Chapter Seven – Wes
Chapter Seven
Wes
S he's wearing my clothes.
The thought hits me sideways as I stare at the stack of bills spread across the kitchen table. Feed costs are up again—30 percent like Jake said, and that's not counting the new mineral supplements the vet recommended. I rub my temples, trying to focus on the numbers instead of the way Paisley Monroe is standing at the bottom of my stairs in my old Montana State shirt.
Her hair falls in a neat golden braid down her back, drawing attention to the graceful curve of her neck while my shirt hangs loose on her frame. The worn gray cotton that's seen a hundred washings rests on her shoulders like it belongs there.
"I'm sorry about the clothes," she says, hovering there like she's not sure where she belongs. A faint blush colors her cheeks as she fidgets with the shirt's hem. "Emma raided your dresser. Said these were headed for donation anyway."
"It's fine." I don't look up from the invoice in front of me, but I can't stop noticing things I shouldn't: the way she bites her lower lip when she's nervous, how my sweatpants are rolled multiple times at her ankles, the tentative way she carries herself, like someone still finding their footing in an unfamiliar world. "Numbers don't lie," I mutter, more to myself than her.
She takes a step closer, and I catch the scent of Emma's cotton candy soap mixing with the faint trace of barn that even a hot shower can't quite wash away. Her green eyes, flecked with gold scan the papers spread before me. "Those look serious."
"Bills usually are." I shuffle through papers, looking for last month's fuel receipts, trying not to notice how she tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Hazard of running a working ranch instead of writing about one."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they're sharper than intended. But she doesn't flinch, just pulls out the chair across from me and sits down like she's been invited.
"Show me."
"Show you what?"
"The bills. The costs. The real ranch experience." She spreads her hands on the table, and I notice her manicure's already chipped from one morning's work, those elegant fingers now bearing the marks of honest labor. "I'm here to learn authenticity, right? Well, this looks pretty authentic to me."
I study her for a long moment, taking in the determination in her expression and the way one side of her mouth quirks up slightly when she's challenging someone. "You want to learn about ranch finances?"
"I want to learn everything." She reaches for one of the feed invoices before I can stop her. "Though I have to admit, this is definitely not the kind of research I expected to be doing in your kitchen at"—she glances at the ancient clock on the wall—"six forty-five in the morning."
Something that might be a laugh tries to work its way up my throat, but I swallow it back. "Most romance writers probably don't spend their mornings analyzing feed costs."
"Most romance writers probably don't face-plant in horse manure either." She studies the invoice with a frown. "These numbers can't be right. The price per ton is almost double what it was last quarter?"
I blink, surprised she can make sense of the agricultural pricing. "You know something about feed costs?"
"I know something about running a business." She sets the invoice down carefully. "Before I wrote about cowboys, I worked retail. Different product, same principles—costs go up, margins go down, and sometimes you have to get creative to stay afloat."
The truth of it sits heavy in my gut, right next to the memory of Sarah saying almost the same thing two years ago. She'd seen it coming—the squeeze on small ranches, the need to adapt or die. Just like she'd seen everything else clearly, right up until that patch of black ice on the highway.
"Creative isn't always better." I gather the papers into a stack, needing something to do with my hands. "Sometimes it just means compromising what matters."
"And sometimes," she counters, "it means finding new ways to protect what matters most."
I lean back in my chair, studying her expression. “Is that what you’re doing here? Trying to save your career?”
Her chin lifts slightly, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "My career doesn't need saving. It needs..." She pauses, fingers tracing the edge of an invoice. "Reality. Though honestly, I'm not sure even that will be enough anymore."
"What do you mean?"
She exhales slowly, her fingers still moving over the paper. "I used to love writing. It wasn't just about the cowboys or the romance; it was about creating something real. Something that mattered." Her voice drops. "But lately... I can't seem to find the right words anymore. Everything feels forced, hollow."
I set down the papers I'm holding, recognizing something in her tone that hits closer to home than I'd like. She's talking about more than just authentic details.
"The last book..." She shakes her head. "I stared at the blank screen for weeks. When I finally wrote something, it was like I was just going through the motions. My agent said the characters felt flat, and she was right." Her laugh holds no humor. "I gave my rancher a meditation practice because I couldn't figure out what real ranchers actually do with their time."
"Besides mucking stalls and wrestling with feed costs?"
"Besides that." This time her smile is genuine, if brief. "I keep wondering if maybe I'm done. If I've run out of stories to tell. First retail, now this..." She gestures vaguely. "Maybe I'm just someone who quits things when they get hard."
The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. This isn't the confident writer who showed up yesterday with her designer boots and city grace. This is someone wrestling with the same kind of doubts that keep me up at night, staring at bills and wondering if I'm fighting a losing battle.
"Writing's not like retail," I find myself saying. "Or ranching, for that matter. You can't measure it in profit margins and feed costs."
"No?" She looks up, and the morning light catches the gold flecks in her eyes. "Then how do you measure it?"
I think about Sarah's journals, still sitting in her old room. How she wrote about everything: the ranch, Emma, the changing seasons. Not for profit or publication, but because the words mattered to her.
"By whether it matters to you," I say finally. "The rest is just details."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me like she's seeing something new. "Is that how you measure the ranch? By whether it matters?"
"The ranch is different." I tap the stack of bills. "This is generations of history. Family. Legacy."
"And my books?" Her voice is soft. "They're just stories?"
I weigh my words carefully, remembering how Sarah used to spend hours lost in her romance novels after long days of ranch work. "Everyone needs stories. But right now, you're asking about reality."
Something shifts in her expression at that, the vulnerability disappearing behind a mask of determination as she straightens in her chair. "Then teach me about your reality. Everything."
She leans forward, elbows on the table, all business despite wearing my old clothes. "How many head of cattle do you run? What's your breeding schedule? Do you do your own hay or buy it? What percentage of your operation is purely cattle versus other income streams?"
The rapid-fire questions catch me off guard. "Thought you learned about ranching from Yellowstone ."
"I did. And clearly, I did it wrong." She taps the feed invoice with one finger, her chipped manicure a stark reminder of this morning's reality check. "So, teach me. Help me understand how a real ranch operates."
I blow out a breath, running a hand through my hair. "We run about three hundred head. Used to be more, but drought years hit us hard. Lost nearly a quarter of the herd three years back."
"That must have been rough." Her voice softens, and I have to look away from the understanding in her eyes.
"Rough doesn't begin to cover it." I flip through the papers, pulling out last year's projections. "We do our own hay when weather permits, but last season's rainfall was poor. Had to supplement with bought feed, which is killing our margins now that prices have spiked."
She nods, taking it all in. "And the breeding program?"
"Fifty registered Black Angus breeding pairs. Premium bloodlines." Despite everything, I can't keep the pride out of my voice. "Been building that program for three generations."
"That's your primary income?"
"Should be." I tap another invoice. "But medical bills from Sarah's accident ate into our reserves. Couldn't expand the program like we planned. Now we're stuck in this cycle of—" I catch myself, wondering why I'm telling her all this.
But she's already grabbed on to the thread. "Of trying to maintain premium quality without the cash flow to support it properly?"
"Something like that." I study her face, surprised by her grasp of the situation. "You got all that from one morning with our books?"
"I got that from watching you just now." She meets my gaze steadily. "The way you talked about those breeding pairs—that's where your heart is. That's the legacy you're trying to protect."
My chest tightens at how easily she's read me. "Legacy doesn't pay bills."
"No, but it might be the key to solving them." She pulls the papers closer, scanning numbers with a focus that seems at odds with the romance writer I'd expected. "Have you considered marketing your genetics program more aggressively? Premium bloodlines like these?—"
"We don't have the marketing budget." I cut her off, but she pushes on.
"But you have the story. Three generations of careful breeding, a family legacy of quality. That's what sells these days, Wes. Not just the product, but the story behind it."
I start to argue, but the distant sound of hoofbeats makes me pause. Through the window, I catch sight of Colt bringing in the yearlings for the morning feed. Time to get back to actual ranch work instead of playing teacher to a city writer who's suddenly decided she's a business consultant.
"Listen," she says quickly, reading my expression, "just... think about it. Look at these numbers not as problems to solve, but as a story waiting to be told."
I stand up, needing distance from her words and the way they echo Sarah's old dreams for the ranch. "Stories don't feed cattle.” The words come out softer than intended. She's still watching me with those clear green eyes, wearing my old shirt like it's meant for her, making too much sense for comfort. When she tilts her head, catching the morning light, I see the faint smudge of dirt she missed behind her ear, a reminder that she's not just talking, she's trying. Actually trying. And that's more dangerous than any story she could write about the ranch.
"The yearlings need feeding," I add gruffly, heading for the door. But I pause with my hand on the handle, glancing back at her. "You coming? Or do you want to spend all day analyzing numbers?"
Her answering smile hits me like Montana sunshine—bright and warm and completely unexpected. "Lead the way, Mr. Montgomery. I've got more research to do."