Page 22 of Lost in the Reins

I disagreed.

But that only seemed to insult Paisley into proving me wrong. Now, here she is, three days of ranch life under her belt, with enough experience to be cautious but not enough to know that Bernard—Emma's prize show goose with delusions of grandeur—can smell fear from fifty paces.

"Careful," I call out, making Paisley jump. “Geese can smell fear." Especially Bernard.

She freezes mid-step, clutching the feed bucket like it might shield her from an impending assault. “Thanks. You’re so helpful.”

"Just offering friendly advice." I lean against the barn door, fighting back a smile as she shoots me a look that could curdle milk. "Bernard takes his territory very seriously."

"Bernard?" She eyes the large white goose who's now watching her with regal disdain. "You named a goose Bernard?"

"Emma named him." I cross my arms, watching as Bernard stretches his neck, sizing up this latest intruder. “She said he looked like her third-grade teacher. Same superior attitude."

Paisley takes another cautious step forward. "And does Bernard have any particular preferences I should know about? Like, does he appreciate Shakespeare? Take his tea with two lumps of sugar?"

"Actually," I say, just as Bernard lets out a warning honk that makes her jump, "he's partial to country music. Jake plays it in the barn sometimes."

She laughs despite herself, then quickly sobers when Bernard starts waddling in her direction. "You're kidding, right? Please tell me you're kidding about the country music thing."

“I never joke about a goose's musical taste." I push off from the doorframe, ready to intervene if needed. Not that I'm worried about her. Much. "Though I wouldn't start singing if I were you. He's a critic."

"Now you tell me." She inches toward the feeding trough, her boots leaving careful prints in the morning dew. "And here I was about to break into my rendition of 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.'"

The image hits me sideways, and I cover my reaction with a cough. She's got a way of doing that—throwing out these little comments that catch me off guard, making me think things I shouldn't about city writers in borrowed flannel shirts.

Bernard chooses that moment to charge, wings spread like some avenging angel of poultry justice. Paisley lets out a yelp that probably carries all the way to Manhattan, dumping half the feed bucket in her haste to retreat.

"Some help here!" she calls out, doing an awkward dance to avoid Bernard's advancing beak. "Your guard goose is about to attack me!”

I shouldn't find it so entertaining, watching her try to maintain her dignity while being pursued by an outraged goose. But there's something about the way she handles it—equal parts determination and barely contained panic—that gets to me.

"You're doing fine," I call back, even as she nearly trips over her own feet. "Just remember, eye contact shows dominance."

"I don't want dominance!" She's given up on dignity now, practically jogging in circles while Bernard follows with militant precision. "I want to feed the stupid birds without losing a finger!"

Emma appears beside me, summoned either by the commotion or her sixth sense for entertaining disasters. Her eyes light up at the scene before her.

"Oh, no," she says, trying to stifle a giggle. "Bernard's doing his intimidation dance. That means he thinks you're challenging his authority."

Paisley dodges another of Bernard's lunges. "I'm not challenging anything! I'm just trying to—" She stumbles backward, windmilling her arms. "How is this even my life right now?"

"The trick," Emma announces with all the wisdom of her ten years, "is to bow first. Show respect."

"Bow?" Paisley shoots us both an incredulous look as she sidesteps Bernard's latest advance. "To a goose?"

"He used to be in theater," Emma says with complete seriousness. "At least, that's what I think. He's very dramatic."

I can't help it—the laugh escapes before I can catch it. The sound makes Paisley glare at me again, which only sets Emma off, too.

"This isn't funny!" Paisley protests, but her lips are twitching. "I'm being terrorized by poultry with a superiority complex!"

Bernard honks in what sounds suspiciously like agreement, advancing with his neck extended like nobility approaching a peasant. The morning sun catches his white feathers, giving him an almost regal glow.

"Just try it," Emma encourages. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I lose the last shred of my dignity?" But Paisley's already shifting the feed bucket to one arm, watching Bernard warily. "Fine. But if this doesn't work, I'm writing him into my next book as the villain."

She executes an awkward curtsy-bow hybrid that makes Emma clap her hands in delight. Bernard stops his advance, considering this development with his head tilted to one side.

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