Page 2 of Lost in the Reins

"That's generally what 'residence' means." Her smile could power half of Manhattan. "Consider it a working sabbatical. Three months to learn what authentic ranch life feels like. To put some real dirt in those love scenes."

"And if I say no?"

Miranda's perfectly manicured finger taps another graph—this one showing my advance repayment schedule. "Then we redirect your contract to contemporary urban romance only. Though given your current sales trajectory..."

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. We both know my career's hanging by a thread.

“I understand.” I really don’t, but Miranda doesn’t seem to be in the mood to make more concessions. “But what if I still fail?” I shake my head, my mind going in a thousand different directions. “What if I learn about real cowboys and still receive bad reviews? We all know reviews are subjective and don’t necessarily reflect the quality of the book. Those same readers could still think my characters lack authenticity.”

Miranda stands, moving to her floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan sprawls like an overpriced inspiration board. "Darling, right now, they're not thinking anything about your characters because they're not buying your books."

Ouch. That hits harder than it should.

"This isn't just about reviews.” She turns back, fixing me with that laser-focused stare that probably makes junior agents cry. "It's about reinvention. Finding your authentic voice. Learning what real cowboys actually..." She pauses, wrinkling her nose delicately. "Experience."

"Real cowboys probably experience a lot of things I don't want to write about." Like sore butts and chafing. And more than likely bad internet. “Miranda, I think you are overestimating my skill level. I can’t help out a ranch with animals. I kill houseplants. On purpose, sometimes, when they get too needy."

"That's exactly the point." Miranda returns to her desk, pulling out what looks suspiciously like airline tickets. "Three months at Whispering Pines will give you more authentic material than all yourYellowstonemarathons combined."

"But—"

"No buts." She slides the tickets across her desk with ruthless efficiency. "Your flight leaves next week. Pack practical clothes, leave the designer boots, and try to keep an open mind about the whole"—she waves her hand vaguely—"cowboy aromatherapy situation."

I stare at the tickets like they might bite. Montana. Three months of actual ranch work with real cowboys who probably don't appreciate being compared to Pinterest models.

"What if they hate me?" The question slips out before I can catch it. "What if I'm too... city girl?”

"Then you'll write about that." Miranda's smile softens fractionally. "Real experiences make for real stories, darling. Even the uncomfortable ones."

"Fine." I stand, gathering what's left of my dignity along with Miranda's travel arrangements. "But if I get trampled by a horse or eaten by a snake, I'm leaving you a very pointed review online.”

Two hours and one panic attack in the ladies' room later—during which I seriously considered changing careers to become a professional bathroom attendant—I'm hunched over my laptop in my favorite coffee shop, panic-googlingWhispering Pines Ranch.

The barista, Lyle, hovers nearby with the coffee pot, probably worried I'm having some kind of caffeine-fueled breakdown. Mybrowser history reads like a cry for help:Can city girls survive ranch life? How to not get kicked by horses," and my personal favorite,Do cowboys actually smell like Old Spice?

"Maybe switch to decaf?" Lyle suggests, eyeing the tower of empty cups I've constructed like some kind of caffeinated Jenga stack.

"Decaf won't fix this.” I gesture at my laptop screen where images of actual working ranches mock my designer sensibilities. "I have to live on a real ranch. With real cowboys. For three months."

"That doesn't sound so?—"

"They have snakes, Lyle. And probably spiders. Big ones. The kind that could carry off small children."

He tries to hide his smile but fails miserably. "At least you'll have good material for your next book?"

"If I survive." I click through another photo of what appears to be actual cow-related activities. "Look at this! Those are real cows. With real... cow stuff. And the cowboys don't even have professional lighting for their Instagram posts."

My phone buzzes—another text from my sister, Jenna:Please tell me you're not seriously considering this. Remember that time you cried at the petting zoo?

I was five,I text back.And that goat was unnecessarily aggressive.

What is she doing? Trying to scare me even more than I already am?

Another buzz:Dad's still laughing about the time you wore stilettos to that pumpkin farm. You couldn’t even find a pumpkin because your heels kept sinking into the ground when you walked.

That was different, I respond, ignoring Lyle’s increasingly concerned looks.I couldn’t find my tennis shoes!

I click back to the Whispering Pines website, which looks like it was designed when dial-up was still cutting edge. But there's something about its lack of polish that makes my stomach clench. These aren't the carefully curated ranch photos I use for book research. This is... real.

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