Chapter Twenty-Seven – Wes
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wes
T he kiss leaves my lips burning, and I can't ignore it any more than I can ignore a broken fence line. Paisley presses warmly against my side as we stand under the festival lights. Everything looks different in the glow—the town square transformed by strings of bulbs and lanterns. Even the shadows seem softer tonight.
I push thoughts of the bank notices aside. They can wait.
"Ready for the couples' competition?" Paisley asks, with that same look Thunder gets before testing a fence. Martha stands nearby, clutching her clipboard and beaming. "I hear there's a three-legged race involved."
I glance at her sideways, suppressing a smirk. "That what you city folks consider entertainment?"
"Oh, absolutely." She leans closer, her fingers betraying her nerves as they twist in my shirt. "Usually we do it in designer heels."
"Figures." She fits against my side too naturally. I should step back. Should remember all the reasons this can't work. Instead, I tighten my arm around her waist.
"I'll have you know," she says, lifting her chin in that stubborn way she has, "I was the reigning champion of the Manhattan social circuit."
"That so?" I rest my hand on the small of her back. "Guess I’d better defend Montana’s honor, then."
Her laugh rings out bright and clear across the square. "Is that a challenge, cowboy?"
"Sounds like one." I press a kiss to her temple before common sense can kick in.
She studies me for a moment with those sharp eyes that never miss anything. "Fair warning: I'm stubborn."
"I noticed." The truth sits plain between us.
Emma waves at us from across the square, her enthusiasm impossible to miss. My chest tightens at her smile—so much like Sarah's, bright and full of life.
"Let me guess," Paisley says, pulling my attention back. "Your unfair advantage is those long legs of yours?"
"Emma's been training me all week." I nod toward my niece. "She's got a lot riding on this."
"Traitor!" Paisley calls out to Emma.
"All's fair in love and festival games!" Emma shouts back. The pure joy in her voice eases something in my chest. No shadows there. No grief.
"All competitors to the starting line!" Martha's voice rings out across the square. "Three-legged race participants, please collect your ties!"
Paisley eyes the strips of cloth Martha's distributing with suspicion. "You know, in my books, the heroine always manages to look graceful during these things."
"Reality's usually messier." I guide her toward the line, hyperaware of everywhere we touch. "Though I have to admit, watching you try to maintain dignity while tied to me might be worth the price of admission."
"Bold words from a man who spent three days whining about a cold." She bumps my shoulder but lets me lead her to our spot.
Martha descends on us with determined efficiency, wielding a red bandana. "Left to right means heart to heart," she declares, kneeling to tie our inside legs together with the kind of knot that suggests she's done this before. Many times.
"Is that a real saying?" Paisley whispers as Martha works. "Or just more Martha wisdom?"
"Does it matter?" I steady her as she wobbles. "I'm pretty sure she made that up just now."
"There!" Martha steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Snug as new boots."
Paisley tests our bond, nearly sending us both sideways. I catch her waist, keeping us upright. "Easy. Gotta move together."
"Like everything else?" Her voice carries layers of meaning that have nothing to do with a festival game.
Before I can respond, Jake's voice booms across the square. "All right, folks, rules are simple! Three-legged race to the barn and back. First couple across wins. No carrying your partner—I'm looking at you, Tom Wilson."
Laughter ripples through the crowd as Tom's wife swats his arm.
"Ready?" I wrap my arm around Paisley's waist, steadying us both.
She grips my shirt, determination written across her face. "Born ready."
Jake raises the starting pistol. "On your mark..."
Paisley tightens her hold. "Fair warning: I'm competitive."
"Get set..."
"Good," I murmur, pulling her closer. "So am I."
The pistol crack sends us stumbling forward with the other couples. Laughter and shouts fill the air as we all try to find our rhythm. Some pairs go down immediately, landing in graceless heaps on the grass. Others manage a kind of drunken shuffle.
But something clicks between us—maybe muscle memory from dancing, maybe just the way we've learned to read each other. We find a pace that works, her steps matching mine like we've done this before.
"Inside foot first," I guide her, our bodies moving in sync. "Then outside."
"Look at you," she laughs, breathless but keeping pace. "Actually giving instructions instead of strong, silent suffering."
"Don't get used to it." But I'm grinning, caught up in her joy and the ridiculous perfection of this moment.
We're actually pulling ahead, finding a rhythm that works. The barn approaches, our turning point in sight. That's when Paisley stumbles, throwing us off balance. I react on instinct, wrapping both arms around her waist as we go down.
We land in an ungraceful heap, my body taking most of the impact. For a moment, we just lie there in the grass, her weight warm against my chest, both of us breathing hard.
"Well," she says finally, lifting her head to meet my eyes. "This is dignified."
"Could be worse." I brush grass from her hair, letting my fingers linger. "Could've landed in the mud."
"Don't jinx it." But she's smiling, her eyes bright with something that looks dangerously like happiness. "I have to admit, this isn't exactly how I pictured our first date going."
"This a date?" I cup her cheek, thumb tracing her jawline.
"Well, we are tied together." She gestures at our still-bound legs. "Seems pretty committed to me."
Around us, other couples race past, shouting encouragement or sympathy. But I barely notice them. Not with Paisley looking at me like that, like I'm something worth holding on to despite everything.
"Guess we should get up," she says finally, though she makes no move to do so.
"Guess so." I don't move either.
Martha's voice carries across the square. "Are you two planning to stay down there all night? Because we do have other events planned!"
"We should probably—" Paisley starts, but I cut her off with a quick kiss that makes her words trail into a soft sound of surprise.
"Probably," I agree, pulling back just enough to see her face. The festival lights catch in her eyes, turning them to whiskey gold. "But I'm kind of enjoying the view."
"Shameless," she accuses, but her smile could outshine every lantern in the square. "What happened to the brooding cowboy who couldn't string two emotional words together?"
"He met a writer who wouldn't take no for an answer." I brush another piece of grass from her hair. "In my defense, you're pretty persistent."
"Have to be." She traces my jaw with one finger, the touch sending electricity through my skin. "You Montgomerys could give mules lessons in stubbornness."
"Takes one to know one," I counter, earning myself another one of those smiles that lights up her whole face.
Paisley laughs—that full, real sound that's become as familiar as morning coffee. "Are you calling me stubborn, Wes Montgomery?"
“Something like that.”
With considerable effort and not a small amount of awkward maneuvering, we manage to get upright. Our legs are still tied together, forcing us to stand closer than strictly necessary. Not that I'm complaining.
"Well," she says, steadying herself against my chest, "I think it's safe to say we're out of the running for first place."
"Probably for the best." I wrap my arm around her waist, ostensibly for balance. "Jake would never let us live it down if we won."
"Uncle Wes!" Emma's voice carries across the square. She's bouncing on her toes near the finish line, practically vibrating with excitement. "You're supposed to be running, not kissing!"
"That's not what Martha's checklist says!" Jake calls out, earning himself a swat from his clipboard-wielding commander.
"I think," Paisley says softly, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt, "we might be the evening's entertainment."
"Let them talk." I press my forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of Emma's cotton candy shampoo mixed with something uniquely her. "They've been waiting years to see a Montgomery make a fool of himself over a woman."
"Is that what this is?" Her voice carries a hint of vulnerability beneath the teasing. "You making a fool of yourself?"
"No." I cup her face in my hands, needing her to understand. "This is me finally being smart enough to know what matters."
Her breath catches. "And what's that?"
"You." I kiss her again, soft and sure, right there in front of God and Martha and the whole town. "Us. Whatever this is becoming."
"Even with the bank breathing down your neck?" She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "The ranch struggling? All those reasons you gave for pushing me away?"
"Especially then." I stroke my thumb across her cheek. "Because maybe Jake's right. Maybe some things are worth fighting for, even if you're not sure you can win."
"We'll figure it out." She leans into my touch, fierce and certain. "Together. Though first..." She glances down at our still-bound legs. "Maybe we should finish this race?"
I laugh, pulling her closer. "Could just stay here. Give the town something to really talk about."
"Pretty sure Martha's about to have a stroke if we don't at least cross the finish line." She nods toward where Martha stands, practically vibrating with matchmaking satisfaction. "If we come in last, Emma's never going to let us forget it."
"Worth it." I kiss her one more time, quick and sweet, before straightening. "Ready to scandalize some more livestock?"
Her answering smile could power half of Montana. "Born ready, cowboy. Born ready."
The stars wheel overhead as we make our way toward the finish line at our own unhurried pace, still bound together by Martha's expertly tied bandana. Every few steps, one of us stumbles, leading to barely contained laughter and steadying hands.
"You know," Paisley says, gripping my shirt as we navigate a particularly tricky turn, "if I wrote this scene in one of my books, my editor would say it's too unrealistic."
"This seems pretty real to me." I steady her as she wobbles, my hand warm against her waist.
"That's exactly it." She looks up at me, her expression soft in the festival lights. "The messy parts, the stumbling, the way nothing goes quite according to plan… it's better than anything I could write."
We cross the finish line dead last to enthusiastic cheering from Emma and knowing looks from my brothers. Martha's already scribbling something on her clipboard that probably has nothing to do with race times and everything to do with wedding plans.
"Ready for the rest of the events?" I ask, working on the knot binding us together. "Or should we quit while we're behind?"
"Not a chance, cowboy." The festival lights catch in her eyes, turning them amber gold as she grins up at me. "We've got a reputation to redeem. Besides," she adds softly, "I'm starting to think some things are worth looking foolish for."
The warmth in her voice hits me square in the chest. Because she's right: Some stories are worth fighting for, even the messy, complicated, beautifully real ones.
From across the square, Emma's voice carries clear and bright. "Come on! They're setting up for the pie-eating contest!"
"Pie-eating contest?” Paisley’s eyes widen with mock horror. “You didn’t mention that part.”
“Scared?” I tug her closer, finally freeing us from Martha’s expert knot work.
“Of ruining this dress? Absolutely.” But she’s already moving toward the tables, pulling me along. “I have to warn you, I've got years of stress-eating manuscripts under my belt. I might surprise you."
And looking at her there, backlit by lanterns with determination written across her face, I realize maybe that's what love really is: finding someone who makes you brave enough to try new things, even when you're pretty sure you're going to end up covered in pie filling.