Page 14 of Lost in the Reins

The water stings my eyes as I work more shampoo through my hair. I remember standing at the clearance rack, my manager droning on about proper tissue paper technique for the third time that week. I hated wrapping and, quite frankly, my manager, too.

Back then, I was young and without any bills—those were the days.

And I quit.

No notice. No backup plan. Nothing. I simply quit.

It took three months of applying for other retail positions before I started to worry. My savings were gone, and my mother was lecturing me five times a day about building a life for myself.

So, I blogged about it, but instead of being literal, I wrote this comedic piece about meeting a cowboy who was an heir to a wealthy family, and he was whisking me away to the countryside where I truly belonged.

The story went viral, and I had daily requests for updates. I was confused at first and started commenting that I was joking and wasn’t leaving Manhattan anytime soon. I hadn’t found a man or a new home in the country. I had merely found an outlet to vent my frustrations.

But then came the comment: You wrote this so realistically that I believed it was real! You should be a writer!

So, I did some research and queried several agents until Miranda offered me a deal.

More hay floats past my feet. Ten books. Ten bestsellers about perfect cowboys who probably never stepped in anything worse than a designer rain puddle. No wonder my reviews are tanking.

"Ow!" Another chunk of hay stabs my finger. The steam rises around me, smelling like Emma's cotton candy body wash and... yep, still manure. I scrub harder at my scalp.

The water suddenly goes ice-cold, and I squeal, doing an awkward dance against the back wall. Perfect. Just perfect. Even the hot water here is challenging.

My teeth chatter as I wait for the water to warm up again. Three months of this. Three months to either figure out how to write real cowboys or admit defeat and go back to folding sweaters.

Something that feels suspiciously like a twig works its way down my back. I twist again, trying to reach it. My hip bumps the soap holder, sending Emma's rainbow collection of bath products clattering into the tub.

The water goes cold again. I give up, shutting it off with shaking fingers. At least in retail, the only thing I had to wrestle with was tissue paper.

I wrap myself in a towel and stare at Wes's clothes. The soft gray T-shirt still smells faintly of him—a mix of coffee and something woodsy that makes my stomach do a little flip. The sweatpants are definitely going to be too long, but they’re better than my ruined designer jeans.

A knock at the door makes me jump. “Are you decent?” Emma calls through the door.

“Define decent,” I mutter, but say louder, “Yes, just… trying to get dressed."

Emma pokes her head in several minutes later after I’m dressed, wielding a hairbrush like a weapon. "Sit," she commands, pointing to the closed toilet lid. "Your hair's a mess, and Uncle Wes keeps pacing downstairs, muttering about cold pancakes."

"Emma, you don't have to?—"

"Mom always said a good braid can fix anything." Her voice catches slightly on 'Mom,' but she pushes through. "Even manure incidents. Now sit."

I sit. What else can I do when faced with such determined assistance? Emma moves behind me, her small fingers surprisingly gentle as she starts working through the tangles.

"You've got hay everywhere," she informs me, tugging carefully at a particularly stubborn knot. "Chester must have really surprised you."

"That's one way to put it." I wince as she hits another tangle. "Though I think 'terrified' might be more accurate."

"Uncle Wes says being scared is okay as long as you don't let it stop you." She sections my hair with practiced ease. "Like how I was scared of Thunder at first, but now he's my favorite horse."

"Thunder?" I try to turn my head, but she firmly turns it forward again.

"Stay still. And yes, Thunder. He's huge and scary looking but really just wants treats and ear scratches. Kind of like Uncle Wes."

I choke on air. "Did you just compare your uncle to a horse?"

"Well..." I can hear the grin in her voice as she starts braiding. "They're both tall and grumpy looking until you get to know them. And they both pretend to be tougher than they are."

She works in comfortable silence for a few minutes, her small fingers deftly weaving strands of my hair together. I try not to wince each time she hits a tangle, amazed at how gentle she can be while still getting the job done.

---