Chapter Twenty-Eight – Paisley
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paisley
I rub my tired eyes, staring at the Send button like it might bite me. Sunlight creeps through my window. Somewhere between barn disasters and bedtime stories, this room stopped feeling temporary.
The cursor blinks on my screen, patient as a Montana morning, while my completed manuscript sits in the attachment field of an email to Miranda. I've been up all night, fueled by coffee and the lingering euphoria of the Fall Festival. My hair still smells faintly of blueberry pie, a battle scar from a competition that would have mortified my old Manhattan self. But that version of me who wrote about pristine cowboys doing sunrise yoga feels like a stranger now. She never knew how it felt to have Wes Montgomery look at her like she was something precious while wiping pie filling from her chin, or how Emma's laughter could fill an entire town square with pure joy.
Gah, Emma. The way she'd bounced around us all night, practically vibrating with satisfaction every time Wes pulled me closer during the dance. "See?" she'd whispered when I'd helped her get more punch, her eyes bright with that mix of sass and wisdom. "I told you he just needed time."
My lips still tingle from Wes's kisses—not just the first one that had the whole town cheering, but the slower, softer ones afterward. The ones that felt like promises neither of us are quite ready to voice but can't help making anyway. Even now, I can feel the phantom press of his hands on my waist, steady and sure as we'd swayed under festival lights that turned everything to gold.
This manuscript is different from anything I've written before. No perfectly pressed jeans or designer boots in sight. Just real people with real scars and real love—the kind that builds slowly through morning coffee and evening chores and all the quiet moments in between. The kind that terrifies you because it's worth more than your own fears.
I've written what I know now—how a family builds itself from broken pieces and stubborn hope. How love sometimes looks like a gruff cowboy reading bedtime stories with all the voices, even when he's exhausted. How home isn't always where you planned to find it, but somehow finds you anyway.
My email to Miranda is shorter than my usual rambling updates. Just the manuscript attached and a simple message:
You told me to find authenticity. I found something better. I found love.
Here's what happens when a city girl doesn’t write about fake cowboys.
- P
The send button feels heavier than it should, weighted with more than just a finished book. Because this isn't just another novel—it's the story I needed to live before I could write it. The story of how sometimes, the best endings are really just better beginnings.
Downstairs, I hear movement in the kitchen. Wes is probably making coffee strong enough to strip paint and going through his morning routine of prayers and quiet contemplation before the day properly begins. Soon, Emma will bounce down for breakfast and question whether Martha really cried into her clipboard last night—she did, twice. It’s all so normal, so… cherished.
My finger hovers over the mouse. One click, and it's done. My heart is bound in digital pages, winging its way to New York through the Montana morning air. The cursor blinks at me, patient as a confession booth.
I click send.
And just like that, it's done. My eyes burn from the all-nighter, and I probably have more pie filling in my hair than actual writing talent, but none of that matters. Not when I can hear Wes's boots on the stairs, coming to check on me like he has the last three times since he woke up.
I stretch, feeling the satisfying pop of joints that have been hunched over a keyboard too long. Outside my window, Montana wakes up in shades of gold and promise.
A knock on my door breaks through my post-manuscript haze. "You alive in there?"
Wes's voice carries that mix of concern and amusement I've come to cherish. "Barely," I call back, running my fingers through my pie-crusted hair. “I make no promises about coherency.”
The door creaks open, and there he is, looking unfairly alert for this hour, holding two cups of coffee like peace offerings. "Thought you might need this." He pauses, taking in my disheveled state with a raised eyebrow. "But you might want to consider actual sleep at some point."
"Sleep is for people who don't have deadlines." I make grabby hands at the coffee, earning one of those rare full smiles that still makes my heart stutter. "Besides, I'm done. Just sent it to Miranda."
He settles beside me on the window seat, close enough that our shoulders brush. The contact sends warmth through me despite my exhaustion. "The new book?"
"Mm-hmm." I inhale coffee steam like it might actually replace eight hours of missed sleep. "I should probably warn you: you might recognize some characters.”
His arm slides around my waist, tucking me against his side like I belong there. Maybe I do. “That so?”
“Well, there’s this incredibly stubborn rancher who’s terrible at expressing feelings...” I trail off as his fingers find my ribs in warning. “Though he does make excellent coffee, so I kept that part accurate.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work.” But his voice has gone soft, thoughtful. “Think your readers will buy it? A story about real ranch life instead of designer cowboys?”
I twist to look at him, catching something vulnerable in his expression before he can hide it. “That’s the thing about truth,” I say quietly. “Once you find it, nothing else feels real enough.”
His free hand comes up to brush pie crumbs from my cheek, the touch lingering, and something shifts in the air between us. The warmth from moments ago cools like Montana shadows stretching across morning light.
"So." His voice comes out rough, carrying weight I'm suddenly afraid to measure. "When do you head back to Manhattan?"
I pull back slightly, missing his warmth even as I create space to think. "I... haven't really thought about it. With the festival and the book..."
"Paisley." Just my name, but it carries volumes. His hand drops to his lap, fingers curling like he's holding back something painful. "The ranch... I'm selling it.”
"What?" The word comes out barely above a whisper. "But the heritage tourism, the programs your brothers talked about?—”
His jaw does that clenching thing that still makes my heart hurt. “It isn’t enough, and the bank's been more than patient."
No. Not now. Don’t do this to us now. “So yesterday, at the festival..."
“It wasn't pretend." He meets my eyes then, and something in my chest cracks at the raw honesty there. "Not for me. But with you going back to Manhattan?—”
"We could try long distance," I cut in, desperate suddenly to hold on to whatever this is between us. "Lots of couples manage?—”
"No." The word drops between us, and his hands flex against his thighs. I recognize the gesture. He’s holding back. "I couldn't... Seeing you through screens, missing morning coffee and bedtime stories... It would kill me slower than letting you go now."
"Wes—”
"You've got a life there. A career."
“So?” My voice catches on everything I'm afraid to lose.
The silence stretches between us like Montana shadows at dawn, full of things we're both afraid to say. Wes's coffee sits untouched, steam curling into the air like the last wisps of festival magic fading away.
"So, this is it?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. "One perfect day at the festival and then back to reality?"
Wes's jaw works, that muscle ticking beneath his skin, which means he's fighting something inside himself. "The land's worth enough to clear the debts." His fingers tighten around his mug. "Found a place in town. Small, but it'll do."
"And the ranch?" I can't quite keep the tremor from my voice. "All that history?"
"Sometimes holding on too tight is what makes you lose your grip completely." His voice cracks on the last word. "Bank's been patient, but..."
"But what about us?" The question hangs between us like morning frost, delicate and dangerous.
His eyes meet mine, dark with something that looks too much like goodbye. "You've got deadlines. Book tours. A whole life waiting in Manhattan."
"And what if I don't want that life anymore?"
"Paisley." Just my name, but it carries the weight of everything he's trying not to say. "I can't ask you to give up everything for a man who can't even keep his family's legacy alive."
"You're not asking." I reach for his hand, needing to touch him, to anchor us both in this moment before it slips away. "I'm choosing. There's a difference."
His fingers lace with mine, rough and warm and familiar. "And six months from now? When you're missing your friends, your career, everything you built?"
"Bold of you to assume I have friends in Manhattan." The joke falls flat, lost in the gravity between us. "I've never felt more alive than I do here. More real."
"That's the festival talking." But his thumb traces circles on my palm, betraying him. "The romance of it all."
"No." I tug my hand free, suddenly angry. "That's me talking. The woman who's spent three months learning every creek and fence line of this place. Who knows exactly how you take your coffee and which flannel shirts are your favorites and the way you pray every morning."
I meet his gaze steadily. "And every morning, I fell a little more in love with the man who asks God to help him be what Emma needs, who works himself to exhaustion trying to save a legacy he thinks he's already lost."
A sound escapes him—pain or protest or maybe both. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" I press closer, brave or stupid or maybe both. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? Reality instead of romance novel fantasy?"
His hands come up to frame my face, rough and gentle all at once. "You deserve better than a man who's lost everything."
"You haven't lost everything." I cover his hands with mine, holding him there. "Not yet. Not unless you let go."
For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel his breath hitch. But then he pulls away, creating a distance that feels like miles.
"The realtor's coming Tuesday." His voice is steady now, controlled. "Figure we can be moved out by the end of the month."
And just like that, reality crashes back in with all the subtlety of a Montana winter. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun streaming through my window.
"When do you head back?" he asks, and I hate how careful his voice sounds. Like he's handling something fragile. Like he's already practicing distance.
"I..." The words stick in my throat. Because the truth is, I don't want to go back. Not to Manhattan, not to my old life, not to a world that suddenly feels as artificial as my old cowboys doing sunrise yoga.
But looking at him now, seeing the walls coming back up behind his eyes, I realize maybe I don't have a choice. Maybe some stories don't get the ending you write for them, no matter how much truth you pour onto the page.