Page 76 of Lost in the Reins

"It means he misses you," she insists, fierce in the way only a ten-year-old can be. "Even if he's too stubborn to say it."

I don't know how to answer that.

"Please think about it," she pleads, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. "Please, Paisley."

My throat tightens. "I will, kiddo."

"Okay," she says, sniffling again. "I guess I should let you sleep."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," she says, but it’s wobbly. "I’ve got Bernard and Trouble, and Uncle Jake’s taking me to Sarah Beth’s, so..."

"I love you, Emma," I whisper.

"Love you, too," she says, then hesitates. "Night, Paisley."

"Night, sweetheart."

The line goes dead, but I don’t move. I just sit there, clutching the phone like it's an anchor, while Wes's flannel wraps around me like a memory I can’t shake.

I haven’t slept. Emma’s tears still echo in my head. Three months ago, I wouldn’t have believed a child’s sobs could carve permanent grooves in my heart, but here we are. Every time I close my eyes, I see her clutching Sarah’s quilt like it could shield her from another loss.

The weight of it all presses down on me—grief, responsibility, the helplessness of not knowing how to make this easier for her. I exhale slowly, rubbing the ache at the base of my skull. The apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in deep, making the loneliness feel heavier. I reach for my coffee, more out of habit than anything else, when my phone erupts with Miranda’s ringtone, jolting me from the haze of exhaustion.

Before I can even say hello, her voice cuts through like a caffeine-fueled tornado.

"Pack your bags. There's a plane ticket in your email. You need to be at JFK in two hours."

I blink at my abandoned coffee, trying to process her words through my exhaustion. "Miranda, slow down. What's happening? Did they hate the book?"

"Hate it? Oh honey, no. Just—pack. I'll explain everything in the car."

"What publisher? Why Montana? I can't just?—"

"You can, and you will." Papers rustle in the background, followed by the decisive click of her signature Mont Blanc pen. "Look, do you trust me?"

"Of course, but?—"

"Then pack your bags. Montana weather, practical clothes. I've got meetings lined up that could change everything."

"Meetings? With who? Miranda, you're not making any sense. Can't you at least tell me?—"

"Twenty minutes, Paisley.” She pauses, her voice softening slightly. "This is big. Life-changing big. But we need to move fast."

I drop the phone onto the couch and lurch to my feet, my pulse hammering in my ears.Montana. Meetings. Life-changing big.The words tumble over themselves in my brain, colliding with Emma’s raw, pleading voice.

"Then come back. Please."

I yank open my closet, barely processing what I’m grabbing as I start tossing clothes into my suitcase. Jeans, sweaters, anything that can handle Montana’s unpredictable weather. My boots. My hand hesitates over them for only a second before I throw them in. They land with a dull thunk against the fabric, heavy with more than just their weight. I haven’t worn them since I left. I told myself I wouldn’t need them again. That they belonged to a different version of me, a version who’d gotten too attached, who let herself believe she could fit into a world that was never meant for her.

And yet, here I am.

I move faster now, yanking open my dresser drawers, grabbing what I need without thinking. My toiletries go in next, my movements jerky, distracted. My brain races through possibilities, trying to make sense of Miranda’s urgency. What kind of meetings? A book deal? A film adaptation? My lastbook performed well, but not fly-across-the-country-with-no-explanation well.

No, this isn’t about my career. If it were, Miranda would be dragging me across Manhattan, not to Montana.

I let out a sharp breath, rubbing a hand over my face. The weight of the past few days presses down on me—the exhaustion, the ache in my chest from Emma’s tears, the way Wes’s name still lingers in my thoughts no matter how much I try to shove it aside. I glance at the couch, at the borrowed flannel draped over the armrest, and my stomach twists.

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