Page 75 of Lost in the Reins

My fingers tighten around the phone. "Again?”

"Yeah." She sniffs, and I can picture her wrapping Sarah's quilt tighter around her shoulders. "I don't want to be here when he comes back. Uncle Jake's gonna take me to Sarah Beth's."

"That's probably for the best, kiddo." I swallow against the lump in my throat. "How are the cats handling everything?"

"Trouble's been sleeping on Uncle Wes's boots every night. I think he misses you." She pauses meaningfully. "The cat, I mean. Not Uncle Wes. Although..."

"Although what?" I prompt when Emma's silence stretches too long.

"You should see him," she continues, her voice small but determined. "He stands in the kitchen every morning, staring at your coffee mug like it might tell him what to do. And yesterday, when Kevin was doing his dramatic sunset performance, Uncle Wes actually smiled for a second before remembering he's supposed to be all serious and brooding."

I close my eyes, picturing the scene: Kevin strutting across the yard, Wes trying not to show amusement. "Emma?—"

"I heard him praying this morning," she cuts in. "He asked for guidance about the developer. About knowing when to fight and when to let go." A rustle of fabric suggests she's adjusting Sarah's quilt. "He sounded scared, Paisley. Uncle Wes never sounds scared."

She’s right. Wes Montgomery doesn't do scared. He does stoic and stubborn and secretly soft-hearted, but never scared. The thought of him standing in that kitchen at dawn, asking for guidance he doesn't think he deserves, makes my chest ache.

"The developer wants to put in luxury cabins," Emma continues, her voice hardening. "With fancy bathrooms and those beds that adjust with a remote control. He says people want the 'authentic ranch experience without the mess.’" She spits the words like they taste bad. "As if Bernard would ever approve of remote-control beds."

Despite everything, I laugh. "I'm sure he'd have some strong opinions about proper sleeping arrangements."

"He hasn't been the same since you left," Emma says quietly. "Bernard, I mean." She trails off again, and I can practically see her gathering courage for whatever comes next. "Maybe none of us have."

I sink deeper into my pristine couch, pulling Wes's borrowed flannel tighter around me. "Emma..."

A sob catches in Emma's throat, cutting off her words. "I just... I miss you so much. Everything's wrong without you here. Uncle Wes barely talks anymore, the cats keep looking for you, and even Bernard seems sadder, even though he pretends he's not."

I grip the phone tighter, my own tears threatening to fall. "Oh, Emma..."

"I found your cotton candy bubble bath under the sink," she continues, her voice wobbling. "The one you left for me. And I couldn't... I couldn't even use it because it would smell like you, and then I'd miss you more and..." Another sob breaks through. "Why did you have to go? Why does everyone always have to go?"

The raw pain in her voice shatters something in my chest. "Emma, sweetheart..."

"First Mom and Dad and now you, and soon we'll lose the ranch, too, and..." She's crying in earnest now, the sound muffled like she's buried her face in Sarah's quilt. "I thought you were different. I thought you'd stay."

"I wanted to," I whisper, my own tears falling freely now. "More than anything."

"Then come back," she pleads. "Please. Before the developer ruins everything. Before Uncle Wes forgets how to smile again. Just... please."

I press my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle my own sob. "It's not that simple, kiddo."

"Why not?" Her voice carries that mix of Montgomery stubbornness and childish hope that breaks my heart. "You love us. We love you. Why isn't that enough?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with all the things I can't fix. All the ways love sometimes isn't enough against pride and fear and carefully constructed walls.

Emma sniffles on the other end, the weight of her words settling deep in my chest. "I don't know, sweetheart," I admit, my voice thick. "Sometimes, even when we love people, there are things we have to work through first."

"That sounds like an excuse," she says, ever blunt. "Uncle Wes works through things by pacing and glaring at the coffee maker. You could do that here."

I let out a watery laugh. "You make a compelling argument."

Silence stretches between us, filled with nothing but the sound of her breathing and the quiet rustle of fabric. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. "Are you working through things?"

"Yeah," I whisper. "Trying to, at least."

Emma doesn't respond right away, but when she does, it's not to argue. "Uncle Wes left the porch light on last night," she murmurs. "Like he used to when Mom and Dad would come home late."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "That doesn't mean?—"

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