Page 13 of Lost in the Reins

The simple observation hits harder than it should. How many times have I glossed over the messy parts in my books, creating perfect cowboys who never step in manure or little girls who never have to grow up too fast?

"Sometimes owning it is all you can do," I tell her softly. "Especially when there's a witness with a cereal bowl."

She grins, but there's wisdom in her eyes that no ten-year-old should have to carry. "Wait till you meet the chickens. They're way worse witnesses than me. They actually judge you with their little chicken eyes."

"Fantastic." I lean against the counter, careful not to knock over the bubble bath rainbow. "Any other ranch hazards I should know about? Besides ninja cats and judgmental poultry?"

"Well..." She draws out the word like she's about to share state secrets. "There's the goat that thinks he's a dog, the horse that only likes country music—Uncle Wes says that's Jake's fault for playing his playlist in the barn—and..." She lowers her voice dramatically. "The peacock."

"The peacock?"

"His name is Kevin," she says solemnly. "And he's... complicated."

Before I can ask what makes a peacock complicated—besides, you know, being a peacock—she darts out of the bathroom with a quick "Be right back!" leaving me alone with my thoughts and an impressive collection of bath products.

I catch my reflection in the mirror again, but this time, I see something different. Not just the hay in my hair or the tears on my cheeks, but something real. Something authentic. The kind of moment that would never make it into one of my polished romance novels, but maybe that's exactly why it should.

The sound of Emma rummaging through drawers drifts through the open door, accompanied by a running commentary about which clothes might work. "These might be too short... these are too cowgirl... oh! These might work!"

I start peeling off my ruined designer clothes, mentally calculating how many books I'll need to sell to replace them. But somehow, standing in this bathroom with its rainbow of bubblebaths and the sound of a little girl's determination to help, the cost doesn't seem to matter as much.

"So, I checked your suitcase first," Emma announces, returning with a stack of clothes, "but everything in there is way too fancy for the ranch. Like, seriously, did you pack for a fashion show or something? Those jeans look like they've never seen dirt in their life."

I wince, thinking of the carefully curated wardrobe I'd brought. "They hadn't, until about twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, Cousin Ruby's clothes were too small, so I had to get creative." She grins mischievously. "I raided Uncle Wes's dresser."

"You what?" I squeak, staring at the stack of clothes she's holding.

"Don't worry! These are his old ones that got shrunk in the wash. He keeps meaning to donate them but never gets around to it. The sweatpants have an adjustable drawstring, and the T-shirt..." She holds up a faded Montana State shirt that's seen better days. "It'll be like a dress on you, but at least it's clean." She sets them on the counter with the careful precision of someone handling precious cargo. "The shirt's super soft from being washed so many times. Mom always said worn-in clothes are better than new ones anyway. They have character."

The casual mention of her mother catches in my chest. How many other pieces of wisdom did Sarah Montgomery pass on to her daughter? How many bubble baths and soft shirts and gentle truths are stored in this little girl's heart?

"Your mom sounds like she was very wise," I say carefully, watching her reaction in the mirror.

Emma's smile turns wistful. "She was. She knew everything. Like how to make Uncle Wes laugh when he was being too serious, or how to get the chickens to stop being mean to thenew ones." She straightens the stack of clothes with unnecessary precision. "She would have thought you were funny, too."

The simple statement, delivered with such certainty, makes fresh tears spring to my eyes. "Thank you, Emma. For the clothes and the help and... everything."

She shrugs, but I catch the pleased flush in her cheeks. "That's what friends do, right? Help each other survive ranch disasters?"

Friends. The word settles warm in my chest, right next to the growing realization that maybe I needed more than just ranch authenticity in my life.

"Right," I agree, managing a real smile despite my tear-streaked face. "Though maybe next time we could start with something less dramatic than a manure incident?"

"Where's the fun in that?" She grins, heading for the door. "Besides, wait till you hear about the time Uncle Jake tried to teach Kevin the peacock to dance. Now that was a disaster."

She closes the door behind her, leaving me with clean clothes, the lingering scent of cotton candy bubbles, and the distinct feeling that I'm getting way more than just research material out of this ranch experience.

Though I'm definitely adding "avoid complicated peacocks" to my growing list of survival tips.

The scalding water hits my skin as soon as I step into the shower. “Ow!” I gasp and fumble with the temperature knob. Even the water here is intense. I step under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders as I try to rinse off the morning's disaster. Brown water pools around my feet, swirling with bits of hay and things I'd rather not identify.

My fingers tangle in my hair, hitting knots of hay and who knows what else. I reach for Emma's vanilla shampoo, squeezing probably too much into my palm. The sweet scent clashes with the barn smell still clinging to my skin.

I should be in Manhattan right now. My fancy apartment with its perfect water pressure and designer shower products. Not here, picking straw out of my hair and trying not to think about what else might be in it.

Something scratchy slides down my back, and I do an awkward twirl, banging my elbow against the shower wall. I worked at Nordstrom before I became an author. Nice, safe, clean Nordstrom. Where the worst thing that could happen was someone yelling about a return policy.

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