Chapter Sixteen – Paisley
Chapter Sixteen
Paisley
A week of awkward breakfast encounters and carefully timed chore rotations has taught me one very important thing: admitting feelings for a stoic cowboy in a barn while a goat tries to eat his shirt pocket is not, in fact, the most romantic way to start a relationship. Especially when said cowboy responds by suddenly remembering urgent fence repairs on the far side of the ranch.
"Earth to Paisley." Jake's voice breaks through my brooding as we bump along the ranch road toward town. He waves a coffee cup in front of my face like he's trying to lure a caffeine-addicted bear out of hibernation. “You okay over there?”
“I’m fi—“ I catch his knowing look and sigh. “In my defense, it's been a rough week."
The truck hits a pothole that probably has aspirations of becoming the Grand Canyon, and I grab the door handle to keep from bouncing into the ceiling. Jake navigates the familiar terrain with the same easy confidence all the Montgomerys seem to share, which is honestly just unfair. Even their bad driving looks graceful.
"So," he drawls in that way that means I'm not going to like whatever comes next, "we gonna talk about why my brother's been avoiding the house like it's got the plague?"
"No." I study the passing landscape with intense fascination. "We are absolutely not going to talk about that. We're going to talk about... hay prices. Or literally anything else."
"Uh-huh." Jake's tone could power a small city with pure skepticism. "That why you volunteered to help Martha with festival planning? To discuss hay prices?"
The truth is, I volunteered because spending the afternoon with Martha's enthusiastic matchmaking feels less terrifying than another day of careful distance and loaded silence with Wes. One week of trying to pretend I didn't basically confess my feelings while standing in a barn at dawn has taught me that I am absolutely terrible at casual indifference.
"I'm being helpful," I defend, though it sounds weak even to my ears. "Community involvement. Very authentic research material."
"Right." Jake takes a corner fast enough to make me question my life choices.
"I hate you." But there's no heat in it. The truth is, I've grown genuinely fond of all the Montgomery brothers over the past month. Even if one of them is currently driving like we're auditioning for Fast and Furious: Montana Drift .
"No, you don't." He navigates another bone-rattling section of road. "You like us. All of us. One of us in particular."
I groan, slumping in my seat. "Can we go back to talking about hay prices?"
"We could," he agrees cheerfully. "Or we could talk about how you've been wearing Wes's shirts for a month now."
"They're comfortable!" I protest, tugging at the sleeve of yet another borrowed flannel. "And practical. And... shut up."
Jake laughs—that full, warm sound that reminds me so much of his brother. "You know," he says, voice softening slightly, "I haven't seen him this tied up in knots since... well, ever. He's not great at letting people in."
"Really? I hadn't noticed, what with all the urgent fence repairs he suddenly remembered needed doing on the complete opposite side of the ranch from wherever I am."
"He'll figure it out." Jake's confidence would be comforting if I hadn't spent the last week watching Wes practically sprint in the opposite direction every time we're alone together. "He's just... processing."
"Processing." I test the word, remembering that morning in the barn—the way his hand felt on mine, how his eyes darkened when I admitted this wasn't just research anymore. How quickly he remembered very important work that needed doing somewhere else. "Is that what we're calling emotional constipation these days?"
Jake snorts coffee out his nose, which serves him right for trying to drink and drive these roads. "Look," he says once he's recovered, "Wes is... complicated."
"Like Kevin the peacock?"
"Worse." Jake's grin fades into something more serious. "He's been carrying everything since Sarah died. The ranch, Emma, all of it. He's not used to letting anyone help with that load."
I think about Wes praying in his kitchen at dawn, asking for guidance. About how he reads to Emma every night, doing all the voices even when he's exhausted. About the quiet strength it takes to keep a family legacy alive while raising your sister's daughter and somehow finding time to teach a city writer about ranch life.
"I'm not trying to carry his load," I say softly, watching the town appear on the horizon. "I just... I want to walk beside him while he carries it."
Jake reaches across the seat, squeezing my hand. "He'll figure it out. And if he doesn't, well..." His grin turns wicked. "There's always the Fall Festival. Nothing says 'stop being an emotionally constipated idiot' like a public square dance."
I groan, already dreading what Martha has planned. "You're all terrible people."
"Yep." He pops the P with obvious satisfaction. "Welcome to the family."
Fifteen minutes later, Martha bursts out of her shop like she's been spring-loaded, practically vibrating with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to check for escape routes. The woman's been not-so-subtly plotting my romantic destiny since that first coffee encounter, and now I've basically gift-wrapped her an opportunity by volunteering for festival planning.
"Paisley!" She engulfs me in a hug that smells like cinnamon and barely restrained matchmaking schemes. "And Jake! What a wonderful surprise. Though..." She pulls back, scanning the parking lot with the tactical precision of a wedding planner on a mission. "I could have sworn Wes mentioned he was coming to town today.”
Jake, the traitor, just grins. "Did he now? Must have slipped his mind. You know how he gets all wrapped up in his... duties.”
I shoot him a look that would wither less resilient men, but he just winks and slides back into the truck. "Have fun planning, city girl. Try not to let Martha talk you into anything too sparkly for the square dance."
"I hate you," I mouth as he starts the engine.
"Love you, too!" he calls out the window, pulling away with a cheerfulness that definitely means I'm in trouble. "Remember, sometimes the best romance scenes involve public humiliation!"
Martha's eyes light up like Christmas came early. "Speaking of romantic scenes..." She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the shop with the kind of determined grace that makes resistance futile. "Wait until you see what I have planned for the couples' competition."
"Couples' competition?" My voice definitely doesn't squeak. Much. "Martha, I don't think?—"
"Of course, you'll need a partner." She bustles me through the door, where approximately seventeen different Pinterest boards worth of fall décor mock me from every surface. "Someone tall, perhaps. Good with horses. Maybe even loves children.”
I groan, letting my head thunk against the nearest pumpkin-spice-scented display.
"Now, I was thinking," Martha continues, seemingly oblivious to my slow descent into festival-induced madness, "the couples' competition could start with a three-legged race—very symbolic of partnership, don't you think?—and then move into a pie-eating contest. Of course, some couples might need a little nudge to participate," she adds with the kind of pointed look that could pierce armor.
I lift my head from the pumpkin display, suddenly suspicious. "Martha. What exactly does this competition involve?"
Her innocent expression could give Emma's I didn't feed the cats extra treats face a run for its money. "Oh, just some traditional festival games. Square dancing, of course. Maybe a little roping demonstration. And the grand finale..." She pauses for dramatic effect, which is never a good sign. "A kiss under the harvest moon!"
"Absolutely not." I straighten up so fast I knock over a decorative gourd. "No way. Not happening."
"But think of the romance!” She actually clasps her hands together like some kind of small-town fairy godmother. "What better research for your next book than participating in small-town traditions?"
"Pretty sure forced public displays of affection won’t help me become a better writer.” I rescue the gourd before it can roll into what appears to be an entire forest worth of artificial fall foliage. "Besides, Wes would never?—"
"Who said anything about Wes?" But her eyes practically twinkle with mischief. "Though now that you mention it, he is quite good at roping. Very... capable hands."
Lord, help me.
"Martha." I try for stern but land somewhere between desperate and hysterical. "We are not going to engineer some Hallmark movie moment for this festival.”
"Of course not, dear." She pats my arm consolingly while simultaneously steering me toward a table laden with event planning binders. "We're going to engineer several Hallmark movie moments. I've been planning this festival for thirty years—I know what I'm doing."
"That's what I'm afraid of." I sink into a chair, surrounded by more Pinterest-worthy autumn décor than a craft store explosion. "I do have to point out that your chosen target is currently avoiding me like I’m carrying some exotic disease that specifically targets emotionally unavailable cowboys.”
Martha’s laugh could probably be heard in the next county. “Oh, honey. That man's not avoiding you because he doesn't care. He's avoiding you because he cares too much." She starts pulling out color swatches that all look suspiciously like variations on romantic sunset hues.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” She holds up two nearly identical shades of burgundy. "Now, which do you think says 'fall in love under harvest moonlight' better?"
I drop my head into my hands, wondering if it's too late to go back to Manhattan where the most complicated relationship in my life was with my coffee delivery app. "You're going to do this whether I cooperate or not, aren't you?"
"Absolutely." Her satisfaction is practically radioactive. "Now, about your square-dancing outfit..."