Page 48 of Lost in the Reins

For a moment, I just stare at it. Who even has landlines anymore? Though I suppose in a place where cell service is considered more of a suggestion than a guarantee, backup plans make sense. The Montgomerys seem big on backup plans. Well, except when it comes to emotional intelligence. That particular skill set appears to have skipped a generation.

The ringing continues, insistent as a deadline, until I finally pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Paisley?" Emma's voice comes through, small and miserable. “I don’t feel good. Can someone come get me?”

My heart does a complicated little dance of concern and panic. All thoughts of caffeine withdrawal and emotional unavailability vanish, replaced by pure protective instinct. “Of course, sweetie. Are you at the nurse’s office?”

“Yeah.” She sounds congested, like she’s been crying or coming down with something. “I tried Uncle Wes’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail. And Uncle Jake's not answering either."

Because of course, they're not. They're probably all out doing something desperately masculine and reception-challenged while their ten-year-old niece needs them. Classic Montgomery timing.

"I'll come get you," I say, already scanning the kitchen for keys. My eyes land on Wes's truck keys, hanging on the hook by the door like a challenge. "Just hang tight, okay?"

There's a pause, then, smaller, "Really?"

"Really." I grab the keys, trying not to think about how Wes will react to me borrowing his precious truck. Though honestly, if he wants to complain about it, he should try answering his phone occasionally. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"'Kay." She sniffs, and my heart does that squeezing thing again—the one that reminds me I'm already in too deep with this family, no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise. "Paisley?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you answered."

The words hit me right in the chest, right where I've been pretending I'm not already too invested in this little girl and her complicated family. Right where I've been trying to convince myself that leaving at the end of my three months won't feel like leaving home.

"Me too, kiddo." I grab the keys, my voice steadier than my hands. "Me, too."

And isn't that just the perfect metaphor for my life right now? Standing in a kitchen that isn't mine, holding keys to a truck that isn't mine, about to drive through a town that isn't mine, to pick up a child who isn't mine—all while trying to pretend my heart isn't already more invested in this place than my next book contract.

Miranda would probably tell me this is great material for the novel. Real, authentic emotion bleeding onto the page.

I just wish it didn't have to bleed quite so much.

Here's the thing about Pine Ridge that my Manhattan-trained brain still hasn't fully processed: everything's exactly ten minutes away, except when it isn't. And of course, in true small-town fashion, no one actually gives addresses. It's all "turn left at old Miller's place" and "keep going past where the Jensens’ barn used to be before the fire of '82."

The world's most unhelpful signpost looms before me, its faded letters making suggestions rather than providing actualdirections. I squint at it like maybe if I stare hard enough, GPS coordinates will magically appear.

"Take the dirt road past where the old oak used to stand," Martha had said, like I'm supposed to have intimate knowledge of the town's arboreal history. "Can't miss it!"

Spoiler alert: I can absolutely miss it. I've been missing it for approximately twenty minutes now.

My phone, that traitorous piece of technology, mockingly displaysNo Servicelike it's personally offended by Montana's cellular infrastructure. I'm starting to suspect the entire state has some sort of collective agreement to confuse city folk. It's probably written into their constitution somewhere, right betweenAll cowboys must be unreasonably attractiveandRoad signs are more like guidelines than actual rules.

A truck rumbles past—the third one in ten minutes—and I resist the urge to flag it down like some sort of directionally challenged damsel in distress. Though at this point, I'm seriously considering it. Maybe I could offer up some of Martha's pie as payment for navigation services. It's practically currency around here anyway.

"You've got this," I mutter to myself, channeling the confidence of my fictional heroines who never seem to get lost on their way to small-town adventures. "You're a successful author. You've navigated Manhattan during fashion week. You can find one school in a town small enough to fit in Central Park's pocket."

The irony that I'm talking to myself like one of my characters isn't lost on me. If my editor could see me now—the woman who once wrote an entire novel about a cowboy finding his way home through a blizzard using nothing but instinct and determination, completely lost on a perfectly clear morning because apparently, "turn left where the Thompsons’ cow broke through the fence last spring" isn't specific enough for my city-trained brain.

Just as I'm about to resign myself to an eternal life of aimless wandering, I spot it—a landmark I actually recognize. The gas station. The one and only in town, which I remember because Martha had warned me that if I ever planned on driving anywhere, I should fill up here unless I wanted to test the true depths of my survival skills.

Hope flares in my chest as I rerun Martha’s directions in my head. If I passed the gas station, that meant… oh! I should’ve taken that last right instead of panicking when the road turned from pavement to dirt.

I spin the wheel and execute a three-point turn that’s more like a twenty-seven-point turn thanks to the narrow road and an inconveniently placed ditch. Dust billows behind me as I ease back onto the right path, squinting through my windshield like the school might materialize out of sheer willpower.

Then, like a mirage in the desert, a squatty brick building emerges at the end of the road. A faded wooden sign out front readsPine Ridge Elementaryin lettering that has definitely seen better days. My shoulders sag with relief as I pull into the small gravel parking lot, kill the engine, and step out. I smooth down my shirt, straighten my spine, and plaster on a confident smile. I might’ve just spent the better part of half an hour getting lost in a town with only three main roads, but no one needs to know that.

Besides, I made it. And in Pine Ridge, that has to count for something.

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