose, sending me stumbling backward. His hands catch my elbows, pulling me close and steadying me with a grip that's both gentle and firm.
"You good?" His voice rumbles through me, and suddenly, I'm very aware of how close we're standing. Close enough to catch that mix of coffee and leather and something uniquely him that's becoming dangerously familiar.
"Define 'good.'" I step back, trying to get my heart rate under control. Whether it's racing from the horse’s proximity or Wes’s proximity is anyone's guess. "Because if by 'good' you mean 'absolutely terrified but trying really hard to hide it,' then yes. I'm fantastic."
His expression softens, just a fraction. "You trusted me when we were repairing the fence together.”
"That was different." I eye Athena, who's watching our exchange with regal patience. "Fences don't have opinions. Or teeth. Or the ability to remember that time I wrote about a cowboy doing downward dog on horseback."
"You really wrote that?" The corners of his mouth twitch again. "No wonder your reviews are struggling."
"Hey!" I poke his chest, momentarily forgetting my fear in favor of defending my creative choices. "That scene got me an Agatha nomination, I'll have you know. The judges called it 'uniquely imaginative.'"
"Is that what they called it?" He catches my hand before I can poke him again, his callused fingers wrapping around mine with a casual intimacy. "Look, you want authenticity? This is it. You can't write about ranch life if you never get on a horse."
"Watch me." But even as I say it, I know he's right. I've been at Whispering Pines for almost two weeks, learning everything from fence repair to goose etiquette. I've faced down Bernard, survived Kevin's dramatic performances, and only fallen in manure once. Okay, twice, if you count yesterday’s incident with the wheelbarrow, which I don’t because technically, that was Jake's fault.
"Paisley." The way Wes says my name, soft but firm, is swoon-worthy. It’s like he can see right through my deflections. "Do you trust me?"
And that's the real issue, isn't it? Not just trusting the horse, but trusting him. Trusting myself. Trusting that maybe, I'm capable of more than writing sanitized versions of ranch life from the safety of my Manhattan apartment.
"Fine." I square my shoulders, channeling every brave heroine I've ever written. "But if I die, I'm haunting you first. And then my agent. Actually, no—agent first, then you. She's the one who sent me here."
"Noted." He guides me toward Athena's side, his hand warm against the small of my back. "Though if you're taking requests, could you maybe haunt Jake instead? He still owes me twenty bucks from last month's poker night."
The laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, easing some of the tension in my chest. "Deal. But only if you promise not to let Athena throw me into next Tuesday."
"She hasn't thrown anyone since last Wednesday." His deadpan delivery makes me whip my head around, only to catch that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. "Kidding. Come on, city girl. Time to earn those cowboy romance credentials."
"Okay, just like we practiced. Left foot in the stirrup, grab the horn and back of the saddle, then push up and swing your right leg over." Wes demonstrates the motion, his hands positioned to spot me. "I won't let you fall."
I take a deep breath, eyeing the stirrup like it personally offended me. "You know, in my books, the heroine always mounts in one fluid motion. Very graceful. Very romantic. No mention of the fact that this stirrup is approximately six feet off the ground."
"Less talking, more mounting." But his voice holds that gentle amusement I'm starting to crave. "Unless you'd prefer I toss you up there?"
"Don't you dare." I grip the saddle, remembering yesterday's ground lesson. My fingers find the familiar spots—horn, cantle, just like he taught me. "However, I have to admit, that might make a good scene. Very romantic, the whole sweep-her-off-her-feet thing."
"Reality's better." His hands hover near my waist, ready to assist. "Trust your instincts."
Right. Instincts. Because those have worked out so well for me lately. Still, I manage to get my foot in the stirrup without tangling myself up completely. Small victories. The leather creaks as I grip the saddle, and I'm suddenly very aware of Wes standing close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
"Now push up and?—"
"If you say 'swing your leg over' one more time, I might have to kill you." But I'm already moving, using muscles I definitely didn't know I had two weeks ago. For one terrifying moment, I'm suspended between earth and sky, totally dependent on my own strength and Wes's steady hands.
Then somehow, miraculously, I'm sitting in the saddle. Actually sitting on a real, live horse. The view from up here is both exhilarating and terrifying, like being on top of a very temperamental mountain.
"I did it!" The triumph in my voice makes me sound like Emma when she masters a new trick with the cats. "I'm actually on a horse! A real horse! And I didn't even fall or kick anyone in the face or—" I look down at Wes, who's watching me with an expression that makes my heart stumble. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" But his eyes are soft, holding something that feels dangerous this early in the morning.
"Like..." I wave my hand vaguely, then quickly grab the saddle horn when Athena shifts beneath me. "Like I just did something amazing instead of just basic horse-mounting that every ten-year-old in Montana can probably do in their sleep."
"Maybe because you did”—he adjusts my right stirrup with careful movements—“do something amazing. Two weeks ago, you were writing about horseback yoga. Now you're actually riding."
"I wouldn't call this riding yet." I try to remember everything he taught me about posture, about feeling the horse's movement. "More like perching precariously and praying."
His hand settles on my knee, adjusting my position. The contact sends warmth shooting through my jeans. "Relax your hips," he instructs, voice lower than strictly necessary for a riding lesson. "Move with her. Don't fight it."
"‘Relax,’ he says." I try to loosen my death grip on the saddle horn. "While sitting on top of a living, breathing mountain. Totally reasonable request."
But I attempt to follow his instructions, letting my body settle into the rhythm of Athena's breathing. It's strange how alive everything feels up here—the subtle shift of muscle beneath the saddle, the morning breeze playing with loose strands of my hair, the warmth of Wes's hand still resting on my knee.
"Better." His approval shouldn't make my stomach flutter, but it does. "Now, gentle pressure with your legs—not too much, just enough to let her know you're there."
I comply, and Athena takes a step forward that feels like an earthquake. "Oh!" The sound escapes before I can catch it, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. Not exactly the confident cowgirl image I was going for. "That's... different."
"Different good or different bad?" Wes moves with us, one hand on Athena's bridle, the other still steadying my leg. The morning sun catches his eyes, turning them an impossible shade of blue that I've definitely overused in my novels. Though now I'm thinking maybe I haven't described it enough.
"Different..." I search for the right words. "Different real. Like the difference between writing about swimming and actually being in the water." Another step, another small adjustment of my balance. "In my books, the heroine always knows exactly what to do. Very intuitive, very natural. I never wrote about how it feels to trust something this powerful. To just... let go and believe you won't fall."
His fingers tighten slightly on my knee. "You won't fall." The quiet certainty in his voice makes me look down at him, catching something in his expression that has nothing to do with riding lessons. "I've got you."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I murmur, the words slipping out before I can catch them. Because he does have me—not just physically steadying me on this horse, but working his way past all my carefully constructed walls with his quiet strength and hidden smiles.
"Afraid of falling or afraid of trusting?" His question hits too close to home, making me wonder if we're still talking about horseback riding.
"Both?" I attempt a shaky laugh. "At least with actual falling, I know what to expect. Road rash, bruised ego, possibly a broken bone or two. The other kind of falling..." I trail off, suddenly very aware of how personal this conversation has become. "Let's just say it's not as easy to write about now that I know what it actually feels like."
A comfortable silence falls between us as Athena takes another careful step. Wes guides us in a slow circle, his boots leaving precise prints in the arena dirt. I'm starting to understand why my heroines always fall for the quiet cowboys. There's something about his steady presence that makes me feel both completely safe and utterly terrified.
"You're thinking too hard again." His voice breaks through my reverie. "I can practically hear you writing this scene in your head."
"Occupational hazard." I adjust my seat as Athena turns, proud that I only grab the saddle horn a little bit. "I have to admit, this is nothing like what I imagined. In my books, the heroine's first ride is always this magical moment where she instantly bonds with the horse and gallops off into the sunset."
"Instead of clutching the saddle horn and overthinking?" The amusement in his voice makes me want to kick him, but that would require letting go of my death grip on the saddle, so I settle for a glare.
"I'm not overthinking. I'm... analyzing. Processing. Trying to figure out how I got everything so wrong in my books."
"Not everything." He guides us toward the center of the arena, his stride matching Athena's pace perfectly. "Just the details."
"Like what?" The morning sun is starting to warm my back, and I'm slowly—very slowly—beginning to relax into the rhythm of Athena's movement.
"Like how it feels." His hand shifts on my leg, adjusting my position again. "The trust. The connection. The way you have to let go of control to find your balance." His eyes meet mine. "That part you got right."
"Yeah?" Something warm unfurls in my chest, and this time, it has nothing to do with fear. “You think so?”
I manage a real smile, feeling braver by the minute.
“I think if you were willing to face your fears and come all the way here to learn how to be a better writer, you must really care about your craft.” A flush creeps up his neck.
“That doesn’t mean I’m a great writer, though.”
He grimaces. “Maybe I read a paragraph or two of one of your books.”
“No way!” My excited gesture makes Athena snort, and I quickly return my hand to the saddle. "Wait until I tell your brothers their stoic older brother reads romance novels."
"Tell them and I'll let go of this bridle."
"You wouldn't dare." But we both know he would never. That's the thing about Wes Montgomery—for all his gruff exterior, he's possibly the most trustworthy person I've ever met. Which makes him infinitely more addictive than any fictional cowboy I've ever written.
"Try me." His smile—the rare, full one that transforms his whole face—makes my heart do something complicated in my chest. "Though I have to warn you, Athena takes criticism of her rider very personally. Almost as personally as Bernard takes disrespect."
"Is every animal on this ranch dramatic, or just the ones I interact with?"
"Must be something about you." His voice carries a warmth that has nothing to do with the rising sun. "Bringing out the character in everything you touch."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine too closely. Instead, I focus on the steady rhythm beneath me, the way my body is starting to understand this dance of balance and trust. "So," I say, aiming for lightness, "when do I get to try that sunset gallop my heroines are so fond of?"
His laugh—deep and real—echoes across the arena. "Let's start with walking without strangling my saddle horn. Then maybe, if you're lucky, I'll teach you how to trot without falling off."
"How romantic." But I'm laughing, too, letting go of some of the tension I've been holding. "I suppose this is more authentic than my usual scenes."
"Reality usually is." He steps closer, adjusting my reins with careful movements. "Even if it takes longer to get to that sunset ride."