Page 68 of Lost in the Reins

The cattle don’t wait for grief. The land doesn’t pause for heartache. Morning chores need doing, same as they always do. The rhythm of work keeps you breathing, keeps you moving, even when everything else inside you feels like it’s caving in.

The bank papers sit on my desk like a confession, signed, witnessed, and heavy as cemetery dirt. Letting go of land is like letting a piece of yourself rot in the ground. Dad knew that. Sarah, too. Guess it's my turn to learn the lesson the hard way.

Emma hasn’t come out of her room. I can’t blame her. She’s lost too much already—her parents, her home, and now Paisley. The girl’s got a way of tucking herself into the corners of your life, making a place for herself without asking permission. And now she’s tearing that piece away. I let out a breath, long and slow. Maybe Sarah had it easier, going quick. It’s better than watching everything come apart bit by bit.

I pause outside Emma's door, the familiar creak of floorboards beneath my boots doing nothing to drown out the muffled sounds of crying from within. Every sob feels like a physical blow, reminding me that I'm failing at the one job that matters most: protecting her from more loss.

"Em?" I knock softly, then ease the door open.

She's curled up on her bed, Sarah's old quilt pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. Ever the guardian, Trouble the cat is pressed against her side, his golden eyes watching me with what feels like judgment.

"Go away." Her voice comes out thick with tears, muffled by the quilt.

“I can't do that, kiddo." I settle on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. "Not when you're hurting."

She peeks out from her blanket fortress, her eyes red and accusing. "You're making her leave."

Her harsh words hurt more than I expected. “Emma..."

"No!" She sits up suddenly, anger burning through her tears. "You're doing it again. You’re pushing people away because you're scared. Just like with the ranch. Just like with everything!"

I reach for her, but she shrinks back. "It's complicated?—"

"It's not!" Her voice cracks with a fury that's pure Sarah. "You're just too stubborn to see it. Paisley makes us happy. The ranch makes us happy. Why isn't that enough?"

"Sometimes being happy isn't enough," I say softly, watching her clutch Sarah's quilt tighter. "Sometimes we have to make hard choices to protect the people we love."

"That's stupid," Emma declares, her chin jutting out in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of Sarah. "You're not protecting anyone. You're just scared."

She's right—I am scared. I’m terrified of losing more than I already have, of watching everything I love slip away again.

"The bank—" I start, but Emma cuts me off.

"Paisley has ideas! Good ones! But you won't even listen because you're too busy deciding everything by yourself." She wipes angrily at her tears. "Mom always said the ranch wasabout family. About building something together. But you're not letting anyone help build anything."

I reach out again, and this time she lets me pull her close. She smells like shampoo and childhood grief, and my heart breaks a little more.

"I don't want to lose another home," she whispers into my shirt. "Or another mom."

The words knock the breath from my lungs. Because that's what Paisley's become to her—another chance at family. And I'm taking that away, too.

Being responsible feels an awful lot like breaking your own heart.

She burrows deeper into my shirt, her small frame shaking with sobs that feel like accusations. The morning light catches on Sarah's photos on the wall, her smile forever frozen in that moment before everything changed.

"Your mom would have known what to do," I say quietly, stroking Emma's hair. "She always did."

Emma pulls back just enough to fix me with red-rimmed eyes. "Mom would tell you to stop being stupid." Her voice carries that mix of grief and determination that breaks my heart. "She'd say you're so busy trying to protect everyone that you forgot how to let anyone protect you."

The truth of it lands like a punch to the gut. Because she's right. Sarah would have seen right through my careful walls and would have called me out on my stubborn pride.

"Uncle Wes?" Emma's voice goes small, uncertain. "Remember what Mom used to say about broken fences?"

I close my eyes, the memory washing over me. Sarah in her work boots, hands on hips, lecturing us about proper maintenance. “That they’re easier to fix when you’ve got help.”

“So why won’t you let us help fix this?” She sits up straighter, something of Sarah’s fierce determination shining through hertears. “Paisley knows people in New York. Important people. And Uncle Jake’s ideas about tourism—they could work. We could make it work."

"Emma—"

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