Page 44 of Lost in the Reins

"Right," I say, swallowing against the lump in my throat that feels suspiciously like my heart trying to escape. I grab my coffeeand take a sip, even though it's gone colder than my dating prospects. "Thanks for clearing that up."

He exhales through his nose, his fingers flexing on the tabletop like he's trying to grab something that isn't there. "Paisley?—"

But I don't want to hear whatever excuse or half-truth he's about to offer. I push back my chair and grab my bag with hands that definitely aren't shaking.

"I need to finish up festival prep," I say, forcing a smile that probably looks as authentic as a gas station Rolex. "You know, since I'm still allowed to make some of my own decisions."

Wes doesn't try to stop me. He just watches as I slide out of the booth and walk toward the door, every step feeling like I'm moving through molasses.

The bell chimes as I push through the door, the sound impossibly cheerful for what feels like a funeral march for possibilities. I'm not sure if this is the end of whatever's been building between us, or just the beginning of something else entirely.

But right now, walking away from Wes Montgomery feels like both the hardest and easiest thing I've ever done.

And isn't that just the story of my life?

Chapter Twenty

Wes

It’s never a good sign when Emma’s quiet. Usually, she’s got a running commentary about everything: Bernard’s latest tantrum, the book she’s tearing through, the way the clouds look like something out of a story. But today, she just stares out the truck window, watching the land roll by like she’s trying to memorize it.

I check the rearview out of habit. The house is barely visible through the early morning mist, and I sure as heck don’t notice that Paisley’s light was on all night again. Just like I haven’t noticed how she’s barely left her room these past few days, only surfacing for coffee and a meal before disappearing back into whatever world she’s writing.

It’s better this way. Has to be.

“Uncle Wes?” Emma’s voice breaks the quiet. “Are you and Paisley fighting?”

The truck bounces over a pothole. My grip tightens on the wheel. “No, kiddo. We’re not fighting.”

“Then why won’t you talk to each other?” She turns, pinning me with those too-knowing eyes. “And don’t say you do, because ‘pass the coffee’ doesn’t count.”

I exhale slowly. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s what grown-ups say when they don’t wanna explain.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Nobody thinks you’re stupid, Em.”

“Then tell me the truth.” She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller, and it hits me like a gut punch. “Is it… because of me?”

“What?”

“Well, you have to take care of me. Because Mom and Dad…” She swallows hard. “And maybe Paisley doesn’t want to deal with that. With me.”

I pull the truck over right there on the ranch road.

“Emma Grace Montgomery.” I turn to face her, my voice low but firm. “That is not what’s happening. Understand me?”

She shrugs, but I catch the way her chin trembles.

“Then why is Paisley hiding in her room? And why do you look like Bernard just stole your favorite hat whenever someone says her name?”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes. “I don’t look like that.”

“Worse.” She almost smiles. “At least Bernard gives hats back. You just keep getting more…” She waves a hand. “Broody.”

“Broody?”

“Yeah. Like Thunder when Jake plays country music in the barn.”

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