Chapter Five – Wes
Chapter Five
Wes
W atching Paisley Monroe try to muck stalls is like watching Emma learn to ride—equal parts entertaining and concerning. She's holding the pitchfork like it might bite her, standing at the edge of the stall as if an extra foot of distance will somehow make the job less offensive.
"You actually have to go in," I tell her, leaning against the door frame. "The manure won't jump onto the fork by itself."
She shoots me a look that probably intimidates her Manhattan coffee baristas. "I'm strategizing."
"Strategizing." I test the word, fighting back a smile. "About manure."
"Yes." She lifts her chin, defiant despite the way her hands are trembling on the pitchfork. "I'm developing a systematic approach to minimize... splash damage."
From the next stall over, I hear Colt trying to disguise his laugh as a cough. Real subtle, brother.
"Here." I step into the stall, carefully not mentioning how her boots—probably worth more than my monthly feed bill—are already showing signs of defeat. "The trick is to get under it, not just push it around."
"Under it," she repeats faintly. "Right. Because that's so much better than pushing it."
She takes a tentative step forward, and I have to give her credit—at least she's trying. Most city folks would've run screaming by now. Her perfume—something fancy that has no business being in a horse stall—mixes with the barn's earthier scents as she moves past me.
"Like this?" She stabs at the bedding with all the grace of a drunk trying to spear an olive.
"Little less aggressively," I suggest, watching her balance waver. "You're mucking stalls, not fighting off rustlers."
"I'd rather fight rustlers," she mutters but adjusts her grip. "At least they don't smell like—" She breaks off, wrinkling her nose. "Actually, never mind. I don't want to think about what this smells like."
She's starting to get the hang of it, though her technique needs work. A lot of work. The kind of work that makes me wonder if she's ever actually touched a tool before today. But she's determined, I'll give her that. Even with her hair falling in her face and sweat starting to shine on her forehead, she keeps at it.
"You're doing fine," I lie, because lying seems kinder than telling her she's mostly just rearranging the mess instead of removing it. "Just remember to?—"
That's when Chester decides to make his move on the mouse that's been taunting him all week. The barn cat launches himself from a hay bale, sending Paisley spinning around just in time to see what probably looks like a furry missile aimed at her head.
And that's when everything goes sideways. Literally.
Her scream could probably be heard in Manhattan as she stumbles backward, pitchfork flying one way while she goes down the other. I lunge forward, but I'm not fast enough to catch her before she lands in exactly the spot she's been trying so hard to avoid.
She’s crying.
And covered in horse manure.
“It’s in my hair,” she sobs, still lying in the corner of the stall she was mucking.
“What the heck happened?” Colt appears at my side, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Did you trip her?”
I give him a flat look. “No, I didn’t trip her. She fell on her own.”
“There was a rat,” she wails. “A gigantic rat!”
Great. Just great.
I've dealt with spooked horses, angry bulls, and even that time Jake thought he could ride Thunder blindfolded. But a crying romance writer covered in manure? That's a new one.
"It wasn't a rat," I say, keeping my voice steady as I crouch down beside her. Then I spot the actual culprit—a tiny field mouse darting between hay bales with Chester in hot pursuit. "It was just a mouse. Chester was chasing it."
"A mouse?" She looks horrified, scrambling to her feet so fast she nearly loses her balance again. I catch her elbow before she can face-plant a second time. "That thing was not just a mouse. It was huge and terrifying and—" She breaks off as Chester saunters past, looking mighty pleased with himself, the mouse hanging from his mouth by the tail. "That's not... That can't be..."
The rest plays out exactly like some scene from one of her romance novels—except I'm pretty sure her cowboys don't spend their mornings trying not to laugh at manure-covered writers while their barn cats show off their hunting prowess.
This woman's going to be the death of my sanity. And it's not even six a.m.
"That's your giant rat-hunter," Colt confirms, not even trying to hide his grin anymore. "Chester's been keeping the barn mouse-free for years. Well, mostly mouse-free. That little one's craftier than most."
Paisley stares at the cat, then at her manure-covered designer jeans, then back at the cat. Her bottom lip trembles. "I thought... I mean, it sounded so... and then I slipped, and now everything's ruined, and these jeans cost more than?—"
"Hey." I cut her off before she can work herself into another crying jag. "It's just clothes. And technically, you're getting the ranch experience you came for. Mice, manure, and all."
She lets out a watery laugh that catches me off guard. "Pretty sure my readers don't want to read about a heroine face-planting in horse manure because she got scared by a mouse that wasn't even as big as her phone."
"Why not?" Colt asks. "Sounds more authentic than riding off into the sunset.”
I shoot him a warning look while Chester takes his prize outside.
"The shower's free," I tell Paisley, ignoring the way my chest tightens when she looks at me with those tear-filled green eyes. "Go get cleaned up. We'll finish here."
"But I'm supposed to be learning?—"
"You've learned plenty for one morning." I gesture to her outfit. "Like why we don't wear designer clothes to muck stalls. And why Chester's worth his weight in gold when it comes to keeping the mice population down."
She glances down at herself and lets out another of those watery laughs. "I don't suppose this is the kind of authentic detail Miranda was hoping for?"
"Probably not." I find myself fighting a smile. "But at least you've got a story to tell."
"Yeah." She sniffs, wiping at her eyes and only managing to smear more dirt across her face. "Chapter One: How Not to Impress Cowboys—A Cautionary Tale of Mice and Manure."
Something in my chest shifts at that, but I push it aside. She's here for research, nothing more. Even if she does look oddly endearing with hay in her hair and determination in her eyes.
"Go on," I say gruffly, turning back to the stall. "Before Emma wakes up and decides to document your first ranch disaster in her diary."
That gets her moving. She practically runs for the barn door, only stumbling twice on her way out. I watch her go, telling myself I'm just making sure she doesn't fall again.
"Not a word," I warn both brothers, who look entirely too amused by the whole situation.
"Wouldn't dream of it." Colt picks up the abandoned pitchfork while Jake leans against Thunder's stall, grinning like it's Christmas morning.
"I gotta say," Jake adds, "your authentic ranch experience is off to an interesting start."
I grunt and get back to work. The sooner we finish here, the sooner I can check on... the stalls. Just the stalls.
Not the city writer who's currently leaving manure-tracked footprints all the way back to my house.
I make a mental note to thank Chester later. That mouse had been evading him for weeks.
I lean against Athena's stall, watching Colt gather the soiled bedding while Jake tosses fresh hay. "Sarah would've known how to handle all this."
"The manure or the writer?" Jake's attempt at humor falls flat when he sees my expression.
"The marketing. The finances. All of it." I run a hand through my hair, forgetting about the gloves until it's too late. "Sarah had connections. She knew how to talk to people, how to make them see the value in what we do here."
"That's why we need this," Colt says quietly, leaning on his pitchfork. "The writer, the marketing plan, all of it. Sarah's gone, Wes. We can't keep running this place like nothing's changed."
Jake nods, his usual playfulness gone. "He's right. I checked the books last night. Feed prices are up another 30 percent, and our margins were already razor-thin."
I grunt, but they're both right. Sarah handled all our social media, built relationships with buyers, and managed the books with the kind of precision that came from actually understanding spreadsheets. Now we're three brothers trying to keep a legacy alive while raising her daughter, and the numbers don't lie.
"We should convert the old bunkhouse," Jake says, voicing the idea he's been pushing for months. "Turn it into one of those luxury glamping experiences the tourists love. Combine it with riding lessons, maybe some of those farm-to-table dinners Sarah was always talking about."
"We're ranchers," I say flatly. "Not a theme park."
"We're going broke," Colt counters, his voice sharper now. "Diesel's through the roof, and our cattle prices barely cover expenses. Sarah knew we needed to diversify. That's why she started the heritage tourism research in the first place."
The truth of it sits heavy in my gut. Sarah had seen it coming—the squeeze on small ranches, the need to adapt. She'd been working on plans to transition part of our operation into experiences for city folks who wanted to play cowboy for a week. The idea still makes me sick to my stomach, but...
"The writer's agent says she can get us coverage in major travel magazines," Jake adds. "Get the word out about authentic ranch experiences. Sarah always said that was the key—authenticity."
I snort. "Because nothing says authentic like teaching tourists how to fall in manure."
"Hey, worked for our romance writer." Colt grins, then sobers. "Look, I know you hate it. But Sarah was right—we can't survive on cattle alone anymore. Not with Emma’s college fund to think about and the medical bills from Sarah and Paul still hanging over us."
He's right. I know he's right. But the idea of turning Whispering Pines into some kind of dude ranch fantasy...
"We're not giving up the cattle," I say finally. "That's non-negotiable."
"Nobody's saying we should." Jake sets his pitchfork aside. "But maybe... maybe we can honor Sarah's memory by following through on her plans. She saw the future of this place more clearly than any of us."
I close my eyes briefly. Sarah would've known how to handle this—how to balance the books, find new buyers, maybe negotiate better rates. But Sarah's gone, and we're left trying to piece together the future of Whispering Pines without her.
"Fine," I say finally, opening my eyes to find my brothers watching me carefully. "We'll look at the tourism angle. But we do it right. No line dancing, no fake cowboy nonsense."
"Agreed." The relief is visible on both their faces.
"Though you might want to warn your writer that authentic doesn't always mean pretty," Jake adds with a smirk.
"She's not my writer," I growl, turning back to the stalls. But I can't help thinking about the way she got right back up after falling, determined despite the tears and manure.
Maybe there's hope for her after all.
"We should probably invest in some spare clothes for the city folks," Colt suggests, practical as always. "Something tells me this won't be the last wardrobe casualty we see."
I just grunt in response. One crisis at a time. Right now, I've got stalls to muck and a ranch to save.