Chapter Fourteen – Paisley
Chapter Fourteen
Paisley
T he hot shower washed away the last traces of creek mud and ATV adventures, leaving my muscles loose and warm. Now, wrapped in clean flannel—Wes's again, because apparently, I've stopped even pretending to wear my own clothes—I'm settled into the corner of the worn leather couch, still full from the best home-cooked meal I've had in years. Who knew Wes Montgomery could make enchiladas that would put my favorite Manhattan restaurant to shame?
The fire he built crackles and pops in the stone fireplace, painting everyone in flickering gold as logs shift and settle. Outside, Montana darkness presses against frosted windowpanes, but in here, everything glows with contentment and warmth. A Jenga tower rises precariously from the coffee table—evidence of how far I've come from my takeout-and-Netflix existence. Three weeks on this ranch have changed more than just my wardrobe choices. They've shifted something fundamental, something I'm not quite ready to examine too closely.
I never expected to find peace in the form of a teetering wooden tower, yet here we are: three rugged cowboys, one precocious ten-year-old, and a romance writer who's starting to suspect her characters have been living in the wrong version of reality all along.
"Your turn, city girl." Jake's grin is pure evil as the tower sways ominously. "Let's see those steady writer hands in action."
"No pressure," Colt adds helpfully. "Just your team's dignity at stake."
I glance at Wes, my reluctant teammate who's watching the proceedings with a quiet amusement that makes my stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics. "Any strategic advice?"
"Don't knock it over."
"Wow. Profound. Is that the kind of wisdom that comes from generations of ranching?"
His lips twitch. "Among other things."
The tower wobbles as I assess my options. Emma leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Go for the middle one! The one that's kind of sideways!"
"The obviously load-bearing piece?" I eye the block in question. "Are you secretly working for the opposition?"
"She's definitely not biased," Colt says, sharing a conspiratorial wink with his niece. "Even if Jake did promise her ice cream if our team wins."
"Betrayal!" I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. "And here I thought we had a special bond over bubble bath collections and complicated peacocks."
Emma giggles, the sound pure and bright in the firelit room. "Sorry! But Uncle Jake promised chocolate sprinkles!"
"My own principles can be bought with sprinkles," I admit, carefully testing a block near the bottom. "Though in Manhattan, we usually negotiate with overpriced lattes and questionable life choices."
"Speaking of Manhattan…" Jake settles back in his chair, clearly enjoying my struggles with structural integrity. "How does a city girl end up writing cowboy romance anyway?"
I catch Wes's knowing look from across the Jenga tower. He's heard this story before, that morning in his kitchen over cold coffee and ranch finances.
"Long story." The block shifts slightly.
"We've got time," Colt adds, genuinely curious. "Unless you're planning to knock that over soon."
"I'm creating suspense." I adjust my grip on the block, aware of Wes's quiet amusement. "I grew up in Atlanta, actually. Spent my teenage years reading every romance novel I could get my hands on, dreaming about places that weren't suburban Georgia."
"And you picked cowboys?" Colt sounds intrigued.
"More like they picked me." The block finally slides free, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "I was working retail and absolutely hated it. Started a blog about my imaginary life on a ranch, complete with a fictional cowboy heir who was whisking me away from fluorescent lights and tissue paper hell."
Wes coughs something that sounds suspiciously like "sunrise yoga," and I shoot him a look that only makes his eyes dance with suppressed laughter.
"Let me guess," Jake grins. "It went viral?"
"Embarrassingly so." I hand the block to Wes, our fingers brushing in a way that definitely doesn't make my pulse jump. "People thought it was real. Started following my 'journey' to ranch life. When I finally admitted it was fiction, someone suggested I try writing romance novels."
"And the rest is history?" Emma asks, clearly invested in the story despite her sprinkle-based betrayal.
"More like the rest is irony." I watch Wes place our block with surgical precision. "Ten years writing about ranch life, and I'd never actually been on a working ranch until now. Talk about life imitating art."
"Would you ever leave Manhattan?" The question comes from Colt, casual as a lightning strike. "Now that you've experienced the real thing?"
The room goes quiet enough to hear the fire pop. I stare at the Jenga tower, suddenly unable to meet anyone's eyes, especially Wes's. "I..."
The room goes quiet enough to hear the fire pop. I stare at the Jenga tower, suddenly unable to meet anyone's eyes, especially Wes's. "I..."
That's when Emma’s cat, Trouble, lives up to his name, launching himself from his perch on the mantle directly onto the coffee table. The Jenga tower doesn't stand a chance. Wooden blocks scatter across the floor while he looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"And that's game!" Jake stands, stretching dramatically with a victorious grin. "Team Montgomery-Montgomery wins again. Looks like someone's getting ice cream tomorrow." He winks at Emma, who's already bouncing with excitement despite the mess of blocks around her feet.
"Last time I saw a crash that epic, it was Jake trying to impress that rodeo queen with his line dancing," Colt laughs, pushing up from his chair. "Come on, Romeo. Dawn comes early.”
Emma launches herself at her uncles, wrapping her arms around Jake's waist first. "Night, Uncle Jake! Don't forget about the ice cream!"
"As if you'd let me," Jake chuckles, ruffling her hair before she moves to Colt.
"Night, troublemaker.” Colt gives her a bear hug that lifts her feet off the ground and makes her giggle. "Try not to smother in all that cat fur tonight.”
To my surprise, both brothers stop to give me quick, friendly hugs before shrugging into their coats. The casual affection catches me off guard—so different from my Manhattan life of air kisses and careful distance.
"Night, city girl," Jake calls over his shoulder as they head out. "Good luck with bedtime. Last time it went until midnight—something about needing just one more chapter and three more bedtime stories."
Emma bounces on her toes. "That's because it was getting to the good part!"
"Sure, it was, kiddo." Colt laughs, zipping up his coat. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with trying to stay up past your bedtime."
The brothers make their exit into the cold Montana night, leaving me alone with Wes and Emma, who's already employing advanced negotiation tactics to delay bedtime.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes nine, and Emma immediately perks up like she's been waiting for this moment all evening.
"Story time!" She bounces on her toes, already in her unicorn pajamas with Trouble tucked under one arm. "Uncle Wes, we have to find out what happens to Edmund!"
Wes shifts in his chair, and I catch the faintest hint of color creeping up his neck. "Emma, I'm sure Paisley doesn't want to?—"
"Actually," I cut in, unable to resist the way his ears are turning red, "I'd love to hear what happens next. Though you'll have to catch me up on the story so far."
Emma's face lights up like Christmas came early. "It's about these kids who find a magic wardrobe, and there's a witch who's made it always winter but never Christmas, and Edmund's been really stupid and eaten this magic Turkish Delight?—"
I settle deeper into the couch, charmed by her enthusiasm. She might have Sarah's looks, but that rapid-fire excitement is pure Montgomery.
"You sure?" Wes cuts in, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’s holding the book like it might bite him. "We're halfway through, and?—"
"Oh, just read," Emma commands, and Wes clears his throat three times before opening to the dog-eared page. He stares at it for a long moment like he's forgotten how words work.
"I'm sure." I grab the old quilt from the back of the couch—the one Emma told me Sarah made during her pregnancy—and settle into the corner. "I haven't heard a good bedtime story in ages."
Emma doesn't wait for further discussion. She wedges herself between us like a small, pajama-clad pillow, her head finding that spot on Wes's shoulder that seems made just for her. Trouble arranges himself across all our laps like some kind of feline seat belt.
When he starts reading, Wes's voice is different from anything I've heard from him before. Deeper, softer, with a rhythm that speaks of countless nights just like this one. He does voices—actual different voices for each character—and something in my chest constricts at how much practice that must have taken. How many nights he's spent making this story come alive for the little girl who has lost everything else.
I should be taking notes. This is exactly the kind of authentic detail my books have been missing. But instead, I find myself watching him—the way his forehead crinkles when he does the Witch's voice, how his free hand absently strokes Emma's hair as he reads. The steady rise and fall of his chest, strong enough to support a child's grief, yet gentle enough to bring magic into her world every night.
The words start to blur together, warmth and safety wrapping around us like Sarah's quilt. Emma's breathing deepens first, then Trouble's purring turns to tiny snores. Wes's voice trails off mid-sentence, his head tipping back against the couch as sleep claims him, too.
For a long moment, I just look at them. This impossible man who can break horses and fix fences and still make time to read bedtime stories. This little girl who's piecing together a new kind of family from love and loss and fairy tales. Even the cat, who's somehow worked his way under the quilt without any of us noticing.
I ease the book from Wes's hands, careful not to wake him. His fingers are still holding the page, like some part of him wants to finish the story even in sleep. The quilt I'm wrapped in is soft with age and love, and it seems right somehow to drape it over them instead.
In the dim light of the old table lamp, they look like something out of a different kind of story. Not the glossy romance novels I've been writing, but something more real. Something about family and healing and the quiet kind of love that shows up in bedtime stories and borrowed blankets.
I turn out the lamp, navigating the familiar creaks of the floorboards in the dark. Tomorrow, Wes will probably be embarrassed about falling asleep mid-chapter. Emma will demand to know what happens next. And I'll have to face the fact that I'm falling for more than just research material.
But for now, I leave them to their dreams, carrying the warmth of this moment up the stairs with me like a treasure.