Page 20 of Lost in the Reins

"Actually," Emma pipes up, "Uncle Wes makes the best grilled cheese. Mom taught him." Her voice carries that careful tone she gets when talking about Sarah. "She said he was hopeless until she threatened to tell everyone about the time he?—"

"That's enough family history," I cut in, but my lips twitch despite myself. Sarah had wielded that particular story like a weapon until I finally mastered the perfect grilled cheese technique.

Paisley leans against the counter, watching me work with those observant writer's eyes that seem to catch everything. "Let me guess. There's a deeply embarrassing story involving a cooking disaster and possibly a cute girl?"

"There might be," I concede, flipping a new sandwich onto the griddle with practiced ease. "But you'll never hear it."

"Challenge accepted." She grins, and man if it doesn't hit me right in the chest. "I bet Emma knows all the good stories."

"Emma," I say pointedly, "knows the value of keeping family secrets."

"Emma," my niece announces, "knows her price in ice cream sundaes."

Paisley laughs—that full, throaty sound that's been filling our house lately. "I like the way you think, kid."

I slide a perfectly golden grilled cheese onto a plate, pretending my ears aren't burning at the thought of Paisley hearing about sixteen-year-old Wes's attempts to impress Jenny Martinez with his nonexistent cooking skills. "Here. This is how it's done."

Emma claims the first sandwich with the speed of a striking rattler. "See?" she says around a mouthful of melted cheese. "This is what food is supposed to look like."

"Everyone's a critic." Paisley edges closer, peering over my shoulder at the second sandwich cooking. She smells like Emma's cotton candy soap and something uniquely her—a scent that's starting to feel dangerously familiar. "So, what's the secret?"

"Besides basic fire safety?" I flip the sandwich, revealing perfectly browned bread. "Patience."

"Ah." Her breath tickles my neck. "Not my strong suit."

"I've noticed." The words come out lower than intended, and I feel her slight intake of breath.

Emma hops down from the counter, sandwich in hand. "I'm going to go check on Kevin. He gets lonely when it rains." She pauses at the doorway. "Try not to burn anything else while I'm gone."

"Your faith in me is overwhelming," Paisley calls after her, but Emma's already disappeared, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

The kitchen feels smaller without Emma's buffer of endless chatter. Paisley stays close, watching as I place another slice of bread onto the griddle. The rain hits the windows in steady sheets, making the kitchen feel like its own isolated world.

"Sarah taught you all to cook?" Her voice is soft, careful, like she's testing the waters.

I focus on buttering the bread, buying time before answering. "She tried. Jake was hopeless—burned water once. Actually managed to set off the smoke alarm making cereal."

"Cereal?"

"Don't ask." I flip the bread, watching it brown. "But yeah, Sarah had this thing about us being self-sufficient. Said cowboys who couldn't feed themselves weren't worth their salt."

Paisley shifts closer, her arm brushing mine as she reaches for a clean plate. "You were close? All of you?" Her voice carries that writer's curiosity, the kind that digs for details to flesh outcharacters. Only these aren't characters she's probing at; they're my family, my wounds.

"We had to be." The words come easier than expected, maybe because I'm keeping my eyes on the griddle, watching butter melt into perfect golden circles. "After Mom died, Sarah stepped in. She was only sixteen, but she kept us in line." I let out a rough laugh. "Trust me, herding three teenage boys is harder than wrangling any bull."

"Let me guess. You were the troublemaker?"

"Nah, that was Jake. Still is." I flip the bread, remembering Sarah's face that time she caught Jake trying to ride Thunder blindfolded. "I was the stubborn one. Colt was the peacekeeper. Sarah..." My throat tightens. "Sarah was the force of nature that kept us from tearing each other apart."

"And your dad?"

The question hangs between us like smoke. "Threw himself into the ranch. Grief does that sometimes—makes you focus on what you can control." I layer cheese with mechanical precision, following Sarah's old recipe like a ritual. "He was a good man. Just... lost after Mom. Started spending more time with the cattle than his kids. Probably figured they were easier to understand."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve. Jake was ten, Colt fourteen." I pause, suddenly aware I'm sharing things I haven't talked about in years. "Sarah was sixteen going on forty. Made sure we did our homework, ate something besides beef jerky, and kept us from killing each other over who had to muck stalls." The memory of her standing in the barn, hands on hips, lecturing us about responsibility hits like a physical ache. "Even after she married Paul and had Emma, she was still holding us together. Running interference between Dad and Jake, helping Colt with college applications, keeping me from..." I stop, the words sticking in my throat.

"From what?"

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