Chapter Twelve – Wes
Chapter Twelve
Wes
" F eed's running low, and we're almost out of mineral blocks." Jake drops the inventory sheet on the kitchen table like it's burning his fingers. "Going to need more baling wire, too.”
I rub my temples, staring at the numbers that mock me from the page while my coffee grows cold. The feed supplier’s already called twice about our account, and the list of what we need keeps growing longer than the list of what we can afford. Some days feel designed to test exactly how much pride a man can swallow before breakfast.
“I’ll make a supply run.” The words taste like surrender. Wilson’s will extend credit—they always do—but every extension feels like another nail in the ranch's coffin.
"I'll come with you."
Paisley's voice catches me off guard. She's standing in the doorway, hair still damp from her morning shower, wearing one of my old flannels like she has any right to make it look that good.
"Town's not exactly exciting." I focus on the invoices, pretending I haven't noticed how that shirt hangs past her hips or how she's rolled the sleeves up just enough to show delicate wrists that are starting to callus from real work.
"Perfect. I need boring." She drops into the chair across from me, stealing my cold coffee with the casual confidence of someone who's gotten too comfortable here. "My agent's been hounding me for authentic small-town details. What's more authentic than a supply run?"
Jake snorts. "Watching paint dry might be more entertaining."
"You don't have to—" I start, but she's already got that look. The one that means she's made up her mind and arguing will just waste breath better spent on actual work.
"Actually, I do." She takes another sip of my coffee, nose wrinkling at the temperature. "Unless you want my next book to feature a small town where everyone drives Teslas and gets their coffee from artisanal roasters."
The drive's quiet except for the truck's familiar groan over each pothole. Paisley's got her writer's look again—taking in everything, probably turning our worn-down ranch road into something fancy for her next book.
Main Street stretches out before us, unchanged as ever. Same crooked awnings shade the cracked sidewalks where Sarah used to walk with me, insisting there was more to life than endless ranch work and calloused hands. Martha's OPEN sign still flickers, marking time like it has for twenty years now. Bill Murphy holds court outside the hardware store, permanent as the mountains themselves, in the same spot he's claimed since I was Emma's age.
"This is incredible." Paisley's practically vibrating with writer's energy beside me. "It's like every small town I've tried to write, except..."
"Real?"
"Exactly!" She turns that thousand-watt smile on me, the kind that makes my chest tight in ways I don't want to examine too closely. "I have to ask… Does every single person in town need to stare at us like we're the main attraction at a circus?"
I grunt, guiding the truck into Wilson's parking lot while painfully aware of how news travels in a town this size. Leaving the ranch is like stepping into a fishbowl—every move analyzed, every interaction fodder for tomorrow's coffee shop gossip.
"Wes Montgomery, as I live and breathe!" Martha's voice carries across the street like a dinner bell, and I resist the urge to duck back into the truck. "And with company, no less!"
Paisley straightens beside me, curiosity bright in her eyes as Martha practically bounces across the street, her usual checkered apron fluttering like victory flags.
"You must be the writer everyone's been talking about." Martha beams at Paisley like she's discovered buried treasure. "Lord knows we've been dying to meet you. This one”—she jerks her thumb at me—"keeps you hidden away at that ranch like some kind of secret."
"Not hidden," I mutter, shifting my weight. "Just busy."
“‘Busy,’ he says." Martha rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair of someone who's known me since I was stealing cookies from her kitchen. "Like we haven't all been wondering about the mysterious romance writer who's got our most notorious hermit actually leaving his mountain."
The tips of my ears burn. "Supply run?—"
"Can wait ten minutes while you two have some pie." Martha's tone brooks no argument, same as when Sarah and I were kids, trying to sneak out without eating. "Just pulled a fresh berry crumble from the oven."
Paisley glances at me, lips twitching. "I have heard rumors about your pie."
"Best in three counties," Martha declares proudly. "Though you wouldn't know it from how rarely this one visits." She fixes me with a look that probably worked better when I was twelve. "Your sister always said you'd work yourself into an early grave if someone didn't force you to take breaks."
Sarah's name catches me off guard, and I almost step back. But Paisley moves closer, her shoulder touching mine lightly, not saying anything.
"Well, we can't have that." Paisley’s voice carries just enough warmth to anchor me. "I still need him functional for research purposes."
Martha's eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and I know that look. It's the same one she wore when Sarah first brought Paul around, like she's already making wedding plans.
"Research, is it?" Martha's smile could power half the county. "Then you absolutely must come to the Fall Festival next weekend. For research purposes, of course. Can't write about small-town life without experiencing our signature event."
"Fall Festival?" Paisley perks up like one of Emma's barn cats spotting a mouse.
"Don't encourage her," I warn, but it's too late. Martha's already launched into her festival committee chairperson speech, complete with animated hand gestures that send her apron strings dancing.
"Biggest event of the season! The whole town turns out. Square dancing, pie contests, hayrides?—"
"Waste of time," I cut in, but Paisley's already got that look—the one that means she's filing away details for her next book.
"It sounds perfect," she breathes, and Martha practically glows.
"Oh, you must join the planning committee! Who better than a real romance writer to help with this year's theme?"
I feel my shoulders tense. "Theme?"
" Fall in Love with Pine Ridge! " Martha spreads her hands like she's unveiling a masterpiece. "Sarah always said we needed more romance in our festivals. She'd be thrilled to pieces to have a real romance author involved."
"I'd love to help," Paisley says softly, and somehow it doesn't feel like a betrayal to Sarah’s memory.
"Perfect!" Martha claps her hands, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Of course, you'll need a partner for the square dance?—"
"That's enough." I straighten, needing distance from wherever this conversation's heading. "Supply run, remember?"
"Of course, dear." Martha pats my arm with grandmotherly affection that doesn't match her scheming expression. “Make sure you stop by the store before you head back to the ranch. I'll have those pies boxed up and ready to go. Emma still likes the apple best, right?"
"Martha—" I start, but Paisley cuts in.
"That's so thoughtful of you." Her smile could rival Martha's for pure wattage. "I'm sure Emma would love that."
"And maybe a berry crumble, too," Martha adds with a wink that sets my teeth on edge. "Since someone around here could use more sweetness in his life."
I grunt, already heading toward Wilson's, but not before catching the way Paisley bites her lip to hold back a laugh. Martha's matchmaking is about as subtle as a bull in spring, and just as dangerous.
"Ten minutes!" Martha calls after us. "Don't you dare leave town without those pies, Wes Montgomery.”
"Not a word," I warn Paisley as Martha disappears back in her shop.
"About the pies or the square dancing?" Her eyes dance with mischief. "Because I have to say, I'm really looking forward to seeing these authentic small-town moves of yours."
We walk the few steps to Wilson’s, and I hold the door for her. "Supply run," I remind her, and myself. "That's all this is."
"Of course." But her smile says something else entirely. "Just research."
Wilson's smells like it always has—leather and feed dust and decades of hardware dreams. Old man Wilson is behind the counter, squinting at his ancient register like it might start cooperating if he stares hard enough.
"Well, look who finally came down the mountain." Wilson's weathered face creases into a smile. "Jake said you'd be coming by for the usual supplies."
“Good to see you, Wilson.” I hand over my list, deliberately ignoring how Paisley wanders down the aisle, running her fingers over rope coils and fence tools like she's memorizing their texture for her next book. "And some extra mineral blocks, please.”
“Sure thing, but just so you know, prices went up again." His voice carries the same apology it has for months now. "I can still extend?—"
"Wes Montgomery?"
Her voice hits me like a bucket of ice water. Jenny Martinez—now Jenny Collins—stands in the doorway, looking exactly like she did in high school, except now, her left hand sports an enormous diamond ring.
"Jenny." I manage a nod, acutely aware of Paisley drifting back to my side." I didn't know you were back in town."
"Just visiting Mama." Her eyes drift to Paisley, then back to me with the kind of calculating interest that made her the town's best source of gossip even back in high school. "Though clearly, I'm not the only one bringing excitement to Pine Ridge."
"Paisley Monroe." Paisley extends her hand with city grace that somehow doesn't feel out of place among the feed bags and tractor parts. "I'm staying at Whispering Pines for a few months. Research for my next book."
"Research." Jenny's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
I feel my jaw tighten, but Paisley just laughs—that real, warm sound that's been filling up the quiet spaces at the ranch. "Well, that depends on who you ask. Martha seems to think it's an excuse for matchmaking and pie consumption."
"Martha hasn't changed, then." Jenny's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Though some things have. I never thought I'd see the day Wes Montgomery let someone else wear his shirts."
Paisley glances down at the flannel she's wearing—my old blue one that somehow looks better on her than it ever did on me. "What can I say? He’s a sharer.”
The tension crackles like static before a storm. Wilson busies himself with the register, probably wishing he were anywhere else. I know the feeling.
"Speaking of sharing…” Jenny's voice carries that sweet poison I remember too well. "You should ask Wes about the time he tried to impress me with his cooking skills. Ended up setting off every smoke alarm in town."
"That's quite a story." Paisley's voice stays warm, but there's steel underneath. "Though I'm more interested in his current skills. He makes a mean grilled cheese these days."
Something flashes in Jenny's eyes. "Does he now? How... domestic."
"Among other things." Paisley steps closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine in a way that feels like she’s claiming her territory. "You should see him with the horses. Or Emma. Really makes a girl rethink every cowboy she's ever written."
Wilson coughs, probably hiding a laugh. "Your total's on the screen, Wes. Want it on the account?"
“Yes.”
Jenny's eyes narrow slightly at that, and I know by sunset the whole town will be talking about Whispering Pines' finances. Again.
"Well." Jenny adjusts her designer purse with practiced precision. "I should get going. Mama's waiting. Nice meeting you, Paisley. Good luck with your... research."
The bell chimes her exit, leaving behind the ghost of expensive perfume and old regrets.