Page 63 of Lost in the Reins

Her laugh rings out bright and clear across the square. "Is that a challenge, cowboy?"

"Sounds like one." I press a kiss to her temple before common sense can kick in.

She studies me for a moment with those sharp eyes that never miss anything. "Fair warning: I'm stubborn."

"I noticed." The truth sits plain between us.

Emma waves at us from across the square, her enthusiasm impossible to miss. My chest tightens at her smile—so much like Sarah's, bright and full of life.

"Let me guess," Paisley says, pulling my attention back. "Your unfair advantage is those long legs of yours?"

"Emma's been training me all week." I nod toward my niece. "She's got a lot riding on this."

"Traitor!" Paisley calls out to Emma.

"All's fair in love and festival games!" Emma shouts back. The pure joy in her voice eases something in my chest. No shadows there. No grief.

"All competitors to the starting line!" Martha's voice rings out across the square. "Three-legged race participants, please collect your ties!"

Paisley eyes the strips of cloth Martha's distributing with suspicion. "You know, in my books, the heroine always manages to look graceful during these things."

"Reality's usually messier." I guide her toward the line, hyperaware of everywhere we touch. "Though I have to admit, watching you try to maintain dignity while tied to me might be worth the price of admission."

"Bold words from a man who spent three days whining about a cold." She bumps my shoulder but lets me lead her to our spot.

Martha descends on us with determined efficiency, wielding a red bandana. "Left to right means heart to heart," she declares, kneeling to tie our inside legs together with the kind of knot that suggests she's done this before. Many times.

"Is that a real saying?" Paisley whispers as Martha works. "Or just more Martha wisdom?"

"Does it matter?" I steady her as she wobbles. "I'm pretty sure she made that up just now."

"There!" Martha steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Snug as new boots."

Paisley tests our bond, nearly sending us both sideways. I catch her waist, keeping us upright. "Easy. Gotta move together."

"Like everything else?" Her voice carries layers of meaning that have nothing to do with a festival game.

Before I can respond, Jake's voice booms across the square. "All right, folks, rules are simple! Three-legged race to the barn and back. First couple across wins. No carrying your partner—I'm looking at you, Tom Wilson."

Laughter ripples through the crowd as Tom's wife swats his arm.

"Ready?" I wrap my arm around Paisley's waist, steadying us both.

She grips my shirt, determination written across her face. "Born ready."

Jake raises the starting pistol. "On your mark..."

Paisley tightens her hold. "Fair warning: I'm competitive."

"Get set..."

"Good," I murmur, pulling her closer. "So am I."

The pistol crack sends us stumbling forward with the other couples. Laughter and shouts fill the air as we all try to find ourrhythm. Some pairs go down immediately, landing in graceless heaps on the grass. Others manage a kind of drunken shuffle.

But something clicks between us—maybe muscle memory from dancing, maybe just the way we've learned to read each other. We find a pace that works, her steps matching mine like we've done this before.

"Inside foot first," I guide her, our bodies moving in sync. "Then outside."

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