Rein In (Willow Bay Stables #3)(2)

My knees obeyed, and my heart settled as I placed my ravaged hands behind my head.

Metal found my wrists.

“You are under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. However, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights that I have just read to you?”

The cop hauled me to my feet.

I nodded.





Willow Bay, Alberta

Present Day, May 2015





THEY SAY HOME IS WHERE the heart is.

If that were the case, then my home would be in so very many places.

I wanted my heart to seek and find new things to love each day. To feel it returned to me each time bigger and more full than it had been before.

My heart is in every person I have ever loved, in every person I have ever gotten to know, and in every place I have ever been.

My heart is strong and unwavering, blinded in its trust for others.

My heart is grateful, and my heart is eager.

My heart has never not found a home in anywhere it’s ever looked.

I suppose that is why they call me the Saint of Willow Bay. It’s ludicrous, if you ask me, but isn’t there always a little truth to the lunacy?



“Fixing that heap is about as useless as tits on a log, Ray.” My older brother, Owen, crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back into his chair.

“Language. Jesus, Owen,” Ray, his better half, scolded him from her place in the kitchen.

“Thou shalt not use the lord’s name in vain, Mom,” Ryley, her daughter, mimicked to the tune of her Sunday school teacher as she reached for the cupcakes I’d made earlier in the day.

Ryley, though she wasn’t Owen’s daughter by blood, was in a lot of ways exactly like him, and this of course extended to sneaking my baked goods when she didn’t think anyone was watching.

“Tut, tut,” I hissed, tickling her sides. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

She flailed, launching herself off the breakfast barstool and running full barrels to hide behind the forever jean-clad legs of my daddy.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” He laughed, steadying the plate of barbequed steaks he was balancing in his hands.

Even surrounded by his family, which included two fully-grown, far-from-small men, my dad always felt so tall to me. With everything we’d been through losin’ Momma to cancer, London’s accident, and the fire in the barn, he never quit feeling tall to me.

I’d been lucky enough to have been raised by a king. Of course, that was only true if you swapped the crown for a Stetson, but I had never been much for things that glittered anyhow.

“I have to say, I agree with him, Ray.” Branson shrugged, cradling a sleeping Christopher in his arms. “That vehicle is an accident waiting to happen.”

London, his wife and my older sister, fawned over their nearly eight-month-old son as she set her homemade Caesar salad down on the table.

You could tell we were sisters, of course. We both had white-blonde hair and blue eyes, same as our momma did, and long black eyelashes, like our daddy, but that was about where the similarities quit being similar. Even after childbirth, London was tall and willowy. I, on the other hand, was shorter and curvier. While I couldn’t blame the height on flour and sugar, I did attribute my curves to being a result of my baking.

Baking was something Momma and I used to do together. I guess since she passed, it felt like my way of keeping her close to me.

“Quit ganging up on her,” London pointed a salad tosser in Owen’s direction and then at her husband. “It’s Ray’s car. If she wants to fix it, that’s up to her.”

Ray moved from the kitchen, her brilliant mess of wild, brown hair piled on top of her head, and set the garlic bread down on the table. “Thank you, London,” she huffed, undoubtedly exasperated by the overbearing nature of the man she loved.

Owen meant well, but he could be a protective pain in the ass. Something London understood all too well, seeing as she married a man so possessive it was a wonder he let her out of the house each morning.

“But for the record, honey”—London shook her head sympathetically—“that car is a hunk of junk.”

Ray rolled her eyes and plopped down into the chair between Owen and Ryley.

“See, darlin’.” Owen put his arm on the back of her chair and kissed her cheek. “Told yah they’d be agreein’ with me on this one.”

“Best you let Rayne be makin’ her own decisions.” Daddy tipped the brim of his cowboy hat in her direction before hanging it on the back of his chair.

Ryley coughed and narrowed her eyes at Owen. He frowned, and her eyes flicked up to his head. “Were you raised in a barn, Dad?” she scolded him. “No hats at the dinner table.”

I looked at London and she looked down at her plate, meanwhile we both tried desperately not to break out in hysteria. Ryley sounded exactly the way we did when we scolded Owen at the dinner table. That girl was a sponge.

Owen fluffed her hair and obliged, setting his hat on the back of his chair.

“Who would like to say grace?” Daddy asked the table, and Ryley waved her hand like a maniac. “All right, sweetheart. You go on now.”