Chapter Nine – Wes
Chapter Nine
Wes
" Y ou're burning it!" Emma hollers, her words turning into a gurgled laugh. "Grilled cheese is not supposed to be charred."
I press my thumb and forefinger against my temples, staring at the financial reports spread across my desk. The sound of their laughter drifts in from the kitchen, making it impossible to focus on the numbers that keep blurring together.
"Uncle Wes!" Emma's voice carries through the house. "Paisley's trying to poison us with burnt cheese!"
"It's called caramelized!" Paisley protests, her laughter mixing with Emma's in a way that makes my chest tight. "It's very gourmet."
"It's very black," Emma counters. "Even Kevin wouldn't eat this."
I shouldn't go in there. I've got feed calculations to review, supplier contracts to negotiate, and a stack of bills that aren't going to pay themselves. But my feet are already moving, drawn by the sound of my niece's unbridled joy—something that's been too rare since Sarah died.
The scene in the kitchen stops me cold. Paisley's got butter on her cheek, her borrowed flannel shirt—mine, again—rolled up to her elbows as she wrestles with what appears to be a grilled cheese sandwich turned crime scene. Emma's perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching the disaster unfold with the kind of delighted horror only a ten-year-old can muster.
"I swear," Paisley's saying, waving a spatula like a conductor's baton, "in Manhattan, this would cost twenty dollars and be called 'artisanal.'"
"In Manhattan," Emma says with perfect Sarah-like sass, "they probably know the difference between golden brown and charcoal."
Something in my chest constricts at how easily they've fallen into this rhythm, like Paisley's always belonged in our kitchen, burning grilled cheese and making my niece laugh. It's dangerous, this comfort. This sense of rightness has no business settling into our lives.
"The trick," I find myself saying, stepping fully into the kitchen, "is to lower the heat."
They both jump, Paisley nearly dropping the spatula. The flush that creeps up her neck makes me wonder if she's remembering this morning's fence repair lesson, her back pressed against my chest as I showed her the proper wire technique. I sure haven't forgotten.
"Uncle Wes!" Emma brightens. "Save us from Paisley's cooking!"
"My cooking is perfectly fine," Paisley defends, but her eyes dance with humor. "It's just... adventurous."
"That's one word for it." I move to the stove, gently taking the spatula from her hand. Our fingers brush, and I pretend not to notice how she catches her breath. "Though I'm pretty sure 'hazardous' might be more accurate."
"Says the man who probably learned to cook over a campfire," she retorts, but steps aside, letting me take over. Her hip bumps mine as she moves, and I focus very intently on the blackened sandwich in the pan.
"Actually," Emma pipes up, "Uncle Wes makes the best grilled cheese. Mom taught him." Her voice carries that careful tone she gets when talking about Sarah. "She said he was hopeless until she threatened to tell everyone about the time he?—"
"That's enough family history," I cut in, but my lips twitch despite myself. Sarah had wielded that particular story like a weapon until I finally mastered the perfect grilled cheese technique.
Paisley leans against the counter, watching me work with those observant writer's eyes that seem to catch everything. "Let me guess. There's a deeply embarrassing story involving a cooking disaster and possibly a cute girl?"
"There might be," I concede, flipping a new sandwich onto the griddle with practiced ease. "But you'll never hear it."
"Challenge accepted." She grins, and man if it doesn't hit me right in the chest. "I bet Emma knows all the good stories."
"Emma," I say pointedly, "knows the value of keeping family secrets."
"Emma," my niece announces, "knows her price in ice cream sundaes."
Paisley laughs—that full, throaty sound that's been filling our house lately. "I like the way you think, kid."
I slide a perfectly golden grilled cheese onto a plate, pretending my ears aren't burning at the thought of Paisley hearing about sixteen-year-old Wes's attempts to impress Jenny Martinez with his nonexistent cooking skills. "Here. This is how it's done."
Emma claims the first sandwich with the speed of a striking rattler. "See?" she says around a mouthful of melted cheese. "This is what food is supposed to look like."
"Everyone's a critic." Paisley edges closer, peering over my shoulder at the second sandwich cooking. She smells like Emma's cotton candy soap and something uniquely her—a scent that's starting to feel dangerously familiar. "So, what's the secret?"
"Besides basic fire safety?" I flip the sandwich, revealing perfectly browned bread. "Patience."
"Ah." Her breath tickles my neck. "Not my strong suit."
"I've noticed." The words come out lower than intended, and I feel her slight intake of breath.
Emma hops down from the counter, sandwich in hand. "I'm going to go check on Kevin. He gets lonely when it rains." She pauses at the doorway. "Try not to burn anything else while I'm gone."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming," Paisley calls after her, but Emma's already disappeared, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
The kitchen feels smaller without Emma's buffer of endless chatter. Paisley stays close, watching as I place another slice of bread onto the griddle. The rain hits the windows in steady sheets, making the kitchen feel like its own isolated world.
"Sarah taught you all to cook?" Her voice is soft, careful, like she's testing the waters.
I focus on buttering the bread, buying time before answering. "She tried. Jake was hopeless—burned water once. Actually managed to set off the smoke alarm making cereal."
"Cereal?"
"Don't ask." I flip the bread, watching it brown. "But yeah, Sarah had this thing about us being self-sufficient. Said cowboys who couldn't feed themselves weren't worth their salt."
Paisley shifts closer, her arm brushing mine as she reaches for a clean plate. "You were close? All of you?" Her voice carries that writer's curiosity, the kind that digs for details to flesh out characters. Only these aren't characters she's probing at; they're my family, my wounds.
"We had to be." The words come easier than expected, maybe because I'm keeping my eyes on the griddle, watching butter melt into perfect golden circles. "After Mom died, Sarah stepped in. She was only sixteen, but she kept us in line." I let out a rough laugh. "Trust me, herding three teenage boys is harder than wrangling any bull."
"Let me guess. You were the troublemaker?"
"Nah, that was Jake. Still is." I flip the bread, remembering Sarah's face that time she caught Jake trying to ride Thunder blindfolded. "I was the stubborn one. Colt was the peacekeeper. Sarah..." My throat tightens. "Sarah was the force of nature that kept us from tearing each other apart."
"And your dad?"
The question hangs between us like smoke. "Threw himself into the ranch. Grief does that sometimes—makes you focus on what you can control." I layer cheese with mechanical precision, following Sarah's old recipe like a ritual. "He was a good man. Just... lost after Mom. Started spending more time with the cattle than his kids. Probably figured they were easier to understand."
"How old were you?"
"Twelve. Jake was ten, Colt fourteen." I pause, suddenly aware I'm sharing things I haven't talked about in years. "Sarah was sixteen going on forty. Made sure we did our homework, ate something besides beef jerky, and kept us from killing each other over who had to muck stalls." The memory of her standing in the barn, hands on hips, lecturing us about responsibility hits like a physical ache. "Even after she married Paul and had Emma, she was still holding us together. Running interference between Dad and Jake, helping Colt with college applications, keeping me from..." I stop, the words sticking in my throat.
"From what?"
"From becoming exactly what I am now." The admission comes out rougher than intended. "All work, no time for anything else. She used to say I'd work myself into an early grave if she let me."
Paisley's quiet for a moment, just the sound of rain and sizzling cheese between us. "And now you're the glue."
It's not a question. I glance at her, caught off guard by the understanding in her eyes. There's no pity there, just a clear-eyed recognition that makes my chest tight. "Someone has to be."
"But it's more than that." She studies my profile like she's reading between lines I didn't know I was writing. "You're not just running the ranch; you're trying to preserve everything Sarah built. The family she held together. It's like you're trying to be both yourself and her at the same time."
The truth of it hits like a physical blow. I flip the sandwich with more force than necessary, sending tiny butter droplets flying. "Ranch needs running. Emma needs raising. Not much to analyze there."
"Says the man who's been up since four, analyzing feed costs." Her hip bumps mine again, intentionally this time. "You know, it's okay to admit you're carrying a lot. Even Sarah probably had days where she wanted to lock you all in the barn and run away to join the circus." She smiles, but her eyes stay serious. "My point is, even the glue needs a break sometimes."
"I'm fine." The words come out automatically, worn smooth from repetition.
"Mm-hmm. And I'm Martha Stewart in the kitchen. We all have our delusions."
"I'm fine.”
She laughs—that real, unguarded sound that keeps sneaking past my defenses. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"So I've been told." I slide the finished sandwich onto her plate, definitely not noticing how her fingers brush mine as she takes it. "Usually by people who think they've got me figured out."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." She takes a bite, closing her eyes in appreciation. “Though I will say you’ve been holding out on us with these grilled cheese skills.”
“Family secret.”
“Like the Jenny Martinez story?”
I groan. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.” Her grin is pure mischief. “I’m a writer, remember? Uncovering stories is what I do.”
“Some stories are better left buried.”
“Like how you and your brothers ended up running this place?” She sets her plate down, expression turning serious. “Emma mentioned your dad passed recently. That couldn’t have been easy, taking over everything while dealing with Sarah’s accident, too."
The memory hits hard—Dad's quietly determined face as he signed over the ranch, just weeks before the cancer took him. How he'd made me promise to keep the family legacy alive, to take care of Emma, to be the man he knew I could be.
"Wasn't about easy." I start another sandwich, needing the distraction. "Was about doing what needed doing."
"That seems to be your life motto."
"Better than being one of your cowboys in tight jeans.”
She laughs again, but there's a thoughtful edge to it. "You know, I used to think I understood what it meant to run a ranch. Write about the romantic parts: sunset rides, saving the farm, love conquering all." She takes another bite of her sandwich. "But it's the quiet parts I never got right. The way a family builds something generation by generation. The weight of those promises."
I look at her then, really look at her. She's got a smudge of cheese on her chin, her borrowed flannel rumpled from a morning of chores, looking nothing like the polished city writer who showed up on my porch. But it's the understanding in her eyes that catches me—like she's seeing past all my careful walls to the weight I'm carrying.
"Some things," I say finally, turning back to the griddle, "can't be written into a romance novel."
"No," she agrees softly. "Some things have to be lived."