Chapter Eight – Paisley
Chapter Eight
Paisley
T he next morning, I manage to make it downstairs in time for coffee. Actually, I've been awake since three, tossing and turning while I mull over yesterday’s events. My writer's brain refuses to shut off, spinning scenes and possibilities that have nothing to do with my books and everything to do with a certain blue-eyed rancher who keeps invading my thoughts.
"Look who's early," Colt says from his perch at the counter, already nursing what's probably his second cup of coffee. "And dressed for success this time."
I glance down at the clothes Emma helped me buy yesterday at the general store: practical jeans that actually fit and a flannel shirt that is softer than any shirt I’ve ever purchased. “Emma is a great stylist.” I laugh, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "Though I did have to talk her out of buying me a hat with more rhinestones than a Vegas showgirl."
"That's my girl." Jake grins from where he's loading his plate with what looks like enough eggs to feed half of Manhattan. "Always trying to add some sparkle to ranch life."
"Speaking of sparkle..." I pour coffee into the mug Wes silently extends toward me, our fingers brushing in a way that definitely doesn't make my heart skip. "I was thinking about what we discussed yesterday. About the breeding program."
Wes's jaw tightens. “Not today.”
Oh.
His curt words stop me cold. Before I can backpedal or make a joke to diffuse the tension, he sets down his coffee mug with a decisive thunk. “The north fence needs mending.”
That gets everyone moving, which is how I find myself in the barn twenty minutes later, being handed various implements of questionable purpose while the Montgomerys move with the kind of efficiency that makes me feel like I'm perpetually in the way.
Two hours and several equipment tutorials later, we're spread out along the north fence line. The baling wire coils around my fingers as I struggle to secure the fence post. My tenth attempt, if anyone's counting. The morning sun beats down on my neck, and I'm painfully aware that my characters never seemed to sweat while doing repair work. Then again, my characters never had to deal with actual physics.
"Wrap it under, not over."
Wes's deep voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill. He steps closer, and I catch that now-familiar scent of coffee and leather that seems to follow him everywhere.
"My head knows what to do, but my hands aren’t cooperating.”
The wire slips again, and I bite back a curse that would make my editor blush. My last manuscript was full of scenes that now feel hollow compared to the reality of ranch work. A reality that includes calloused hands, aching muscles, and the maddening presence of a cowboy who makes all my written heroes feel like paper cutouts.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
He steps behind me, his leather work gloves closing over mine as he guides my movements. Even through two layers of leather, the heat of his hands registers, and suddenly, the wire isn't my biggest problem. I force myself to focus on the twisting motion he's demonstrating, not on how his chest brushes my shoulder or how the leather of his gloves creaks against mine with each careful movement.
"Writers usually do."
His soft chuckle vibrates through the space between us. I'm collecting these moments, storing them away like precious research notes. The way morning light catches on the fence wire. How leather work gloves soften with use. The precise angle needed to secure a post without stabbing yourself.
The wire finally catches, holding firm. A small victory, but my heart soars anyway. A few days ago, I thought I knew how to write about ranch life. Now I'm learning how much I never understood. Like how satisfaction feels when work-worn hands accomplish something real. Or how a single touch can rewrite everything you thought you knew about chemistry.
"Got it this time."
My triumph must show in my voice because his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary. It’s crazy how sharing honest work with someone seems so intimate. Maybe it’s from the shared purpose and sweat. I don’t know, but I’ve never experienced anything like it.
"Not bad." Wes steps back, breaking the spell. His voice carries that gruff approval that I'm learning means more than effusive praise would from someone else. "For a city writer."
I turn to face him, taking in how the morning light catches the stubble along his jaw. My hands still tingle from his touch, even through the leather gloves. "You know, some of us city writers can actually learn new tricks."
"So I see.” His blue eyes hold mine for a moment before he glances down the fence line where Jake and Colt are working. "Though I notice your mind is somewhere else.”
Heat creeps up my neck that has nothing to do with the morning sun. "That obvious, huh?"
"You get this look." The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. "Like you're cataloging moments.”
"Occupational hazard." I flex my fingers in the too-stiff gloves, trying to work out the ache.
"Speaking of hazards," he says, his expression shifting as he looks past me, "you might want to turn around. Slowly."
My heart jumps to my throat. "Please tell me it's not another mouse."
"Worse." There's definitely amusement in his voice now. "Kevin."
I turn, following his gaze, and come face-to-face with what has to be the most judgmental peacock I've ever seen. His iridescent feathers catch the morning light as he struts closer, head bobbing with each deliberate step.
"So, this is the complicated peacock Emma warned me about?"
"The one and only." Wes crosses his arms, watching as Kevin circles us with imperial disdain. "He thinks he owns the place."
"Technically," Jake calls from down the fence line, "he kind of does. That bird's been here longer than any of us."
Kevin stops directly in front of me, his beady eyes studying my boots with obvious disapproval. Then, with the kind of dramatic flair that would make Broadway directors jealous, he spreads his tail feathers in a dazzling display.
"Is he... trying to impress me or threaten me?" I whisper, not daring to move.
"With Kevin?" Wes's voice holds a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Usually both. Sarah used to say he's got main character energy."
The casual mention of his sister catches me off guard. It's the first time he's said her name without that edge of pain. Before I can respond, Kevin lets out a screech that probably carries all the way to Manhattan.
"Showoff," Wes mutters, but there's warmth in his tone.
"I don't know." I risk taking a step closer to the preening bird. "I kind of get it. Sometimes you just need to remind everyone how fabulous you are."
Kevin tilts his head, considering me with one beady eye. Then, to my complete surprise, he folds his impressive tail and starts pecking at the ground near my feet like we're old friends.
"Well," Wes says after a moment, "that's new. Usually takes him weeks to warm up to strangers."
"Must be my natural charm." I grin, watching Kevin strut in elegant circles around us. "Or maybe he just recognizes a fellow dramatist when he sees one."
"Great." Wes rolls his eyes, but I catch that hint of a smile again. "Just what this ranch needs—two divas."
"Three," I correct him, nodding toward where Jake is now posing against a fence post, apparently practicing his dating profile shots. "Don't forget your brother's modeling career."
Wes watches Jake flex for an imaginary camera and shakes his head. "Lord help us all."
A distant rumble of thunder makes Kevin puff up his feathers in alarm. I look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon, rolling in fast as only Montana storms can.
"That's our cue," Wes says, already gathering tools. "Storm's coming. We need to check the herd."
His sudden shift to business mode reminds me that this isn't just about fence repairs and peacock encounters. This is real ranch life, where weather can change everything in an instant. The brothers move with practiced efficiency, their earlier joking forgotten as they pack up equipment.
"What can I do?" I ask, trying to match their urgency.
"Stay close." Wes's voice carries that note of authority that brooks no argument. "These storms can get nasty fast."
We make our way back toward the barn, Kevin strutting ahead of us like some feathered parade marshal. The wind picks up, whipping my hair around my face despite Emma's careful braiding. The temperature drops so quickly that I can feel it through my flannel shirt.
"Colt, take the south pasture," Wes calls out over the rising wind. "Jake?—"
"North field, got it." Jake's already mounting up, his earlier playfulness replaced by focused determination.
"What about me?" I have to raise my voice as another rumble of thunder rolls across the valley.
Wes pauses in tightening his horse's cinch to look at me. "You're with me. We need to check the western fence line before this hits."
My stomach does a little flip at the thought of riding out in this weather, but there's no time for second thoughts. Wes is already swinging into his saddle, extending a hand down to me.
"Unless you'd rather stay here?"
I grab his hand, letting him pull me up behind him. "Not a chance. I came for an authentic ranch experience, remember?"
The sky opens up just as we clear the barn, and suddenly, I understand why Montana storms have their own chapter in weather books. The rain doesn't just fall—it assaults, hitting so hard the drops sting through my shirt. Thunder cracks overhead, close enough to make my teeth rattle, and lightning splits the sky in jagged bursts of white.
I tighten my grip around Wes's waist, grateful for his solid warmth as the horse picks up speed. The world narrows to the rhythm of hoofbeats, the smell of rain-soaked leather, and the way his muscles flex as he guides us through the storm. My hair plasters to my face, and my new jeans are probably ruined, but I can't bring myself to care. There's something wildly exhilarating about racing a storm across Montana grassland.
"You okay back there?" Wes calls over his shoulder, his voice nearly lost in the wind.
"Never better!" And surprisingly, it's true. I'm soaked to the bone, probably looking like a drowned rat, clinging to a cowboy in the middle of what feels like biblical weather, and I've never felt more alive.