Page 49 of Lost in the Reins

The school nurse's office smells like every school nurse's office in history—antiseptic, chalk dust, and vague disappointment. The nurse herself, a woman who looks like she's been dispensing Band-Aids and life advice since the Stone Age, brightens when she sees me.

"You must be Paisley!" She says this like we're old friends meeting for coffee instead of strangers in a school infirmary. "The writer staying at Whispering Pines! I loved your last book,though the scene with the stallion was a bit far-fetched. Horses don't actually?—"

"Mrs. Harrison?" Emma's voice, small and congested, interrupts what I'm sure would have been a fascinating critique of my equine accuracy. She's curled up on the vinyl cot, looking impossibly young in her unicorn pajama shirt and jeans.

"Right, right." Mrs. Harrison waves me through with the kind of authority that comes from decades of managing small-town emergencies. "Emma's running a fever, poor thing. Usually, we’d need family authorization, but...” She winks. “Word is, you’re practically family anyway.”

I open my mouth to protest this particular piece of small-town gossip, but Emma’s already struggling to sit up, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

I cross the tiny room in two strides, crouching beside the cot. Emma’s skin is warm when I brush her hair back, her usually bright eyes dulled with fever.

"Hey, kiddo," I say softly. "Looks like you’re playing hooky today."

Emma musters a small smile, but it’s weak around the edges. "Didn't even get to do the spelling test."

"Tragic," I tease, though my heart squeezes at how exhausted she looks. "Don’t worry, I’ll make you spell ridiculously long words later just to keep you sharp."

She hums a half laugh, half sigh and leans against me as I scoop her up. She's lighter than I expect, all lanky limbs and trust, and I tighten my grip as I stand.

Mrs. Harrison hands me a small bag—her backpack and a bottle of water. "Tell Wes to keep her hydrated and let her rest. She should be fine in a day or two."

"Will do," I promise, though the thought of delivering a sick Emma to Wes feels like walking into an ambush. Not that I’m scared of the gruff cowboy. Much.

Emma nuzzles into my shoulder with a sleepy sigh, her fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater. “You found the school,” she murmurs, voice thick with fever and drowsiness.

I chuckle, carrying her out into the bright Montana morning. "Barely. I almost had to offer up a pie for navigation services."

She makes a small, sleepy noise that might be amusement, and I shift her carefully, unlocking the truck with one hand. Settling her in the back seat, I click her seat belt into place and brush a few stray curls from her damp forehead.

"All right, kiddo," I say gently. "Let’s get you home."

She sighs, her eyes already drifting shut. "Home," she echoes, like the word itself makes her feel better.

And as I start the truck, turning back onto the dirt road that finally, mercifully, leads me somewhere I recognize, I realize it makes me feel better, too.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Paisley

The biggest lie I've ever written was describing a sick child as "adorably sniffly" in one of my books. There is nothing adorable about the mountain of tissues surrounding Emma as she burrows deeper into Sarah's old quilt on the couch, looking like she's auditioning for the role of most miserable ten-year-old in Montana.

"You comfy?" I adjust the quilt around her shoulders, resisting the urge to check her temperature for the fifteenth time in ten minutes. She nods weakly, which sets off another round of coughing that sounds like it's coming from somewhere around her toes.

"Can we watchNarnia?" Her voice is scratchy, but her eyes are clearer than they were at school. "The one we're reading?"

My heart does that squeezing thing again. Wes has been reading herThe Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobeevery night, doing all the voices even when he's exhausted. Of course, she’d want the movie version while she’s sick.

“Of course.” I find the DVD—because naturally, the Montgomerys still have an actual DVD player—and get it set up. "Though I should warn you, the movie version of Mr. Tumnus is significantly less dramatic than your uncle's interpretation."

That gets me a tiny giggle, followed by more coughing. "Uncle Wes does the best voices."

"He does." The admission slips out before I can catch it, soft with all the feelings I'm trying not to examine too closely. "Though his White Witch could use some work."

Emma shifts on the couch, making room for me as the movie starts. "Mom used to say he practices when he thinks no one's listening."

“I bet he does.” I settle beside her, and she immediately curls into my side like a small, feverish cat. “Probably out in the barn where only the horses can judge his dramatic timing.”

“And Kevin,” she adds sleepily. “Kevin judges everyone.”

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