Page 50 of Lost in the Reins

“Kevin has very high standards.” I smooth her hair back from her forehead, checking her temperature again because apparently, I've become that person. “He seems to have accepted me finally.”

“That’s ‘cause you belong here.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, settling somewhere between my ribs where I've been trying to pretend I'm not already too attached to this place. To this family. To a certain stubborn cowboy who'd rather push me away than admit he might feel something, too.

But before I can formulate a response, Emma's already drifting off, her breathing evening out as Lucy discovers the wardrobe on screen. I pull the quilt higher around her shoulders, breathing in her familiar scent.

In two months, I'm supposed to go back to Manhattan. Back to takeout coffee and deadline pressure and a world where the biggest drama is whether my next book will hit the bestseller list. Back to a place where no one needs me to pick them up from school or make soup from Sarah's recipe book or learn all the voices from their favorite stories.

Back to a life that suddenly feels about as authentic as my old cowboys doing sunrise yoga.

Emma stirs, her eyes fluttering open as Edmund meets the White Witch on screen. "Paisley?"

"Hmm?" I brush her hair back, checking her temperature… again.

"Don't give up on Uncle Wes." Her voice is soft but clear, despite the congestion. "He's just scared."

My hand stills in her hair. "Emma..."

"No, listen." She pushes herself up slightly, fixing me with those eyes that see way too much. "He likes having you here. More than he wants to admit. I can tell."

"Can you now?" I try for lightness, but my voice catches on the words.

She nods, completely serious despite her fever-flushed cheeks. "He smiles more when you're around. Even when he's pretending not to look at you. And he makes sure there's always coffee ready in the morning. He even switched to the expensive kind you like."

"That's just being polite," I protest weakly, despite something warm unfurling in my chest at the thought.

Emma gives me a look that could strip paint. "Uncle Wes once drank coffee that Jake made with river water just because he didn't want to hurt his feelings. He's not exactly picky." She coughs, then continues with the determination of someone who's thought this through. "But he notices things about you. Like how you take your coffee and which flannel shirts you like best and the way you laugh at his terrible jokes."

"His jokes aren't terrible," I say automatically, then catch her knowing smirk. "I mean..."

"Just give him time." She snuggles back against me, her voice going drowsy again. "Mom always said the best things are worth waiting for. And you're good for him. For all of us."

Emma shifts back into sleep, muttering something about Turkish Delight, and I wonder when exactly this little girl worked her way so thoroughly into my heart that the thought of leaving feels like trying to pry off a piece of myself.

Then again, maybe that's just the Montgomery way—they get under your skin with their quiet strength and hidden kindness, until suddenly, you can't imagine a world without Bernard's morning tantrums or Kevin's dramatic performances or the way certain blue eyes crinkle at the corners when their owner is trying not to smile.

Not that I'm thinking about those eyes. Or their owner. Or the way he'll probably look at me when he gets home and finds out I borrowed his truck without asking.

Honestly, if he wanted to have an opinion about that, he should try answering his phone occasionally.

The front door creaks—that specific creak that means someone tall is trying to be quiet—and my heart does its usual unauthorized gymnastics routine at the sound of boots on wooden floors.

Because of course, he’d come home now. When I’m curled up on his couch with his niece, watching his DVD, wrapped in his sister’s quilt, probably looking about as put-together as a tornado in a trailer park.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Wes appears in the doorway like some kind of brooding romance novel cover model, all windblown hair and concerned father-figure energy. His eyes land on Emma first, softening at the edges in that way that makes my heart do completely unauthorized things. Then they find mine, and something flickers there—worry, relief, maybe both.

“School called.” His voice is rougher than usual. “Couldn’t reach anyone.”

“Cell service,” I explain, trying not to notice how his shoulders fill out his work shirt or the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. “Emma tried you first.”

He nods once, moving closer to check on his niece. The scent of leather and coffee follows him, familiar as breathing now. His hand brushes mine as he touches Emma’s forehead, and I try very hard not to think about what she just said about giving him time.

“Fever’s down,” I report, professional as a ranch hand delivering stats. “She kept down some water, and Mrs. Harrison said rest should do the trick."

"Thank you." The words come out soft, loaded with something that feels bigger than gratitude for a school pickup. "For being here. For..." He gestures vaguely at Emma, at the movie playing quietly, at the general domestic scene we've created.

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