Lost in the Reins

Chapter Thirty – Paisley

Chapter Thirty

Paisley

F un fact: it's really hard to maintain dignity while ugly crying into a goose's neck. Especially when said goose is Bernard, who normally treats physical affection as a personal affront to his royal heritage. But here we are, me sobbing into his feathers while he tolerates it with imperial disdain.

"I'll miss you, too, you dramatic nightmare," I whisper, and he honks softly—probably telling me I'm creasing his perfectly arranged plumage. Kevin watches from his perch, judging my emotional breakdown with his usual peacock superiority. For a second, I swear he looks almost sympathetic. Or maybe that's just the tears blurring my vision.

My suitcases mock me from the porch—designer luggage that somehow survived three months of ranch life, now looking as out of place as I feel. They're packed with borrowed flannels I couldn't bring myself to return and bubble bath bottles that still smell like Emma's laughter. Funny how you can pack an entire broken heart into two carry-ons and a laptop bag.

"The prodigal writer returns to Manhattan." Jake appears beside me, his attempt at humor falling flat. "Though I gotta say, you're a lot better at handling Bernard than when you first got here."

"Turns out, all he needed was someone who understood his flair for drama.” I try for lightness, but my voice catches. "I never did figure out his obsession with stealing hats."

Jake's laugh sounds forced. "Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved." He pulls me into a fierce hug that smells like hay and family. "You're making a mistake, you know. Both of you."

"Yeah, well." I pull back before I can start crying again. "Turns out, some cowboys are too stubborn even for a romance writer to fix."

Colt joins us, his usual calm presence somehow making this harder. "Sarah would have liked you," he says quietly. "She would have seen how you fit here."

The words hit like a physical blow. Because that's the thing about the Montgomerys: they sneak past your defenses with quiet truths that cut deeper than any dramatic declaration. Sarah's presence lingers everywhere here—in Emma's laugh, in the recipe cards I memorized, in the way this place feels more like home than anywhere I've ever been.

Martha's going to be devastated. She had our wedding menu planned before our first kiss, complete with color-coordinated napkins and Bernard as the ring bearer. Given his tendency to steal accessories, that might have been overly optimistic.

I hear boots on the porch steps, and my heart does its usual unauthorized gymnastics routine before I remind it that we're supposed to be practicing dignity in defeat.

"Your cab's here."

Wes's voice carries that carefully controlled tone that means he's holding something back. I turn slowly, taking in the sight of him one last time. He looks like he hasn't slept, shadows under his eyes making the blue even more intense. My fingers itch to smooth the worry lines from his forehead, to shake some sense into his stubborn head, to write a different ending to this story.

Instead, I straighten my spine and manage a nod. "Thanks for everything. The ranch, the research..." I swallow hard. "It was exactly what I needed for the book."

"Right." His jaw does that clenching thing that still makes my stomach flip. "The book."

Something splinters in my chest, sharp and final. Because this is how it ends—not with grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but with careful distance and words we're both too scared to say. The writer in me wants to fix it, to craft the perfect line that would make him see what he's throwing away. But real life isn't like my novels. Sometimes the hero's too stubborn to accept his own happy ending.

"Tell Emma..." My voice betrays me. I clear my throat and try again. "Tell her I left some new bubble bath under the sink. Cotton candy scented. Her favorite."

He nods once, that same controlled movement I remember from my first day here. Like he's holding himself back from something. "I will."

The cab driver honks, impatient with our painfully polite goodbye. I grab my suitcases, hefting them with arms that are stronger now from months of actual ranch work instead of Manhattan's overpriced boutique gyms.

"Goodbye, Wes."

He doesn't answer, just tips his hat in that maddeningly formal way that makes me want to throw something at him. Preferably Bernard, who's still watching this disaster unfold with regal disapproval.

The cab smells like cigarettes and stale coffee—nothing like leather and dawn prayers and home. As we pull away, I don't look back. Can't look back. Because if I do, I might see something in his expression that would make me stay. And he's made it crystal clear that staying isn't an option anymore.

I have to admit, this would make a terrible ending to a romance novel. My readers would riot. My editor would demand rewrites. Even Bernard would probably send strongly worded honks of disapproval.

But maybe that's the problem. I've spent so long writing perfect endings that I forgot how messy real ones can be. How sometimes love isn't enough to overcome stubborn pride and carefully constructed walls.

Manhattan hits me like a slap of cold air. The city roars around me—honking horns, squealing brakes, the endless rush of people who'd probably faint at the sight of actual manure. My building looms overhead, all sleek glass and steel, nothing like the weathered wood and quiet strength of Whispering Pines.

The doorman does a double take when he sees me. "Miss Monroe! Welcome back."

I manage something approximating a smile, too aware of how I must look in my borrowed flannel and practical boots. Three months ago, I wouldn't have been caught dead in anything less than designer labels. Now the thought of my old wardrobe feels like cosplaying a life I've outgrown.

The elevator ride to my apartment feels endless. Each floor dings past like a countdown to reality, the mirrored walls reflecting a woman I barely recognize. My hair's pulled back in a simple braid—Emma's last handiwork before she locked herself in her room this morning. Three months ago, I wouldn't have left my apartment without a professional blowout. Now I'm wearing hay in my hair like some kind of agricultural accessory.

My key sticks in the lock—another thing that never happened in Montana. Everything there worked with straightforward purpose, even the broken parts. Here, even the simplest things feel unnecessarily complicated.

The apartment spreads before me, exactly as I left it but somehow completely wrong. The pristine white furniture that once felt sophisticated now looks sterile. The view of the city skyline that used to thrill me feels claustrophobic compared to Montana's endless horizons. Even the air feels wrong—too filtered, too artificial, nothing like the crisp morning breeze that carried the scent of coffee.

My suitcases thump heavily on the imported hardwood floors. The sound echoes through rooms that suddenly feel too big and too empty. No Emma's laughter bouncing off the walls. No boots creaking on weathered boards. No Bernard honking his royal disapproval at everything that offends his delicate sensibilities.

The kitchen gleams with unused appliances—my coffee maker that cost more than a month's feed for the cattle but never made anything half as good as Wes's morning brew. The marble countertops that never felt flour from Sarah's cookie recipes or Emma's attempts at pancakes. The breakfast bar where I'll drink my morning coffee alone, no quiet cowboys saying grace or little girls plotting elaborate schemes with barn cats.

My office sits untouched, dust gathering on the desk where I used to write about fake cowboys doing sunrise yoga. The view outside shows neighboring high-rises instead of frost-touched mountains. No Kevin strutting past the window. No chance of Bernard stealing my hat while I work.

I unpack mechanically, hanging designer clothes next to borrowed flannels like they're from different worlds colliding. In a way, they are. The woman who bought these silk blouses and tailored pants feels like a stranger now. She never knew how it felt to muck stalls or dance under festival lights or fall in love with a family that became home.

My phone buzzes—Miranda, probably wanting to discuss the manuscript. I let it go to voicemail. How do I explain that I finally wrote something real, but the cost was my own heart? That I learned what authenticity meant by losing it?

The silence presses in, heavy and wrong. No distant lowing of cattle. No screen door creaking. No Emma practicing barrel racing commentary with her stuffed animals. No Wes's boots on the porch steps, that specific creak that meant someone was trying to be quiet.

I curl up on my pristine couch, still wearing Wes's flannel shirt because I can't bear to take it off yet. The fabric still smells faintly of hay and leather and home. Outside, Manhattan continues its endless rush, but all I can hear is Emma's laugh and Bernard's imperious honking and the way Wes's voice went soft when he read bedtime stories.

Three months ago, this apartment was everything I thought I wanted. Now it feels like a museum of a life I used to live—beautiful but untouchable, perfect but empty.

The worst part is, it would make a great scene in a romance novel. The heroine returns to her old life, realizing it doesn't fit anymore, setting up the perfect moment for the hero to come charging in and declare his love. But real life isn't like my books. Sometimes the cowboy's too stubborn to chase what he wants. Sometimes the happy ending gets lost somewhere between pride and fear and carefully constructed walls.

Sometimes you find home in a place you never expected, only to realize that knowing where you belong doesn't mean you get to stay there.

The evening settles over Manhattan like a designer blanket—beautiful, expensive, and nowhere near as comforting as Sarah's old quilt. My phone hasn't stopped buzzing. Miranda has left three voicemails about the manuscript, each one more enthusiastic than the last. Apparently, my broken heart translates well to the page.

I order takeout from my favorite Thai place, the one I used to think made the best Pad Thai in the city. The delivery guy doesn't even blink at my borrowed flannel or the hay still stuck in my hair. That's the thing about Manhattan: everyone's too busy with their own stories to notice someone else's falling apart.

The food tastes wrong. Too processed, too perfect, nothing like the simple meals shared around the Montgomery kitchen table. I push it aside after three bites, remembering Emma's attempts at pancakes and the way Wes would eat them with exaggerated enthusiasm no matter how badly they were burned.

My laptop sits accusingly on the coffee table. The manuscript that cost me everything glows on the screen—three months of life and love and loss poured onto digital pages. Miranda's right. It's the best thing I've ever written. Real cowboys, real struggles, real hearts breaking in the Montana dawn.

The city sparkles outside my window, a galaxy of artificial stars that can't compare to Montana's night sky. I used to love this view. Now all I can see is what's missing. No Bernard patrolling his domain like a feathered emperor. No Kevin judging everyone's life choices from his carefully chosen perches. No Emma racing across the yard to show me her latest trick with the barn cats.

My doorman calls up. Apparently, I have three months of mail to collect. Bills and magazines and party invitations that feel like artifacts from someone else’s life. The woman who cared about Manhattan’s social scene died somewhere between mucking stalls and falling in love with a family too stubborn to let themselves be happy.

I shower, trying to wash away the travel grime, but I can’t bring myself to use my expensive shampoo. It’s not cotton candy scented. It wouldn’t make Emma smile. The marble bathroom feels cold and impersonal after sharing space with Emma’s rainbow collection of bubble bath bottles and Sarah’s hand-embroidered towels.

Sleep seems impossible in my king-sized bed with its designer sheets. They’re not worn soft with washing like the ones at the ranch. They don’t smell like mountain air and lavender sachets that Sarah used to make. The silence is wrong, too. No distant lowing of cattle, no creaking boards, no Jake sneaking midnight snacks in the kitchen when his kitchen is perfectly stocked.

I find myself checking the time, calculating what they'd be doing back at the ranch. Emma should be getting ready for bed, probably negotiating for one more chapter of Narnia before Wes does his evening checks on the animals. The cats would be claiming their sleeping spots, Trouble probably stealing Emma's pillow again.

My phone buzzes with a text from Martha. He's being stupid. Give him time.

But that's the problem, isn't it? Time is exactly what we don't have. The bank papers are signed. The ranch is being divided up next week. And Wes Montgomery is too proud to admit that sometimes love is worth more than carefully constructed walls and stubborn independence.

I curl up in my perfectly temperature-controlled bedroom, wearing his flannel shirt like armor against this too-perfect life that doesn't fit anymore. Outside, Manhattan continues its endless dance of lights and noise, but all I can hear is the quiet of Montana mornings and the way Wes's voice went soft when he thought no one was listening.

Three months ago, I wrote about cowboys finding their happy endings. Now I know the truth: Sometimes, the hardest stories to write are the ones you're living. Sometimes home isn't where you planned to find it but where you leave your heart when you're forced to walk away.

I close my eyes, but I can't sleep. All I can see is Emma's face when I said goodbye, the way she held on to Sarah's quilt like it could shield her from another loss. All I can hear is the way Wes's voice caught when he said the bank papers were signed, like he was surrendering more than just land.

This would be the perfect moment in one of my novels for something to change. For someone to realize that pride isn't worth losing everything you love.

But this isn't one of my novels. This is real life, where sometimes love isn't enough to overcome generations of pride and carefully guarded independence. Where happy endings get lost somewhere between bank notices and goodbye kisses that taste like blueberry pie and regret.

Tomorrow, I'll have to start remembering how to be the woman who lives in this perfect apartment with its perfect view. I'll have to learn how to write about love without remembering the way it feels to dance under festival lights with a man too scared to admit what he's losing.

But tonight, I let myself miss the smell of hay and leather and the sound of Emma's laughter.