Chapter Thirty-Two – Paisley
Chapter Thirty-Two
Paisley
M y phone buzzes with Emma's nightly call. We've been doing this since I left, her voice always slightly muffled like she's hiding under Sarah's quilt while we talk.
"Bernard misunderstood the concept of a sit-in protest," she announces without preamble. "He's been blocking the barn door for three hours because I forgot to refill his water this morning."
I laugh despite the ache in my chest. "Please tell me someone got pictures."
“Colt did his best to negotiate, but you know how Bernard gets when he feels disrespected." She pauses, then adds quieter, "Uncle Wes didn't even smile about it."
The mention of his name is painful. "How is he?"
"Stubborn. Sad." Her voice carries that mix of frustration and worry that no ten-year-old should have to manage. "The developer's coming again tomorrow. The one with the fancy boots who wants to turn everything into tourist cabins."
My fingers tighten around the phone. "Again?”
"Yeah." She sniffs, and I can picture her wrapping Sarah's quilt tighter around her shoulders. "I don't want to be here when he comes back. Uncle Jake's gonna take me to Sarah Beth's."
"That's probably for the best, kiddo." I swallow against the lump in my throat. "How are the cats handling everything?"
"Trouble's been sleeping on Uncle Wes's boots every night. I think he misses you." She pauses meaningfully. "The cat, I mean. Not Uncle Wes. Although..."
"Although what?" I prompt when Emma's silence stretches too long.
"You should see him," she continues, her voice small but determined. "He stands in the kitchen every morning, staring at your coffee mug like it might tell him what to do. And yesterday, when Kevin was doing his dramatic sunset performance, Uncle Wes actually smiled for a second before remembering he's supposed to be all serious and brooding."
I close my eyes, picturing the scene: Kevin strutting across the yard, Wes trying not to show amusement. "Emma?—"
"I heard him praying this morning," she cuts in. "He asked for guidance about the developer. About knowing when to fight and when to let go." A rustle of fabric suggests she's adjusting Sarah's quilt. "He sounded scared, Paisley. Uncle Wes never sounds scared."
She’s right. Wes Montgomery doesn't do scared. He does stoic and stubborn and secretly soft-hearted, but never scared. The thought of him standing in that kitchen at dawn, asking for guidance he doesn't think he deserves, makes my chest ache.
"The developer wants to put in luxury cabins," Emma continues, her voice hardening. "With fancy bathrooms and those beds that adjust with a remote control. He says people want the 'authentic ranch experience without the mess.’" She spits the words like they taste bad. "As if Bernard would ever approve of remote-control beds."
Despite everything, I laugh. "I'm sure he'd have some strong opinions about proper sleeping arrangements."
"He hasn't been the same since you left," Emma says quietly. "Bernard, I mean." She trails off again, and I can practically see her gathering courage for whatever comes next. "Maybe none of us have."
I sink deeper into my pristine couch, pulling Wes's borrowed flannel tighter around me. "Emma..."
A sob catches in Emma's throat, cutting off her words. "I just... I miss you so much. Everything's wrong without you here. Uncle Wes barely talks anymore, the cats keep looking for you, and even Bernard seems sadder, even though he pretends he's not."
I grip the phone tighter, my own tears threatening to fall. "Oh, Emma..."
"I found your cotton candy bubble bath under the sink," she continues, her voice wobbling. "The one you left for me. And I couldn't... I couldn't even use it because it would smell like you, and then I'd miss you more and..." Another sob breaks through. "Why did you have to go? Why does everyone always have to go?"
The raw pain in her voice shatters something in my chest. "Emma, sweetheart..."
"First Mom and Dad and now you, and soon we'll lose the ranch, too, and..." She's crying in earnest now, the sound muffled like she's buried her face in Sarah's quilt. "I thought you were different. I thought you'd stay."
"I wanted to," I whisper, my own tears falling freely now. "More than anything."
"Then come back," she pleads. "Please. Before the developer ruins everything. Before Uncle Wes forgets how to smile again. Just... please."
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle my own sob. "It's not that simple, kiddo."
"Why not?" Her voice carries that mix of Montgomery stubbornness and childish hope that breaks my heart. "You love us. We love you. Why isn't that enough?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with all the things I can't fix. All the ways love sometimes isn't enough against pride and fear and carefully constructed walls.
Emma sniffles on the other end, the weight of her words settling deep in my chest. "I don't know, sweetheart," I admit, my voice thick. "Sometimes, even when we love people, there are things we have to work through first."
"That sounds like an excuse," she says, ever blunt. "Uncle Wes works through things by pacing and glaring at the coffee maker. You could do that here."
I let out a watery laugh. "You make a compelling argument."
Silence stretches between us, filled with nothing but the sound of her breathing and the quiet rustle of fabric. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. "Are you working through things?"
"Yeah," I whisper. "Trying to, at least."
Emma doesn't respond right away, but when she does, it's not to argue. "Uncle Wes left the porch light on last night," she murmurs. "Like he used to when Mom and Dad would come home late."
I squeeze my eyes shut. "That doesn't mean?—"
"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 last book 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.
I should leave it. I should fold it neatly and set it aside, treat it like the past—something to be acknowledged but not carried with me. Instead, I grab it, my fingers tightening around the soft, worn fabric as I shove it into my bag. A reckless, sentimental move. But I can’t seem to help myself.
I pause, gripping the edge of my suitcase as the reality of what I’m doing slams into me.
I don’t know what Miranda’s up to.
I don’t know if I’m ready to face Wes again, to stand in that kitchen and see for myself if Emma’s right—if he really does stare at my coffee mug like it might tell him what to do.
But I do know one thing….
I’m going back to Montana.