Chapter Ten – Wes
Chapter Ten
Wes
I catch Paisley trying to sneak past the geese pen, those designer boots moving with exaggerated care like she's diffusing a bomb instead of delivering feed. I've been watching her from the barn, pretending to check feed levels while she attempts her first solo chore—feeding the geese.
Jake thought she could handle this one on her own.
I disagreed.
But that only seemed to insult Paisley into proving me wrong. Now, here she is, three days of ranch life under her belt, with enough experience to be cautious but not enough to know that Bernard—Emma's prize show goose with delusions of grandeur—can smell fear from fifty paces.
"Careful," I call out, making Paisley jump. “Geese can smell fear." Especially Bernard.
She freezes mid-step, clutching the feed bucket like it might shield her from an impending assault. “Thanks. You’re so helpful.”
"Just offering friendly advice." I lean against the barn door, fighting back a smile as she shoots me a look that could curdle milk. "Bernard takes his territory very seriously."
"Bernard?" She eyes the large white goose who's now watching her with regal disdain. "You named a goose Bernard?"
"Emma named him." I cross my arms, watching as Bernard stretches his neck, sizing up this latest intruder. “She said he looked like her third-grade teacher. Same superior attitude."
Paisley takes another cautious step forward. "And does Bernard have any particular preferences I should know about? Like, does he appreciate Shakespeare? Take his tea with two lumps of sugar?"
"Actually," I say, just as Bernard lets out a warning honk that makes her jump, "he's partial to country music. Jake plays it in the barn sometimes."
She laughs despite herself, then quickly sobers when Bernard starts waddling in her direction. "You're kidding, right? Please tell me you're kidding about the country music thing."
“I never joke about a goose's musical taste." I push off from the doorframe, ready to intervene if needed. Not that I'm worried about her. Much. "Though I wouldn't start singing if I were you. He's a critic."
"Now you tell me." She inches toward the feeding trough, her boots leaving careful prints in the morning dew. "And here I was about to break into my rendition of 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.'"
The image hits me sideways, and I cover my reaction with a cough. She's got a way of doing that—throwing out these little comments that catch me off guard, making me think things I shouldn't about city writers in borrowed flannel shirts.
Bernard chooses that moment to charge, wings spread like some avenging angel of poultry justice. Paisley lets out a yelp that probably carries all the way to Manhattan, dumping half the feed bucket in her haste to retreat.
"Some help here!" she calls out, doing an awkward dance to avoid Bernard's advancing beak. "Your guard goose is about to attack me!”
I shouldn't find it so entertaining, watching her try to maintain her dignity while being pursued by an outraged goose. But there's something about the way she handles it—equal parts determination and barely contained panic—that gets to me.
"You're doing fine," I call back, even as she nearly trips over her own feet. "Just remember, eye contact shows dominance."
"I don't want dominance!" She's given up on dignity now, practically jogging in circles while Bernard follows with militant precision. "I want to feed the stupid birds without losing a finger!"
Emma appears beside me, summoned either by the commotion or her sixth sense for entertaining disasters. Her eyes light up at the scene before her.
"Oh, no," she says, trying to stifle a giggle. "Bernard's doing his intimidation dance. That means he thinks you're challenging his authority."
Paisley dodges another of Bernard's lunges. "I'm not challenging anything! I'm just trying to—" She stumbles backward, windmilling her arms. "How is this even my life right now?"
"The trick," Emma announces with all the wisdom of her ten years, "is to bow first. Show respect."
"Bow?" Paisley shoots us both an incredulous look as she sidesteps Bernard's latest advance. "To a goose?"
"He used to be in theater," Emma says with complete seriousness. "At least, that's what I think. He's very dramatic."
I can't help it—the laugh escapes before I can catch it. The sound makes Paisley glare at me again, which only sets Emma off, too.
"This isn't funny!" Paisley protests, but her lips are twitching. "I'm being terrorized by poultry with a superiority complex!"
Bernard honks in what sounds suspiciously like agreement, advancing with his neck extended like nobility approaching a peasant. The morning sun catches his white feathers, giving him an almost regal glow.
"Just try it," Emma encourages. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"I lose the last shred of my dignity?" But Paisley's already shifting the feed bucket to one arm, watching Bernard warily. "Fine. But if this doesn't work, I'm writing him into my next book as the villain."
She executes an awkward curtsy-bow hybrid that makes Emma clap her hands in delight. Bernard stops his advance, considering this development with his head tilted to one side.
"Now what?" Paisley whispers, frozen in her half bow.
"Now," Emma says triumphantly, "you can feed him. But make sure you compliment his feathers first. He works very hard on them."
The look Paisley gives me could strip paint. "You're all crazy. This whole ranch is crazy." But she straightens slowly, keeping her movements deliberate. "Bernard, your feathers are absolutely magnificent today. Truly stunning. Movie-star quality."
And just like that, the tension breaks. Bernard preens, actually preens, before graciously allowing Paisley to approach the feeding trough. The other geese, who've been watching the drama unfold like some kind of feathered Greek chorus, waddle forward for their breakfast.
"I can't believe that worked," Paisley mutters, carefully distributing feed while Bernard supervises with imperial dignity.
"Dad used to say some creatures just need the right approach." Emma's voice carries that careful tone she gets when talking about her parents. "Mom always said Bernard was just misunderstood."
Something in my chest tightens, watching these two unlikely allies share a moment of understanding over a temperamental goose. Paisley catches my eye, and there's a softness there that makes me look away first.
"Well," she says, straightening up as Bernard begins his breakfast inspection, "I guess every ranch needs its characters." She brushes off her hands, shooting the goose a considering look. "Though I have to admit, none of my book research mentioned having to bow to poultry."
"That's because you've been writing the wrong kind of cowboys," Emma informs her. "The real ones know how to handle dramatic geese."
"Clearly." Paisley's laugh carries across the morning air, genuine and warm. "I have so much to learn."
She has no idea how dangerous that statement is. Or maybe she does, judging by the way her eyes meet mine again, holding something that feels too much like a challenge.
I clear my throat. "Come on. Cattle won't feed themselves, and they're a lot less particular about proper etiquette."
"Thank goodness for that," she says, falling into step beside me as we head back to the east barn.
Emma skips ahead of us, already focused on her next mission of the morning, probably involving that growing collection of cats she's amassing in the barn. I glance at Paisley as we walk, noting how she's already moving differently after just three days here. Less hesitation in her stride, like she's starting to find her rhythm here.
You know," she says thoughtfully, "I think I just found the perfect subplot for my next book."
"Bernard, the theatrical goose?" I shake my head. "Pretty sure that's not the kind of authenticity your readers want.”
"No, but it's real." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That's what's been missing from my books. Not just the big, dramatic moments, but the small, bizarre ones. Like having to bow to a goose before breakfast."
The way she says it—equal parts amused and amazed—makes me smile. "Ranch life isn't all romantic horse rides and dramatic rescues."
"Clearly." She shoots me a sidelong glance. "Though I notice you let me flounder quite a while before Emma came to the rescue."
“Consider it an educational experience." I hold the barn door open for her, trying not to notice how she brushes past close enough that I catch the scent of Emma's cotton candy soap mixed with something uniquely her. "Besides, you handled it well.”
"Barely." But there's pride in her voice. "Though I have to ask—does Bernard actually like country music, or were you just messing with me?"
I meet her eyes, keeping my face carefully neutral. "Guess you'll have to stick around long enough to find out."
The words hang between us, heavier than intended.
"So," she says finally, breaking the moment, "about those cattle. Any other ranch wisdom I should know before we start? Secret handshakes? Special dances?"
"Nope." I move past her into the barn, needing distance from whatever's building between us. "Just good old-fashioned work."
"How disappointing." Her voice carries that hint of laughter. "And here I was hoping to see you do the macarena."
"The day's still young." I reach for the feed buckets, handing her one. “Though I warn you, I’m not a great dancer.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
That's what makes her dangerous. Not the way she looks in borrowed flannel or how quickly she's learning our rhythms, but how she seems to bring out the softer side of me.
I grab another bucket, focusing on the familiar weight.
"Wes?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks." She hefts her bucket, matching my stride toward the feed bins. "For letting me learn. Even if you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself sometimes."
I catch myself before responding. There's something about the way she says it—not just the words, but the underlying vulnerability beneath her humor.
"You're doing fine," I say finally, measuring feed into the buckets with practiced motions. "Better than most city folks who come out here."
"High praise indeed." She bumps my shoulder with hers as she reaches for the scoop. "Though I notice you didn't deny enjoying my disasters."
"Entertainment's hard to come by out here." I watch her carefully measure feed, noting how she's already learned the right proportions. "Gotta take it where we can get it."
She shoots me a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated. "Well, I'm glad my ongoing humiliation provides such quality ranch entertainment. Should I schedule my next mishap before or after lunch?"
"Knowing you? Probably both." The words come out softer than intended, wrapped in something that feels dangerously like affection.