Chapter Two – Paisley
Chapter Two
Paisley
I ’m not like most people. I love to talk to my Uber drivers.
“So, the cell reception out here is a little…” Through the window, I see nothing but mountains and one winding road with no gas station or Buc-ee’s. “Nonexistent.”
Fernando, the driver who met me at the airport with a giant smile and a sign with my last name spelled wrong, glances at me through the rearview mirror.
"Pretty spotty," he agrees cheerfully, like he's not actively participating in my personal crisis. "But the views make up for it! And most folks out here prefer it that way. Keeps life simple."
Simple. Right. Like living without Instagram updates and TikTok notifications is somehow spiritually enlightening. I check my phone again—still no bars, which means no way to google How to not look like a complete idiot when meeting real cowboys.
"You know what else keeps life simple?" I mutter, watching another mountain vista roll past like some kind of torture-by-scenery. "Reliable Wi-Fi and indoor plumbing. Both of which I'm starting to seriously doubt exist at my destination."
"Whispering Pines?" Fernando takes a turn that makes my designer luggage slide ominously in the trunk. "Oh, they've got indoor plumbing. Mr. Montgomery even put in one of them fancy hot water tanks last year. Whole town talked about it for weeks."
Great. I'm headed to a place where basic utilities qualify as breaking news. This is fine. Totally fine.
“Do you know if there is a coffee house or internet café close to Whispering Pines? I need the internet to work.”
Creating imaginary characters and faraway towns can all be dreamt up in my head, but researching and maintaining a presence on social media needs Wi-Fi. I’m already on thin ice with Miranda; if I shirk my social media duties, she will surely cut my contract with her expensive manicure and expect the thirty-thousand-dollar advance I received paid back in full. Now, I’m not the worst with money, but, like most people, I have debt to pay off and a student loan that will never go away.
Fernando chuckles like I've just told the world's funniest joke. "Martha's Diner's got Wi-Fi. Password's 'welcome2montana'—hasn't changed since they installed it in '08." He catches my horrified expression in the rearview. "Signal's not great, but the pie makes up for it. She does this thing with local berries that'll make you forget all about your Instagram followers."
I seriously doubt any pie, no matter how locally sourced, could make up for technological exile.
"Here we are!" Fernando announces with the enthusiasm of someone delivering me to a spa retreat instead of my own personal witness protection program.
Whispering Pines Ranch, est. 1892.
The sign's seen better centuries, its weathered wood telling stories about generations of ranchers who probably never had to worry about their Twitter—or whatever it’s called now—engagement metrics. Beyond it, the ranch spreads out like something straight off my book covers—except real, and significantly more terrifying.
"You're sure there's no Starbucks hidden behind that barn?" I ask weakly, watching my designer wheels meet authentic Montana dirt. "Or maybe a secret underground coffee bar? Speakeasy situation?"
"Nope." Fernando sets my bags down with cheerful finality. "But Mr. Montgomery makes the best coffee this side of the mountain. Just don't tell Martha I said that."
Before I can explain that my career literally depends on caffeine and cellular data, the barn door swings open. And suddenly, all my carefully crafted cowboys feel like cartoon sketches compared to the very real, very authentic rancher heading our way.
Wes Montgomery moves like he owns the ground he walks on—which, technically, he does. But it's more than that. He carries authority like other men wear cologne, natural and understated but impossible to ignore. His stride eats up the distance between us while my writer's brain short-circuits trying to catalog details I definitely shouldn't be noticing while I’m here on business.
Oh, good gracious. My cowboys do yoga at sunrise and smell like designer aftershave. This man probably bench presses hay bales and smells like actual manual labor.
Wow. Just wow.
I’ve never been speechless before.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as he approaches. Not a single one of my witty one-liners seems appropriate right now. Especially since he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of alien who just landed in high heels that are definitely not made for ranch life.
“Miss Monroe.” His voice hits like gravel wrapped in honey, nothing like the smooth-talking cowboys I write about. “You’re early.”
“I... Am I?” I glance down at my phone, checking the time and noticing zero bars. Argh! Why couldn’t this writing sabbatical at least have internet? How will I ever fall asleep without doom-scrolling for an hour?
Shaking off the grief, I focus back on Mr. Montgomery. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be early. That behavior is unlike me. Not that I make a habit of being late and disrespecting someone’s time. I just mean that I don’t have many meetings or leave the house very often; therefore, I misjudge the traffic conditions and the hike from the subway, which usually makes me later than intended."
I suck in a breath after that excited ramble. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, and those eyes—Lord help me, they're the exact shade of blue that my editor says I overuse in my descriptions—study me with careful neutrality. "No subways in Montana, Miss Monroe."
"Right. Yes. Of course." I laugh nervously, like I haven't just word-vomited all over his boots. Which, by the way, are properly worn and scuffed, making my casual footwear feel even more ridiculous. "I just meant... I'm not usually... This is all very..."
"Different?" His tone stays even, professional, but something flickers in his expression before he can catch it—there and gone like Montana lightning.
"I was going to say terrifying," I admit before my filter can kick in. "But different works, too.”
He tips his chin in the subtle, super sexy cowboy kind of way that puts a ridiculous smile on my face.
I’ve definitely been writing cowboys all wrong. Honestly, after seeing this man, I’m flat-out ashamed of myself.
A half smile tugs at his mouth—the kind that would take me three paragraphs to describe properly in one of my books. "Terrifying might be a bit strong for a working ranch."
"Says the man who probably doesn't scream when he sees spiders," I mutter, then immediately wish I could take it back when his eyebrow does that perfect arch thing again. "Not that I scream at spiders. Much. Anymore. I mean, I'm totally cool with wildlife. And livestock. And whatever that is over there that's staring at me."
"That's Hope." Another voice joins us as a younger version of Wes rounds the barn corner. Same confident stride, same work-worn boots, but with a grin that suggests he finds me significantly more entertaining than the other man. "Our oldest mare. Don't worry, she only kicks strangers sometimes."
"Colt." Wes's tone carries enough warning to fill a chapter.
"What? Just warning our guest about ranch hazards." He winks at me, completely immune to Mr. Montgomery’s disapproval. “I’m Colt, by the way. Wes’s brother.”
“He trains the horses,” Wes adds, like it pained him to do so.
"Paisley," I manage, aiming for professional but landing somewhere between breathless and desperate. "I mean, yes. That's me. Hi." Oh, gosh. I'm babbling.
"Welcome to Whispering Pines." Colt's grin widens as Fernando drives away, leaving me stranded with my ridiculous luggage and two cowboys. "Hope you're ready for some authentic ranch experience."
The way he says "authentic" makes my stomach do nervous flips. Before I can craft a suitably witty response about my extensive Yellowstone research, a crash from inside the barn makes me jump.
“Uncle Wes!” A young voice carries through the afternoon air. “Come look!”
Wes’s eyes widen in concern. “Excuse me for a moment.”
He sprints off to the barn, where he disappears behind the big wooden doors.
Colt chuckles. “Emma keeps Wes on his toes.” His expression softens. "Our sister, Sarah, and her husband died in a car wreck two years ago. Wes adopted Emma right after. It hasn't been easy for him, but..." He glances toward the barn, pride evident in his voice. "He stepped up without hesitation. He’s always been that way—taking care of everyone else first."
"That must have been hard on everyone," I say softly, "Especially Emma."
"Yeah." Colt shifts his weight, his boots scuffing against the wooden porch. "She's handling it better these days. Ten going on twenty, that one. Though the cat collection is getting a bit out of hand." He grins, lightening the moment. "Don't tell Wes, but I'm pretty sure I saw him sneaking cat treats into his pocket yesterday."
I laugh, grateful for the shift in tone. "Your secret's safe with me."
Colt smiles and grabs my largest suitcase like it weighs nothing—pretty sure I pulled three muscles just getting it into Fernando's trunk. "So, romance novels, huh? Emma's been talking about your books all week. Though she's not allowed to read them yet, much to her disappointment."
Another crash echoes from the barn, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a small voice negotiating feeding schedules. Before I can ask about Emma's apparent interest in my highly inappropriate-for-ten-year-olds novels, Wes emerges with a miniature whirlwind of pigtails and determination. She's clutching a small orange kitten to her chest, daring someone to try and take it from her.
“She found a stray kitten in the barn,” Wes explains.
Colt chuckles. “Another one?”
Wes nods.
“How many does that make now?”
“Four.” Wes shakes his head and lets out a massive sigh. “My niece is an animal lover,” he tells me like that’s a bad thing.
"Nothing wrong with loving animals," I say before my filter can kick in. "Though I have to admit, my experience is mostly limited to that one goldfish I managed to keep alive for almost a week. And my sister's cat, who only tried to murder me twice."
"We can teach you!" Emma bounces on her toes, somehow managing to keep the kitten secure despite her excitement. Her jeans are covered in hay and what I really hope is just mud, and there's a smudge of something questionable on her cheek that she doesn't seem to notice or care about. "I know all about animals. Uncle Wes says I'm like the cat whisperer, except I also whisper to horses and chickens and that one really grumpy goat that Uncle Jake bought at auction."
"Does he now?" I eye Wes, catching the way his shoulders tighten at my attention. The man clearly doesn't know what to do with a city writer asking questions about his niece’s Dr. Dolittle tendencies. "And what does this grumpy goat have to say about my arrival?"
"He's not much for conversation today," Emma informs me with complete seriousness. Her eyes, exact copies of her uncle’s, study me with frank curiosity. "But the chickens are super excited. They love meeting new people, even if they're wearing..." She pauses, taking in my definitely not-ranch-appropriate outfit with the kind of judgment only a ten-year-old can deliver. "Interesting shoes."
"Emma." Wes's voice carries that particular blend of exasperation and affection that makes my writer's brain want to take notes. "Why don't you go put that kitten with the others while I show Miss Monroe to her room?" He turns those stormy blue eyes my way, and suddenly, breathing feels like an optional activity. “Unless you’d rather tour the chicken coop first?”
“Oh, no, room first. Definitely room first." I edge slightly away from the barn where said chickens are probably plotting my demise. "I should probably change into something more... chicken-appropriate before meeting any judgmental livestock."
"Smart choice," Colt says, already heading toward the house with my suitcases. "Though I notice you packed like you're moving in rather than staying for three months." He eyes my extensive luggage with brotherly amusement. "You know we do have laundry facilities, right? Even if they're not quite to Manhattan standards."
"I like having options," I defend, following them toward what looks like something straight off my book covers: a sprawling ranch house that's seen generations of cowboys come and go. Much like my impractical shoes, which are already protesting their introduction to authentic Montana dirt. "And backup options. And backup options for my backup options. Also, has anyone ever mentioned that gravel is surprisingly... gravelly?"
Emma skips ahead of us, the kitten still cradled in her arms like precious cargo. “Uncle Wes says over-planning is just another way of worrying," she announces with all the wisdom of her ten years. "Like how he checks the coffee maker three times every night, even though it hasn't broken since I was five."
"That's different," Wes mutters, and I catch the way his ears redden slightly. He takes my carry-on—the only bag Colt left for him—with the kind of casual strength that makes my romance writer heart skip beats. "Coffee's essential for ranch operations."
"Speaking of essential operations..." I stumble slightly on the porch steps, and his free hand catches my elbow with automatic grace. The contact sends electricity straight through my designer jacket. "Please tell me the rumors about your coffee-making abilities are true. Because I have a feeling I'm going to need industrial-strength caffeine to survive this ranching experience.”