Chapter Six – Paisley
Chapter Six
Paisley
A s luck would have it, I rush through the front door of the Montgomery cabin and nearly plow over their ten-year-old niece. Emma stands there in unicorn pajamas, clutching a bowl of cereal and staring at me like I'm some kind of exotic zoo exhibit that's escaped its enclosure.
"What happened to you?" Her eyes grow wide as she takes in my disheveled state.
“I…” I pause, trying—and failing—to maintain some dignity while dripping who-knows-what onto the floor. Tears drip down my cheeks as the heat from my embarrassment tries to dry them up before they can hit the ground.
Immediately, Emma sets her bowl down. “You poor thing! Come with me!”
She leads me up the stairs and through her pink-laced bedroom and shuffles me into her bathroom, where dozens of bubble bath containers line the tub. “Use the shower to get cleaned up.” She offers me a towel from the closet. “And I’ll get you some clean clothes.”
I stand in Emma's bathroom, overwhelmed by the kindness of this tiny human who's treating my meltdown with the careful consideration of someone three times her age. The bubble bath collection would make Sephora jealous—everything from cotton candy to vanilla cupcake scents, arranged in perfect rainbow order.
"The purple one's my favorite," Emma says, following my gaze. "Mom always said bubble baths could fix anything. Even manure incidents." Her voice catches on the word 'Mom,' but she soldiers on with determined cheerfulness. "But we should stick to the shower for now."
"Probably wise." I try to smile through my tears, which are now more about her lost mother than my lost dignity. "I have to admit, though, cotton candy bubbles sound pretty tempting right now."
"They're better than they smell." She wrinkles her nose. "Which is good, because right now you smell like?—"
"Let's not finish that sentence," I cut in hastily. "My ego's bruised enough without a detailed inventory of my current... fragrance situation."
Emma giggles, the sound pure and bright in the bubble-scented bathroom. "I'll find you some clothes. Cousin Ruby left some things here last time she visited." She pauses, studying me with those eerily perceptive eyes. "She's not as tall as you, but anything's better than..." She gestures vaguely at my ruined outfit.
"Than essence of horse stall?" I suggest, and her giggle turns into a full laugh.
"You're funny," she declares, like she's just solved a particularly tricky math problem. "Most grown-ups try to pretend everything's fine when they mess up. You just..." She waves her hands expressively. "Own it."
The simple observation hits harder than it should. How many times have I glossed over the messy parts in my books, creating perfect cowboys who never step in manure or little girls who never have to grow up too fast?
"Sometimes owning it is all you can do," I tell her softly. "Especially when there's a witness with a cereal bowl."
She grins, but there's wisdom in her eyes that no ten-year-old should have to carry. "Wait till you meet the chickens. They're way worse witnesses than me. They actually judge you with their little chicken eyes."
"Fantastic." I lean against the counter, careful not to knock over the bubble bath rainbow. "Any other ranch hazards I should know about? Besides ninja cats and judgmental poultry?"
"Well..." She draws out the word like she's about to share state secrets. "There's the goat that thinks he's a dog, the horse that only likes country music—Uncle Wes says that's Jake's fault for playing his playlist in the barn—and..." She lowers her voice dramatically. "The peacock."
"The peacock?"
"His name is Kevin," she says solemnly. "And he's... complicated."
Before I can ask what makes a peacock complicated—besides, you know, being a peacock—she darts out of the bathroom with a quick "Be right back!" leaving me alone with my thoughts and an impressive collection of bath products.
I catch my reflection in the mirror again, but this time, I see something different. Not just the hay in my hair or the tears on my cheeks, but something real. Something authentic. The kind of moment that would never make it into one of my polished romance novels, but maybe that's exactly why it should.
The sound of Emma rummaging through drawers drifts through the open door, accompanied by a running commentary about which clothes might work. "These might be too short... these are too cowgirl... oh! These might work!"
I start peeling off my ruined designer clothes, mentally calculating how many books I'll need to sell to replace them. But somehow, standing in this bathroom with its rainbow of bubble baths and the sound of a little girl's determination to help, the cost doesn't seem to matter as much.
"So, I checked your suitcase first," Emma announces, returning with a stack of clothes, "but everything in there is way too fancy for the ranch. Like, seriously, did you pack for a fashion show or something? Those jeans look like they've never seen dirt in their life."
I wince, thinking of the carefully curated wardrobe I'd brought. "They hadn't, until about twenty minutes ago."
"Yeah, well, Cousin Ruby's clothes were too small, so I had to get creative." She grins mischievously. "I raided Uncle Wes's dresser."
"You what?" I squeak, staring at the stack of clothes she's holding.
"Don't worry! These are his old ones that got shrunk in the wash. He keeps meaning to donate them but never gets around to it. The sweatpants have an adjustable drawstring, and the T-shirt..." She holds up a faded Montana State shirt that's seen better days. "It'll be like a dress on you, but at least it's clean." She sets them on the counter with the careful precision of someone handling precious cargo. "The shirt's super soft from being washed so many times. Mom always said worn-in clothes are better than new ones anyway. They have character."
The casual mention of her mother catches in my chest. How many other pieces of wisdom did Sarah Montgomery pass on to her daughter? How many bubble baths and soft shirts and gentle truths are stored in this little girl's heart?
"Your mom sounds like she was very wise," I say carefully, watching her reaction in the mirror.
Emma's smile turns wistful. "She was. She knew everything. Like how to make Uncle Wes laugh when he was being too serious, or how to get the chickens to stop being mean to the new ones." She straightens the stack of clothes with unnecessary precision. "She would have thought you were funny, too."
The simple statement, delivered with such certainty, makes fresh tears spring to my eyes. "Thank you, Emma. For the clothes and the help and... everything."
She shrugs, but I catch the pleased flush in her cheeks. "That's what friends do, right? Help each other survive ranch disasters?"
Friends. The word settles warm in my chest, right next to the growing realization that maybe I needed more than just ranch authenticity in my life.
"Right," I agree, managing a real smile despite my tear-streaked face. "Though maybe next time we could start with something less dramatic than a manure incident?"
"Where's the fun in that?" She grins, heading for the door. "Besides, wait till you hear about the time Uncle Jake tried to teach Kevin the peacock to dance. Now that was a disaster."
She closes the door behind her, leaving me with clean clothes, the lingering scent of cotton candy bubbles, and the distinct feeling that I'm getting way more than just research material out of this ranch experience.
Though I'm definitely adding "avoid complicated peacocks" to my growing list of survival tips.
The scalding water hits my skin as soon as I step into the shower. “Ow!” I gasp and fumble with the temperature knob. Even the water here is intense. I step under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders as I try to rinse off the morning's disaster. Brown water pools around my feet, swirling with bits of hay and things I'd rather not identify.
My fingers tangle in my hair, hitting knots of hay and who knows what else. I reach for Emma's vanilla shampoo, squeezing probably too much into my palm. The sweet scent clashes with the barn smell still clinging to my skin.
I should be in Manhattan right now. My fancy apartment with its perfect water pressure and designer shower products. Not here, picking straw out of my hair and trying not to think about what else might be in it.
Something scratchy slides down my back, and I do an awkward twirl, banging my elbow against the shower wall. I worked at Nordstrom before I became an author. Nice, safe, clean Nordstrom. Where the worst thing that could happen was someone yelling about a return policy.
The water stings my eyes as I work more shampoo through my hair. I remember standing at the clearance rack, my manager droning on about proper tissue paper technique for the third time that week. I hated wrapping and, quite frankly, my manager, too.
Back then, I was young and without any bills—those were the days.
And I quit.
No notice. No backup plan. Nothing. I simply quit.
It took three months of applying for other retail positions before I started to worry. My savings were gone, and my mother was lecturing me five times a day about building a life for myself.
So, I blogged about it, but instead of being literal, I wrote this comedic piece about meeting a cowboy who was an heir to a wealthy family, and he was whisking me away to the countryside where I truly belonged.
The story went viral, and I had daily requests for updates. I was confused at first and started commenting that I was joking and wasn’t leaving Manhattan anytime soon. I hadn’t found a man or a new home in the country. I had merely found an outlet to vent my frustrations.
But then came the comment: You wrote this so realistically that I believed it was real! You should be a writer!
So, I did some research and queried several agents until Miranda offered me a deal.
More hay floats past my feet. Ten books. Ten bestsellers about perfect cowboys who probably never stepped in anything worse than a designer rain puddle. No wonder my reviews are tanking.
"Ow!" Another chunk of hay stabs my finger. The steam rises around me, smelling like Emma's cotton candy body wash and... yep, still manure. I scrub harder at my scalp.
The water suddenly goes ice-cold, and I squeal, doing an awkward dance against the back wall. Perfect. Just perfect. Even the hot water here is challenging.
My teeth chatter as I wait for the water to warm up again. Three months of this. Three months to either figure out how to write real cowboys or admit defeat and go back to folding sweaters.
Something that feels suspiciously like a twig works its way down my back. I twist again, trying to reach it. My hip bumps the soap holder, sending Emma's rainbow collection of bath products clattering into the tub.
The water goes cold again. I give up, shutting it off with shaking fingers. At least in retail, the only thing I had to wrestle with was tissue paper.
I wrap myself in a towel and stare at Wes's clothes. The soft gray T-shirt still smells faintly of him—a mix of coffee and something woodsy that makes my stomach do a little flip. The sweatpants are definitely going to be too long, but they’re better than my ruined designer jeans.
A knock at the door makes me jump. “Are you decent?” Emma calls through the door.
“Define decent,” I mutter, but say louder, “Yes, just… trying to get dressed."
Emma pokes her head in several minutes later after I’m dressed, wielding a hairbrush like a weapon. "Sit," she commands, pointing to the closed toilet lid. "Your hair's a mess, and Uncle Wes keeps pacing downstairs, muttering about cold pancakes."
"Emma, you don't have to?—"
"Mom always said a good braid can fix anything." Her voice catches slightly on 'Mom,' but she pushes through. "Even manure incidents. Now sit."
I sit. What else can I do when faced with such determined assistance? Emma moves behind me, her small fingers surprisingly gentle as she starts working through the tangles.
"You've got hay everywhere," she informs me, tugging carefully at a particularly stubborn knot. "Chester must have really surprised you."
"That's one way to put it." I wince as she hits another tangle. "Though I think 'terrified' might be more accurate."
"Uncle Wes says being scared is okay as long as you don't let it stop you." She sections my hair with practiced ease. "Like how I was scared of Thunder at first, but now he's my favorite horse."
"Thunder?" I try to turn my head, but she firmly turns it forward again.
"Stay still. And yes, Thunder. He's huge and scary looking but really just wants treats and ear scratches. Kind of like Uncle Wes."
I choke on air. "Did you just compare your uncle to a horse?"
"Well..." I can hear the grin in her voice as she starts braiding. "They're both tall and grumpy looking until you get to know them. And they both pretend to be tougher than they are."
She works in comfortable silence for a few minutes, her small fingers deftly weaving strands of my hair together. I try not to wince each time she hits a tangle, amazed at how gentle she can be while still getting the job done.
"There!" Emma secures my braid with an elastic, patting it with satisfaction. "Now you look like a real ranch girl."
I catch my reflection in the mirror—Wes's worn T-shirt drowning me, my face scrubbed clean, and a neat braid courtesy of his ten-year-old niece. Emma grins at me in the mirror, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Just wait until Uncle Wes sees you in his clothes," she says, gathering up her hair supplies. "He gets all weird when people touch his stuff, but I bet he won't mind this time."
Great. Because that's exactly what I need, to face a brooding cowboy while wearing his clothes and smelling like his niece's cotton candy body wash. But something tells me this won't be the most embarrassing moment of my three months at Whispering Pines.
After all, I haven't met Kevin the complicated peacock yet.