Page 7 of Lost in the Reins

She nods, like this makes perfect sense. "Sometimes it's easier to talk to animals than people. They don't try to fix everything."

The truth in her words hits too close to home. Makes me think of all the times I've tried to fix things for Emma, only to realize some things can't be fixed. Can't bring her mother back. Can't make the hurt go away. Can't even keep this ranch running the way it should.

"Get some rest," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Tomorrow starts early." I step into the hallway. "Bathroom's across the way if you need it. Hot water's temperamental in the morning, so you might want to shower at night."

"Noted." There's a smile in her voice now. "Any other survival tips?"

"Yeah." I glance back at her. "Lock your door at night. Otherwise, you might wake up with an entire cat colony in your bed."

That gets a real laugh out of her, light and unexpected. "I'll keep that in mind."

I head downstairs, my boots heavy on the old wood. Through the window, I can see Colt loading the last of the fence posts into his truck, and beyond him, the endless stretch of land that's been in our family for generations. Land that might not stay in our family if this crazy plan doesn't work out.

The distant sound of Emma's voice drifts down from upstairs, talking to those cats of hers in that serious tone she gets sometimes. Just like Sarah used to do—explaining everythingto whoever would listen, even if it was just the barn cats. The similarity makes my chest tight.

I grab my hat from the hook by the door. Standing around thinking about the past won't get the work done, and there's always work to be done. The evening feed won't handle itself, and those fence posts Colt's hauling need to be set before dark.

But as I reach for the door handle, Emma's voice carries down again, this time accompanied by Paisley's lighter tones. Something about proper names for cats and why Trouble needs a more dignified title. The sound stops me for a moment; it's been a while since I've heard Emma laugh like that, free and easy.

Maybe that's why I agreed to this whole writer-in-residence thing. Not just for the money, though God knows we need it, but because Emma needs... something. Something I can't give her, buried as I am under the weight of keeping this place afloat.

The screen door creaks as I push it open, reminding me to add another item to my endless repair list. Outside, the late afternoon sun paints everything in that golden Montana light that makes even the rundown parts of the ranch look almost majestic. Almost.

"You're thinking too hard again." Colt's voice carries from his truck. He's leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, wearing that knowing look that makes me want to throw a fence post at him.

"Someone's got to do the thinking around here," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.

He grins, pushing off the truck. "True. But maybe having a fresh perspective around here isn't the worst thing that could happen."

I shoot him a look. "You going to help set those posts, or just stand there philosophizing all evening?"

"Can't I do both?" He climbs into the cab and turns the ignition, the engine starting with a familiar rumble, and grins. "Besides, having a writer around might be exactly what this place needs. Who knows? Maybe she'll be the one to save Whispering Pines."

"Just drive," I tell him, but his words settle in my gut like a stone. Because if we can't turn things around soon, there won't be much left of Whispering Pines to save.

Though, I'm pretty sure a romance writer with designer luggage isn't going to be our salvation.

But then again, I've been wrong before. Once or twice.

Chapter Four

Paisley

Iswear, I just fell asleep.

Blinking, my eyes finally focus on my phone where the alarm is going off. Four-freaking-thirty. Am I actually considering getting out of bed and starting my day? I don’t think I’ve ever been up this early.

I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow that smells faintly of lavender and something else I can't quite place. Maybe authenticity? Is that what Miranda wanted? If so, I’m pretty sure being awake at this ungodly hour qualifies as the most authentic thing I’ve ever done.

My phone wails again, and I notice a text from Miranda sent last night:Hope you’re embracing the authentic ranch experience! Can’t wait to hear all about it.

“Embracing is a strong word,” I mutter, fumbling for the bedside lamp. The switch clicks, but nothing happens. Great. Either the power’s out, or I’ve somehow broken a lamp within twelve hours of arrival. Both seem equally possible at this point.

A thud from downstairs makes me freeze. Right. Cowboys. Real ones. Who apparently don’t believe in sleeping past what my body clock considers the middle of the night. The smell of coffee drifts up through the floorboards, and suddenly, Wes'swords from last night make more sense. Coffee isn't just essential—it's survival.

I swing my legs out of bed, immediately regretting my choice of silk pajamas when the cold air hits. Note to self: add "practical sleepwear" to the growing list of things I should have packed instead of my collection of impractical shoes.

Something scratches at my door, followed by a soft meow. I'd remembered to lock it last night, heeding Wes's warning about a feline invasion, but now I'm tempted to let in whatever cat has decided to adopt me. At least cats don't judge your complete lack of ranching skills.

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