Page 23 of Lost in the Reins

"Now what?" Paisley whispers, frozen in her half bow.

"Now," Emma says triumphantly, "you can feed him. But make sure you compliment his feathers first. He works very hard on them."

The look Paisley gives me could strip paint. "You're all crazy. This whole ranch is crazy." But she straightens slowly, keeping her movements deliberate. "Bernard, your feathers are absolutely magnificent today. Truly stunning. Movie-star quality."

And just like that, the tension breaks. Bernard preens, actually preens, before graciously allowing Paisley to approach the feeding trough. The other geese, who've been watching the drama unfold like some kind of feathered Greek chorus, waddle forward for their breakfast.

"I can't believe that worked," Paisley mutters, carefully distributing feed while Bernard supervises with imperial dignity.

"Dad used to say some creatures just need the right approach." Emma's voice carries that careful tone she gets whentalking about her parents. "Mom always said Bernard was just misunderstood."

Something in my chest tightens, watching these two unlikely allies share a moment of understanding over a temperamental goose. Paisley catches my eye, and there's a softness there that makes me look away first.

"Well," she says, straightening up as Bernard begins his breakfast inspection, "I guess every ranch needs its characters." She brushes off her hands, shooting the goose a considering look. "Though I have to admit, none of my book research mentioned having to bow to poultry."

"That's because you've been writing the wrong kind of cowboys," Emma informs her. "The real ones know how to handle dramatic geese."

"Clearly." Paisley's laugh carries across the morning air, genuine and warm. "I have so much to learn."

She has no idea how dangerous that statement is. Or maybe she does, judging by the way her eyes meet mine again, holding something that feels too much like a challenge.

I clear my throat. "Come on. Cattle won't feed themselves, and they're a lot less particular about proper etiquette."

"Thank goodness for that," she says, falling into step beside me as we head back to the east barn.

Emma skips ahead of us, already focused on her next mission of the morning, probably involving that growing collection of cats she's amassing in the barn. I glance at Paisley as we walk, noting how she's already moving differently after just three days here. Less hesitation in her stride, like she's starting to find her rhythm here.

You know," she says thoughtfully, "I think I just found the perfect subplot for my next book."

"Bernard, the theatrical goose?" I shake my head. "Pretty sure that's not the kind of authenticity your readers want.”

"No, but it's real." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That's what's been missing from my books. Not just the big, dramatic moments, but the small, bizarre ones. Like having to bow to a goose before breakfast."

The way she says it—equal parts amused and amazed—makes me smile. "Ranch life isn't all romantic horse rides and dramatic rescues."

"Clearly." She shoots me a sidelong glance. "Though I notice you let me flounder quite a while before Emma came to the rescue."

“Consider it an educational experience." I hold the barn door open for her, trying not to notice how she brushes past close enough that I catch the scent of Emma's cotton candy soap mixed with something uniquely her. "Besides, you handled it well.”

"Barely." But there's pride in her voice. "Though I have to ask—does Bernard actually like country music, or were you just messing with me?"

I meet her eyes, keeping my face carefully neutral. "Guess you'll have to stick around long enough to find out."

The words hang between us, heavier than intended.

"So," she says finally, breaking the moment, "about those cattle. Any other ranch wisdom I should know before we start? Secret handshakes? Special dances?"

"Nope." I move past her into the barn, needing distance from whatever's building between us. "Just good old-fashioned work."

"How disappointing." Her voice carries that hint of laughter. "And here I was hoping to see you do the macarena."

"The day's still young." I reach for the feed buckets, handing her one. “Though I warn you, I’m not a great dancer.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

That's what makes her dangerous. Not the way she looks in borrowed flannel or how quickly she's learning our rhythms, but how she seems to bring out the softer side of me.

I grab another bucket, focusing on the familiar weight.

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