Chapter Seventeen – Paisley
Chapter Seventeen
Paisley
I glare at my phone, rereading Martha’s seventh text about festival preparations and seriously considering faking my own death—if only to avoid figuring out how to get to town without asking Wes for a ride. The coffee he left brewing is the only evidence he’d even existed in this kitchen today. Well, that and the lingering scent of leather and soap, which has the infuriating ability to make an empty room feel like him.
Emma is at Sarah Beth’s for a sleepover, leaving me with no convenient excuse to casually hitch a ride. Not that it matters—Wes vanished at dawn, like some kind of brooding cowboy cryptid. Again.
The kitchen feels too quiet without Emma’s morning chatter or Jake’s terrible jokes. Even Bernard’s imperial honking seems subdued, like the whole ranch is conspiring to give me space to think. Unfortunately, thinking is the last thing I want to be doing.
The screen door creaks—that specific creak I’ve learned means someone tall is trying to open it quietly. My heart does an entirely unauthorized flutter before I remember Wes is supposedly on the far side of the property, avoiding me with Olympic-level dedication.
"Please tell me there’s coffee left."
Colt’s already at the counter, reaching for a mug.
"Jake drank half the pot before heading out to check fences, and Wes?—"
He glances up, takes one look at me, and smirks. "Lemme guess. Pulled his signature disappearing act?"
I wave a hand vaguely. "Oh, you know. Classic Wes. Rides in, brews coffee, leaves no trace but the distinct scent of avoidance and mild disapproval."
Colt snorts as he pours his coffee. "Sounds about right." He takes a sip, then gives me a look that is entirely too amused. "You sure you don’t wanna start strategically leaving a trail of breadcrumbs? Maybe some cattle feed? See if we can lure him into a conversation?"
I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. "Oh, no, I’d hate that. Imagine if we had to make direct eye contact. The horror."
Colt grins, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah, that man’s got a talent for avoidance. But I gotta say, watching him pretend he’s not completely tangled up over you is some of the best entertainment this ranch has seen in years.”
I nearly drop the cream pitcher. "I’m sorry—what now?"
"You heard me." Colt leans against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. "The man is a walking disaster every time you're around. It’s like watching a deer try to look casual in traffic."
"Oh, sure," I say, rolling my eyes. "Is that what we’re calling bolting like I’ve got an infectious disease these days?"
Colt shrugs, far too relaxed for a man who is dismantling my reality. "That’s what I call Wes Montgomery realizing he’s not in control of something for the first time in his life. And is handling it terribly."
My phone buzzes again—Martha—because she clearly doesn’t understand that I am in the middle of an existential crisis. I sigh, glancing at the screen, then back at Colt. "Any chance you’re heading into town? Martha’s threatening to send a search party if I don’t show up to help with decorations."
His grin is pure Montgomery mischief. "Need a ride that doesn’t involve awkward silence and brooding stares?"
"More like need a ride that doesn’t involve explaining to Martha why her favorite emotionally constipated cowboy has decided I’m an airborne toxin."
"Well, then." He drains his cup and stands, keys already jingling in his pocket. "Let’s go see what fresh chaos Martha’s brewing up for this festival. Fair warning: the whole committee’s probably assembled by now, and they’ve all got opinions about everything. Including my brother’s romantic prospects."
I groan but grab my jacket—his jacket, really, since I seemed to be collecting Montgomery hand-me-downs like a weirdly sentimental raccoon.
As we step outside, the crisp morning air bites at my cheeks, and I pull the borrowed jacket tighter around me. Colt tosses me a knowing glance as he jingles his keys.
"You know," he says, smirking as we head for his truck, "you could always take the direct approach with Wes. Just corner him. Force a conversation. Maybe even—heaven forbid—flirt a little."
I scoff. "I think I'd have better luck taming a feral mustang with a pool noodle."
Colt just laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah, well… might be worth seeing who breaks first."
As I climb into the passenger seat, I tell myself I’m not interested in that particular experiment. But the tiny, traitorous part of me—the one that notices every glance, every hesitation, every lingering trace of leather and soap—isn’t so sure.
By nine a.m., the town square looks like Pinterest has exploded, having been doused in pumpkin spice and sprinkled with small-town enthusiasm. Everywhere I turn, people are hanging decorations, setting up booths, and generally transforming Pine Ridge into something straight out of a Hallmark movie—if Hallmark movies featured Martha running the show like a general with a clipboard instead of a rifle.
"Paisley!" She spots me like a heat-seeking missile and waves me over to a group of women currently engaged in what looks like a battle to the death with a tangled mess of fairy lights. "Come meet everyone!"
What follows is twenty dizzying minutes of introductions, each name attached to a story that predates indoor plumbing. Betty Ann apparently delivered half the town—including all three Montgomery brothers. Carol Sue taught kindergarten to “everyone worth knowing” for three decades. Rachel’s grandmother started the Fall Festival back when Pine Ridge was more dirt road than town square.
They are warm, welcoming, and armed with the kind of deep-rooted history that makes me feel both included and completely out of place. These women have known each other forever, speaking in shorthand, their laughter laced with memories that span generations—births, weddings, funerals, and everything in between.
"Your books are just delightful," Carol Sue says, handing over a strand of lights. "Though I have to say, ranch life here is a bit different."
"So I’m learning." I accept the ladder Rachel offers. "But honestly, the reality is turning out to be way more entertaining than the fiction."
Betty Ann’s wink could power the entire town. "Especially certain parts of reality?"
I go for an Oscar-worthy display of innocence. "No idea what you’re talking about."
Their collective laughter could probably be heard from the next county.
"Oh, honey." Carol Sue pats my arm. "That boy’s been different since you showed up. Reminds me of when he was in my class—always so serious, except when Sarah could get him to laugh."
"You should’ve seen him in high school," Rachel says, fingers working through a particularly stubborn knot of lights. "Captain of the rodeo team, straight As, and still found time to help on the ranch. Girls were practically lining up to catch his eye."
Betty Ann snorts. "Not that he noticed. Too busy being responsible. That boy came out of the womb already worried about cattle prices."
"Though he did try to impress Jenny Martinez with his cooking once," Carol Sue muses.
I brighten. "Oh, the smoke alarm incident?"
Betty Ann cackles. "Set off every alarm in the school trying to make her a birthday cake. Poor thing was so mortified, he wouldn’t look at an oven for months. Sarah had to teach him how to cook just so he wouldn’t starve."
"From what I hear," Rachel says, gaze far too knowing, "his grilled cheese has improved considerably."
I focus very hard on untangling lights. "He’s a good teacher. Patient. Even when I’m absolutely terrible at anything ranch-related."
Carol Sue’s smile softens. "Honey, that man’s never been patient with anyone but Emma. Until you."
Before I could even begin to unpack that particular statement, Martha’s voice cuts through the morning like a church bell.
"Paisley! Can you help me with these banners? My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I need someone with artistic sense to make sure they’re straight!"
Betty Ann shoos me away with a grandmotherly grin. "Go on. We’ve probably embarrassed the poor man enough for one morning, even if he’s not here to turn that adorable shade of red."
I make my way toward Martha, where she is locked in a losing battle with what appears to be enough fabric to mummify the entire town square. The morning sun has warmed the air just enough to make my borrowed flannel cozy, and the scent of pumpkin spice drifts from the diner’s open door.
That’s when I notice him—tall, broad-shouldered, and definitely not from Pine Ridge, judging by the way his boots are just a little too clean and his smile a little too practiced. He’s been helping set up the dance floor, but now he is making a beeline for me with an expression that suggests he has intentions.
And not the fun kind.
The stranger closes the distance with the kind of easy swagger that suggests he either sells used cars or has a side hustle as a cowboy-themed perfume model. I can practically hear a slow country song playing in the background as he tips his too-clean hat and flashes a practiced smile.
"Well, hey there." He leans against the banner Martha and I just wrestled into place. "I don’t think we’ve met."
I resist the urge to take a step back. Not because he is creepy—more because I have zero interest in playing Flirt with the New Guy when my brain is already a tangled mess of Why Is Wes Avoiding Me and How Many Times Can a Man Mysteriously Disappear Before It’s Considered a Superpower?
"Probably because we haven’t." I offer a polite, if not entirely enthusiastic, smile. "I’m Paisley."
"Paisley," he repeats like he is tasting it. "Pretty name for a pretty lady."
Oh, boy. We’ve got a live one.
I keep my smile locked in place, but Martha, standing a few feet away, has already abandoned all pretense of minding her own business and is watching us like this is the best thing to happen since Pine Ridge got a second gas station.
"Luke." He sticks out a hand. "Just moved here. Thought I’d lend a hand at the festival, get to know some folks."
"Welcome to town.” I shake his hand quickly before letting go. "Fair warning: if you’re standing still for too long, Martha will put you to work."
Martha grins. "Don’t listen to her. She’s the one who needs something to do. You free for coffee, Luke?"
I shoot her a what the heck, Martha?! look, but Luke takes that as his cue. "Actually, I was just about to ask the same thing. Would you like to grab a cup with me?"
And there it is. The moment when my brain short-circuits. Because technically, I’m not with Wes. Technically, he’s gone all emotionally distant since I’ve admitted feelings, and I have no claim to him, no reason to say no to a very nice, very attractive man who is, in theory, exactly the type of guy I should be dating.
But my heart doesn’t care about technicalities. It is still firmly lassoed around a certain brooding cowboy who smells like leather and soap and makes my stomach do ridiculous things whenever he so much as looks at me.
Panic starts to rise in my chest. I open my mouth, fully prepared to deliver some kind of polite brush-off, but before I can make a sound?—
"She’s busy."
The deep, gravelly voice sends a full-body shiver down my spine.
I turn just in time to see Wes Montgomery—backlit by the morning sun like some sort of cowboy avenger—stalking toward us with his usual unreadable expression.
Luke blinks. "Oh?"
"Yeah." Wes sounds perfectly casual, like he didn’t just materialize out of thin air to ruin this guy’s day. "She’s got plans."
I stare at him. I do?
Luke glances between us, debating whether to challenge the brick wall of testosterone that had just inserted itself into the conversation. He must decide against it because he holds up his hands in surrender. "Didn’t mean to step on any toes."
"You didn’t," Wes says, which is a hilarious lie, considering his entire body language screams back off, buddy .
Luke turns to me. "Maybe another time?"
I offer a noncommittal smile, mostly because Wes is still standing there like a human roadblock, and I’m not entirely sure what is happening. "Maybe."
Luke nods, tips his hat, and walks off toward the dance floor setup.
Wes crosses his arms. "So."
"So," I echo, waiting for an explanation that never comes.
"My plans, huh?"
"Figured you didn’t want to deal with that."
"And you know what I want now?"
His eyes finally meet mine, something raw flickering there. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
"Seemed like a safe bet."
I let out a slow breath. "Wes?—"
"Paisley!" Martha call. "I still need help with these banners before the wind takes them!"
Wes takes a step back. "I’ll let you get to it."
And just like that, he is gone again.