Chapter Fifteen – Paisley
Chapter Fifteen
Paisley
I wake before my alarm, which is becoming a habit. My body's internal clock has adjusted to ranch time faster than my brain has. Three weeks ago, four a.m. would've been when I was finishing my writing for the day, not starting it.
Last night's Jenga game replays in my mind—Emma's laughter, Jake's terrible jokes, the way Colt hugged me goodbye like I was already family. Even now, hours later, the warmth of that moment lingers. In Manhattan, my nights were filled with deadlines and takeout containers, the silence of my apartment broken only by the city noise eleven stories below. Here, the quiet feels different. Lived in. Like the house is holding its breath, keeping watch over the family sleeping under its roof.
I spent two hours last night trying to write, but instead of crafting the steamy scenes my editor expects, I found myself describing the way Emma fell asleep during story time, her head tucked against Wes's shoulder. How his voice changed when he read, softer and deeper, bringing Narnia to life in ways C.S. Lewis probably never imagined. The way the firelight caught his profile, making him look less like my fictional cowboys and more like something real. Something worth staying for.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, trying to avoid the spots I know will creak. Three weeks, and I already know which floorboards will give me away—the one outside Emma's room that groans no matter how carefully you step, the loose board by the hall window that Sarah marked with red nail polish so no one would trip. These little details that make a house a home and turn a stranger into family.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause. The glow of the kitchen light spills faintly into the living room, and I hear a low murmur. For a moment, I think Wes might be on the phone, but as I step closer, the words become clear.
It’s him. Praying.
I stop, my bare feet pressing into the cool wood floor, suddenly unsure if I should keep going or turn around. His voice is low, steady, almost soothing in its cadence. He isn’t asking for anything big, not like the grand gestures of faith I’ve read about. No, his words are quiet, almost conversational, as if he’s speaking to an old friend.
"…Thank You for watching over Emma. Help me be what she needs. And if you could, Lord, show me how to keep the ranch running without losing it. I’ll work as hard as I have to—I just need some direction."
There’s a pause, and I hear him take a shaky breath.
"Help me trust that you’ve got a plan, even when I can’t see it. And Lord… thank you for Paisley. I don’t know what you’re doing there, but she’s been good for Emma. She’s been… good for me, too."
My chest tightens. I want to back away, to give him privacy, but my feet won’t move. It’s not that I’m trying to eavesdrop; I’m just stuck. Stuck on the rawness in his voice, the vulnerability he’s so careful to hide in the daylight.
This is a side of Wes Montgomery I never expected to see. The man who scowls more than he smiles, who runs his ranch and his family with a stubborn kind of determination, on his knees in the kitchen, surrendering to something bigger than himself.
And somehow, in this quiet moment, he feels more like the hero of one of my novels than ever before.
The chair creaks as he shifts, and I realize he’s finishing. If I stay here, he’ll catch me, and I’m not ready to explain why I’m standing in the dark like some sort of emotionally overwhelmed creeper. I step back quietly, retreating to the shadows of the staircase.
When I hear the scrape of the chair and the soft clink of his coffee cup on the table, I finally breathe again. My pulse is racing, and I press a hand to my chest as if that’ll calm me.
What is this man doing to me?
I should feel awkward, maybe even embarrassed for hearing something so personal. But I don’t. Instead, all I feel is a pull. Stronger than anything I’ve written in my books, stronger than I ever expected to feel for a man I barely knew three weeks ago.
And that might be the scariest part of all.
After a few minutes, I take a deep breath and make my way to the kitchen, deliberately letting my feet fall heavier on the floorboards to announce my presence. Wes is at the counter now, pouring coffee into two mugs—including my chipped blue one that Emma picked out.
"Morning," he says without turning, voice steady like I hadn't just witnessed his most private moment.
"Morning." I accept the coffee he hands me, our fingers brushing. The warmth seeps through the ceramic, grounding me. "You're up early."
"Always am." He leans against the counter, studying me over the rim of his mug. In the soft glow of the range light, his expression is unreadable. "Sleep okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. The quiet here… it’s different. It’s good." I hesitate, then add, "But I guess you already knew that."
He chuckles softly, and the sound warms something inside me. "Takes getting used to. Not sure I’d trade it for city noise, though."
"I wouldn’t blame you," I say, smiling faintly. "There’s something… grounding about this place. Like it slows everything down."
"That’s the idea," he says, his gaze steady on mine. "But it’s not just the place, you know. Sometimes it’s what you let yourself hear in the quiet."
I blink at him, surprised by the insight, and he shrugs, looking almost self-conscious.
"You hear things differently when there’s no noise to drown it out," he explains. "Sometimes it’s your own thoughts. Sometimes it’s something bigger."
I swallow hard, his words settling into the spaces I’ve been trying to ignore. "Like...faith?"
He nods, his expression softening. "Yeah. Like faith. Doesn’t have to be perfect or pretty. Just has to be real."
I look down at my coffee, his words tumbling around in my mind. Real. I’ve spent so much of my life crafting stories, creating characters with bigger-than-life qualities, that sometimes I forget what real even feels like. But standing here, with Wes in the pre-dawn quiet of his kitchen, I’m starting to remember.
"You’re a hard man to figure out, Wes Montgomery," I say softly, looking up at him.
He smiles faintly, his eyes warm despite their usual intensity. "Maybe. Or maybe you’re just looking too hard."
The air between us feels charged, like the space in a story right before the characters finally stop dancing around whatever it is that’s been building. But instead of leaning into it, Wes pushes off the counter and sets his mug in the sink.
"I should check the horses before breakfast," he says, his voice easy but his movements deliberate. “I’ll see you out there.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone with the fading warmth of his words and the quiet that suddenly feels a lot louder than it did before.
I find Wes in the barn, where the morning light filters through weathered boards in dusty shafts. He's checking on Daisy, one of Emma's rescue goats who has a talent for escaping and a concerning addiction to Emma's stuffed animals. The sight of this tall, stoic cowboy gently examining a goat's hooves while she tries to eat his shirt is exactly the kind of authentic detail my readers would love. If only they knew how much ranching involved preventing livestock from consuming your wardrobe.
"You're staring," he says without looking up, those capable hands moving with practiced efficiency.
"I'm observing. There's a difference." I lean against the stall door, taking in the scene. "Very professional. Research purposes only."
He snorts, but I catch that hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Research, huh? Planning to write about goat maintenance in your next bestseller?"
"Could be romantic." I watch as Daisy headbutts his shoulder affectionately. "I mean, nothing says true love like hoof trimming at dawn."
"Goats are actually very romantic creatures," he says, and there's that teasing note in his voice that makes my stomach flip. "Did you know they mate for life? Form strong emotional bonds. The males even fight for their chosen female's attention."
"Really?" I step closer, genuinely intrigued.
"No." His eyes meet mine, dancing with suppressed laughter. "They're actually terrible romantics. Complete commitment- phobes. But they're incredibly loyal to their family groups. Look out for each other. Share food, stand guard while others sleep." He scratches behind Daisy's ears, earning a blissful expression that would make Instagram influencers jealous. "Sarah always said they're like the Montgomerys that way. Stubborn as heck, but fiercely protective of their own."
The casual mention of his sister catches me off guard, especially after this morning's overheard prayer. But there's something different in how he says her name now—less like an open wound, more like a treasured memory.
"So, what you're saying is…" I move closer, close enough to catch that mix of hay and coffee and pure Montana male that's becoming dangerously familiar. "Your spirit animal is basically a stubborn, protective goat with boundary issues?"
His laugh—deep and real—echoes through the barn. "Better than a romance writer who thinks cowboys do yoga at sunrise."
"Hey, that was one book!" But I'm laughing, too, even as Daisy takes advantage of our distraction to make another attempt at Wes's shirt pocket. "Though I have to admit, reality is turning out to be much more interesting than fiction."
The way he looks at me then makes my heart stutter. "Is that right?"
And suddenly we're not talking about goats anymore.
The air between us crackles with a dangerous kind of energy that makes rational people do irrational things—like fall for cowboys who pray in their kitchen at dawn and compare their family to goats. The morning light catches his eyes, turning them that impossible shade of blue that's becoming my personal kryptonite.
"The thing about reality," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my heart's doing its best rodeo impression, "is that it doesn't always follow the rules. In my books, this would be the perfect moment for some grand declaration or dramatic kiss."
"But?" His voice carries that quiet intensity that makes me want to simultaneously run away and move closer.
"But life's messier than fiction." I watch as Daisy attempts to eat his shirt pocket for the third time. "Case in point: I'm pretty sure I've never written a romantic scene involving a goat with an appetite for denim."
He laughs, the sound warming me more than any Manhattan coffee ever could. "Seems like a missed opportunity."
"Clearly." I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of his soap mixed with leather and hay. "Though I have to admit, my editor would probably have some concerns about the authenticity of a love story featuring livestock theft and pre-dawn prayers."
His hands still on Daisy's neck, and I realize too late what I've revealed. Smooth move, Monroe. Nothing says 'I'm totally not falling for you' like admitting you eavesdropped on a private moment.
"You heard that?" His voice is soft, but there's something else there—not anger, exactly, but a vulnerability that makes my chest tight.
"I..." I consider lying, but we've had enough fiction between us. "Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was coming down for coffee, and..." I wave my hand vaguely, as if that explains everything.
"And you heard me talking to God about you." It's not a question. His eyes hold mine, searching for something I'm not sure I'm ready to give.
"Well, me and the ranch and Emma and possibly some divine intervention regarding the feed prices." The joke falls flat, my usual deflecting humor failing in the face of his steady gaze. "I really am sorry. I should have made some noise or gone back upstairs or?—"
"Paisley." Just my name, but the way he says it stops my rambling cold. "It's okay."
"It is?"
"Yeah." He turns back to Daisy, but not before I catch the faint color rising up his neck. "Some things... some things maybe need to be heard."
Oh.
Oh.
And suddenly this barn feels a lot smaller, the morning air charged with possibilities I never wrote about in my perfectly plotted romance novels. Because this—this messy, complicated, absolutely terrifying reality—is better than any story I could have created.
"For what it's worth," I say softly, reaching out to help him fend off Daisy's latest assault on his pocket, "I think you're doing a pretty amazing job. With Emma, with the ranch... with everything."
Our hands brush, and the contact sends electricity shooting through me. His fingers close around mine, warm and callused and real.
"Even though I compared my family to goats?"
"Especially because you compared your family to goats." I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "Very authentic. My readers will love it."
"Your readers." Something shifts in his expression. "Is that all this is? Research?"
And there it is: the question I've been avoiding since that first morning in the creek. The one that could change everything or break everything or maybe, just maybe, make everything make sense.
"No," I whisper, watching his eyes darken. "I don't think it is."