Page 72 of Lost in the Reins

Three months ago, I wrote about cowboys finding their happy endings. Now I know the truth: Sometimes, the hardest stories to write are the ones you're living. Sometimes home isn'twhere you planned to find it but where you leave your heart when you're forced to walk away.

I close my eyes, but I can't sleep. All I can see is Emma's face when I said goodbye, the way she held on to Sarah's quilt like it could shield her from another loss. All I can hear is the way Wes's voice caught when he said the bank papers were signed, like he was surrendering more than just land.

This would be the perfect moment in one of my novels for something to change. For someone to realize that pride isn't worth losing everything you love.

But this isn't one of my novels. This is real life, where sometimes love isn't enough to overcome generations of pride and carefully guarded independence. Where happy endings get lost somewhere between bank notices and goodbye kisses that taste like blueberry pie and regret.

Tomorrow, I'll have to start remembering how to be the woman who lives in this perfect apartment with its perfect view. I'll have to learn how to write about love without remembering the way it feels to dance under festival lights with a man too scared to admit what he's losing.

But tonight, I let myself miss the smell of hay and leather and the sound of Emma's laughter.

Chapter Thirty-One

Wes

The realtor's sign went up yesterday. Clean white against Montana dirt, red letters sharp as judgment.For Sale.Like you can put a price on generations of blood, sweat, and tears. Like you can measure a legacy in acres instead of memories.

The coffee maker gurgles—the same sound it's made every morning for years, but different now that there's no one stealing my mug or critiquing my brewing technique. Force of habit has me making enough for four. Turns out, muscle memory's harder to break than pride.

Emma's door hasn't opened yet. She should be down here by now, plotting schemes with her barn cats or explaining Bernard's latest theatrical crisis. Nowadays, she stays up there until the last possible minute, protesting against changes she shouldn't have to face.

"Morning." Jake's boots crunch on the hardwood floors. "Developer called. Says he'll be here by ten."

I grunt in acknowledgment. The developer. Clean boots, pressed jeans, probably never mucked a stall in his life. Coming to turn our working ranch into someone's idea of an authentic experience.

"Could be worse." Jake helps himself to coffee, careful not to use the blue mug that sits untouched on the highest shelf. "At least they want to keep some of the operations running. Maybe even expand on our tourism ideas."

The irony of it sits as bitter as old coffee. Tourism. Authentic ranch experience. Exactly what Paisley came here to write about. What she found, then lost, because I was too stubborn.

"Denver money's still money," Colt adds from the doorway. Always the practical one. “It would set up Emma's college fund properly. Maybe even allow us to keep some of the breeding stock."

My fingers tighten around my mug. The ceramic's worn smooth from years of quiet contemplation. Lately, those prayers have gotten shorter. It’s harder to ask for guidance when you're not sure you deserve it.

Bernard's morning proclamation splits the dawn, his imperial disapproval carrying across frost-touched grass. Even the goose knows something's wrong.

"Uncle Wes?" Emma's voice comes quietly.

Emma stands on the stairs, Sarah's quilt wrapped around her shoulders like a shield. Dark circles under her eyes tell me she's been up most of the night again. My chest tightens at the sight.

“Is the developer coming today?" Her voice carries that careful neutrality she's learned too young.

"Yeah, kiddo." I try to keep my voice steady. "Around ten."

She nods once, clutching the quilt tighter. "Can I stay at Sarah Beth's?"

Her request is brutal. Emma's never run from anything. Not thunderstorms, not Bernard's tantrums, not even her own grief. But this, watching strangers walk through our home with price tags in their eyes, is too much for her—for all of us.

“Of course, you can." Jake steps in smoothly, reading the struggle on my face. "I'll drive you over before they get here."

Emma's relief is palpable as she disappears back upstairs.

“She's not the only one running," Colt says quietly once she's gone.

I set my mug down harder than necessary. "Don't."

"Someone has to say it." He meets my eyes steadily. "You're letting fear of losing something stop you from fighting to keep everything."

"The papers are signed." The words taste like defeat.

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