Chapter Twenty-Two – Paisley
Chapter Twenty-Two
Paisley
T he biggest lie I've ever written was describing a sick child as "adorably sniffly" in one of my books. There is nothing adorable about the mountain of tissues surrounding Emma as she burrows deeper into Sarah's old quilt on the couch, looking like she's auditioning for the role of most miserable ten-year-old in Montana.
"You comfy?" I adjust the quilt around her shoulders, resisting the urge to check her temperature for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. She nods weakly, which sets off another round of coughing that sounds like it's coming from somewhere around her toes.
"Can we watch Narnia ?" Her voice is scratchy, but her eyes are clearer than they were at school. "The one we're reading?"
My heart does that squeezing thing again. Wes has been reading her The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe every night, doing all the voices even when he's exhausted. Of course, she’d want the movie version while she’s sick.
“Of course.” I find the DVD—because naturally, the Montgomerys still have an actual DVD player—and get it set up. "Though I should warn you, the movie version of Mr. Tumnus is significantly less dramatic than your uncle's interpretation."
That gets me a tiny giggle, followed by more coughing. "Uncle Wes does the best voices."
"He does." The admission slips out before I can catch it, soft with all the feelings I'm trying not to examine too closely. "Though his White Witch could use some work."
Emma shifts on the couch, making room for me as the movie starts. "Mom used to say he practices when he thinks no one's listening."
“I bet he does.” I settle beside her, and she immediately curls into my side like a small, feverish cat. “Probably out in the barn where only the horses can judge his dramatic timing.”
“And Kevin,” she adds sleepily. “Kevin judges everyone.”
“Kevin has very high standards.” I smooth her hair back from her forehead, checking her temperature again because apparently, I've become that person. “He seems to have accepted me finally.”
“That’s ‘cause you belong here.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, settling somewhere between my ribs where I've been trying to pretend I'm not already too attached to this place. To this family. To a certain stubborn cowboy who'd rather push me away than admit he might feel something, too.
But before I can formulate a response, Emma's already drifting off, her breathing evening out as Lucy discovers the wardrobe on screen. I pull the quilt higher around her shoulders, breathing in her familiar scent.
In two months, I'm supposed to go back to Manhattan. Back to takeout coffee and deadline pressure and a world where the biggest drama is whether my next book will hit the bestseller list. Back to a place where no one needs me to pick them up from school or make soup from Sarah's recipe book or learn all the voices from their favorite stories.
Back to a life that suddenly feels about as authentic as my old cowboys doing sunrise yoga.
Emma stirs, her eyes fluttering open as Edmund meets the White Witch on screen. "Paisley?"
"Hmm?" I brush her hair back, checking her temperature… again.
"Don't give up on Uncle Wes." Her voice is soft but clear, despite the congestion. "He's just scared."
My hand stills in her hair. "Emma..."
"No, listen." She pushes herself up slightly, fixing me with those eyes that see way too much. "He likes having you here. More than he wants to admit. I can tell."
"Can you now?" I try for lightness, but my voice catches on the words.
She nods, completely serious despite her fever-flushed cheeks. "He smiles more when you're around. Even when he's pretending not to look at you. And he makes sure there's always coffee ready in the morning. He even switched to the expensive kind you like."
"That's just being polite," I protest weakly, despite something warm unfurling in my chest at the thought.
Emma gives me a look that could strip paint. "Uncle Wes once drank coffee that Jake made with river water just because he didn't want to hurt his feelings. He's not exactly picky." She coughs, then continues with the determination of someone who's thought this through. "But he notices things about you. Like how you take your coffee and which flannel shirts you like best and the way you laugh at his terrible jokes."
"His jokes aren't terrible," I say automatically, then catch her knowing smirk. "I mean..."
"Just give him time." She snuggles back against me, her voice going drowsy again. "Mom always said the best things are worth waiting for. And you're good for him. For all of us."
Emma shifts back into sleep, muttering something about Turkish Delight, and I wonder when exactly this little girl worked her way so thoroughly into my heart that the thought of leaving feels like trying to pry off a piece of myself.
Then again, maybe that's just the Montgomery way—they get under your skin with their quiet strength and hidden kindness, until suddenly, you can't imagine a world without Bernard's morning tantrums or Kevin's dramatic performances or the way certain blue eyes crinkle at the corners when their owner is trying not to smile.
Not that I'm thinking about those eyes. Or their owner. Or the way he'll probably look at me when he gets home and finds out I borrowed his truck without asking.
Honestly, if he wanted to have an opinion about that, he should try answering his phone occasionally.
The front door creaks—that specific creak that means someone tall is trying to be quiet—and my heart does its usual unauthorized gymnastics routine at the sound of boots on wooden floors.
Because of course, he’d come home now. When I’m curled up on his couch with his niece, watching his DVD, wrapped in his sister’s quilt, probably looking about as put-together as a tornado in a trailer park.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Wes appears in the doorway like some kind of brooding romance novel cover model, all windblown hair and concerned father-figure energy. His eyes land on Emma first, softening at the edges in that way that makes my heart do completely unauthorized things. Then they find mine, and something flickers there—worry, relief, maybe both.
“School called.” His voice is rougher than usual. “Couldn’t reach anyone.”
“Cell service,” I explain, trying not to notice how his shoulders fill out his work shirt or the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. “Emma tried you first.”
He nods once, moving closer to check on his niece. The scent of leather and coffee follows him, familiar as breathing now. His hand brushes mine as he touches Emma’s forehead, and I try very hard not to think about what she just said about giving him time.
“Fever’s down,” I report, professional as a ranch hand delivering stats. “She kept down some water, and Mrs. Harrison said rest should do the trick."
"Thank you." The words come out soft, loaded with something that feels bigger than gratitude for a school pickup. "For being here. For..." He gestures vaguely at Emma, at the movie playing quietly, at the general domestic scene we've created.
"Always," I say before I can catch myself. It comes out like a promise, one I'm not sure I have the right to make.
His eyes meet mine over Emma's sleeping form, and for a moment, everything I’ve been trying not to feel crashes over me like a Montana storm. Because Emma’s right—there is something here, something real and terrifying and worth waiting for.
If only one of us was brave enough to admit it.
“I took your truck,” I blurt out, because apparently, my brain-to-mouth filter stops working when he looks at me like that. "To get Emma. I probably should have asked, but?—"
"It's fine." He cuts me off, but there's something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I hear you got lost."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Who told you that?"
"Small town." Now he's definitely fighting a smile. "Mrs. Miller saw you drive past her place. Three times."
"In my defense," I whisper, careful not to wake Emma, "your road signs are more like suggestions than actual directions. And Martha's landmarks are historically accurate but navigationally useless."
He actually chuckles at that, the sound warming me more than Sarah's quilt. "Next time, just call Jake. He knows all the shortcuts."
"Next time?" I catch the implication in his words—that there might be a next time, that maybe he's not as determined to push me away as I thought.
His expression sobers, that wall starting to come back up, but Emma shifts in her sleep, mumbling something about Turkish Delight, and his face softens again.
"You're good with her," he says quietly. "She trusts you."
"She makes it easy." I brush a stray curl from Emma's forehead, hyperaware of how close Wes is standing, how the afternoon light catches his eyes and turns them that beautiful shade of blue. "She's got this way of seeing right through people's walls."
"Wonder where she gets that from." His voice carries a hint of humor, but there's something else there, too—something that makes my pulse skip like a scratched record.
"Must be a Montgomery trait." I meet his eyes, feeling brave or stupid or maybe both. "Along with the stubborn streak and emotional constipation."
He exhales sharply, like I've landed a hit he wasn't expecting. "Paisley?—"
But whatever he's about to say gets cut off by Emma stirring between us, her eyes fluttering open. "Uncle Wes?"
And just like that, the moment shatters. Wes shifts back, that careful distance returning to his eyes, though something softer lingers at the edges.
"Hey, kiddo." He crouches beside the couch, all his attention focused on his niece. "Heard you're playing hooky."
"Didn't even get to the spelling test," she mumbles, and my heart does that squeezing thing again at how small she sounds.
"Tragic," he says, using the exact same tone I did earlier.
Something warm unfurls in my chest, and I know there’s no hope.
I love this man.