Page 52 of Lost in the Reins

"I hate you." But there's no heat in it. There hasn't been for days, not since we both got sick enough to forget we're supposed to be avoiding each other.

The TV drones in the background—some cooking show she insisted on watching because, according to her, "If I have to be quarantined in Montana, I at least get to remember what real restaurants look like."

"We have real restaurants here." I reach for the remote, but she's quicker, despite the fever making her movements sluggish.

"Martha's diner doesn't count." She clutches the remote to her chest like it's the last copy of her manuscript. "And we're not watching bull riding highlights again."

"Better than watching some guy make foam out of carrots."

She sniffs—partly attitude, partly congestion. "It's called molecular gastronomy, and it's art."

"It's pretentious."

"You're pretentious."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense."

I blame the fever for the laugh that escapes. "Real mature."

"I'm sick. I don't have to be mature." She burrows deeper into the quilt, leaving only her eyes visible. They're bright with fever but still sharp enough to cut through my defenses. "Besides, you're the one who got us into this mess."

"How exactly is this my fault?"

"You're the one who wouldn't answer your phone when Emma needed picking up."

"And you're the one who got lost three times trying to find the school."

"There’s no navigation in your truck!”

Another coughing fit hits her, and without thinking, I reach over to rub her back. She leans into the touch, either too sick or too tired to pretend we're still maintaining careful distance.

Jake's voice carries through the screen door—they've been leaving supplies on the porch like we're some kind of quarantined pioneers. "Food delivery! Don't worry, Colt didn't cook it."

"Thank God for small mercies," Paisley mutters, but makes no move to get up.

"Emma wants to know if you're still dying," Jake calls out. "She's got a bet going with Sarah Beth about who's being more dramatic."

"Tell her we're fine," I say, just as Paisley announces, "Tell her your brother's being a baby about it."

Jake's laugh echoes across the porch. "Yeah, that tracks. Emma says to remind you both to drink water and stop being stubborn."

"She's definitely your niece," Paisley says once Jake's boots crunch away across the gravel. "Bossy and overprotective."

"Runs in the family." I realize I'm still rubbing her back and probably should stop, but she's warm and soft against my side, and the fever's making everything feel slightly unreal anyway.

"Yeah." Her voice goes quiet, thoughtful in that way that usually means I'm about to hear something I'm not ready for. "Seems like a lot of things run in this family. Stubbornness. Loyalty. The inability to admit when something matters."

The weight of her words settles between us like Montana snow—soft but heavy with meaning. I should move away. Should rebuild those careful walls I've been maintaining. But she's right here, fever-warm and real, and I'm too tired to pretend anymore.

"Some things," I say finally, my voice rougher than just the cold can explain, "matter too much to risk losing."

She shifts, turning to face me despite the quilt cocoon. "And some things are worth the risk."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, everything I've been trying not to feel crashes over me like a summer storm. She's righthere, has been right here, seeing through all my careful defenses with those writer's eyes that catch everything.

Then she sneezes, completely ruining the moment.

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