Tame Me Slow (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Soaked in Regret

Emma

Icouldn't feel my toes.

Or my fingers.

Or whatever scraps of dignity I had left.

By the time Easton Maddow finally rolled his Harley to a stop in front of my house, "a mess" didn't even begin to describe me.

The ride had started out fun—reckless in that spur-of-the-moment way that makes you forget you're a sensible adult with a normal body temperature to maintain.

But then the air turned icy. The clouds thickened.

And the Montana sky—dramatic as ever—dumped what felt like an entire lake straight onto us.

Onto my brand-new fancy dress, which now resembled something excavated from a floodplain.

I was shaking so hard I worried my bones might rattle loose as Easton steadied the bike and dropped the kickstand. His leather jacket—currently draped around me like a wet livestock blanket—smelled of cedar, rain, and that aggravatingly attractive something that clung to him no matter the weather.

I mean, could he be any more infuriating? It had been warm when he'd wrapped it around my shoulders somewhere between Lilly and Sawyer's Bloom him, looking infuriatingly composed despite the storm, his helmet glistening with droplets cascading down like a miniature waterfall, strands of hair slick and dark against his forehead.

"You good?" he asked, voice low and rough against my ear.

I nodded, though "good" was the furthest thing from what I was. My dress was plastered to my body like shrink wrap, my makeup had likely migrated south to my chin, and the sophisticated updo I'd spent forty minutes perfecting now resembled a bird's nest after a particularly violent windstorm.

"You know," he said, releasing me but lingering close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, "most women would've complained the entire ride."

"I'm not most women," I replied through chattering teeth. "I save my complaints for my diary and passive-aggressive book club discussions."

That earned me a laugh—a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and revealed the dimple in his left cheek—a dimple I absolutely refused to find charming.

"Let's get you inside," he said, his hand steady at the small of my back as he ushered me toward the porch. The contact sent a wave of warmth through me that had nothing to do with the leather draped over my shoulders. I could feel my heart thudding—a wild rhythm that felt foreign yet thrilling.

Just then, the porch light flickered on, and the front door swung open as I handed Easton his jacket.

My mother stood in the doorway, holding a small section of a bright patchwork quilt she’d been working on. She stared at me as if I’d returned home from a night in prison instead of a thirty-minute motorcycle ride.

“Emma Grace Matthews.” Her voice was low. Disappointed. A full name usage that usually reserved for childhood infractions and tax paperwork. “What on earth happened to you?”

I opened my mouth to explain, but Easton beat me to it.

“It’s my fault, Marla,” he said quickly, voice respectful in a way that made me blink. “Storm caught us off guard. I should’ve turned back sooner.”

The look she leveled at him could have melted steel.

“I’ll call you later,” he murmured to me. Or maybe it was a question. Hard to tell over the sound of my heartbeat thrumming in my ears.

I nodded; my mouth didn’t seem to be cooperating.

Easton dipped his head politely to my mother, then hurried down the steps and back onto his Harley. The engine roared to life, echoing down the dark street as he peeled away like a man escaping a hostage situation.

I shut the door behind me and slowly turned.

My mother’s eyes went from my mud-splattered dress to my wind-tangled hair and then lowered to the droplets forming a puddle around my shoes like a crime scene outline.

Then she sighed. A long, theatrical sigh. “Well,” she said, “I hope the ride was worth it.”

I tried to brush a smattering of mud off my sleeve. “Does this answer your question?”

She snorted and waved me toward the hallway. “Go get out of that dress before it fuses to your skin. I’ll fix some tea.”

When I finally peeled myself out of what remained of the gown, I stood under the shower until my skin turned pink. The steam swirled around like a comforting embrace, but as I pulled on dry leggings and my oldest college sweatshirt, I couldn't shake the lingering thrill of Easton’s touch.

In the kitchen, Mom waited, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and that motherly look of bemused judgment on her face—the one she'd spent twenty-eight years perfecting.

She handed me the tea and plopped down across from me. “You want to explain,” she said, “or should I start making up my own story?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I muttered, wrapping my hands around the mug.

The warmth seeped slowly back into my fingertips.

“It was for Sawyer and Lilly’s photo shoot.

The photographer wanted a ‘rustic Montana glamour’ vibe for marketing purposes.

Since I was there helping with the floral arrangements, dressed as a bridesmaid, I volunteered for a test shot.

And then Easton offered me a ride home and—well—you saw the result. ”

Her brows rose. “Mmm-hmm.”

I bristled. “Mom, don’t.”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just listening.”

“You’re listening like a prosecutor preparing cross-examination.”

She grinned. “Only because you’re being cagey. And because Easton Maddow just dropped my daughter off looking like she went swimming in a ditch.”

“I did not swim,” I protested. “I was… sprayed. By nature.”

She chuckled. “You’ve always been dramatic.”

“I learned from the best.”

Marla Matthews took a sip of her herbal tea and folded her arms. “So. Easton.”

Here we go, I thought, bracing myself for the inevitable.

“He’s cute,” I admitted, blowing on my mug, “but he’s… not my type.”

“Your type,” she repeated, leaning back in her chair with an arched brow, “being the quiet, emotionally unavailable academic who owns more cardigans than social skills?”

“That was one guy,” I said defensively. “And we dated for three weeks.”

“Which is better than no weeks at all.”

I groaned. “He read books! That’s all I asked for in a man—someone who reads.”

“And yet,” she said, tapping a finger on the table, “there you were, climbing onto the back of a Harley with the town’s most notorious adrenaline junkie.”

“I couldn’t resist his invitation!”

“Mrs. Peterson’s granddaughter couldn’t resist either,” she said. “And that girl ended up stranded outside Bozeman at three in the morning.”

“That was years ago after a rodeo, and I suspect there was more to the story than you were told,” I snapped, then softened. “Mom, I appreciated the ride. Truly. But the guy is chaos on wheels. Literally.”

“And you,” she said, “are a reclusive bookworm who alphabetizes her spices and talks to her houseplants.”

I sputtered. “I do not alphabetize my spices.”

“Sweetheart, your cinnamon has a special label.”

“Okay, fine. Point for Mom.”

“And besides,” she continued, “he’s a millionaire now. You know what that means.”

“What?” I asked, bracing myself for the punchline.

“It means he can afford to break hearts if he so chooses.”

I choked on my tea. “Mom!”

“What?” she repeated. “I’m just making conversation.”

“This isn’t conversation. This is a character assassination.”

She smiled gently and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “Emma, I’m teasing. Mostly. But I do know this—you’ve built a quiet, peaceful life for yourself. Easton Maddow… bless him… would turn that life upside down.”

My heart clenched in a way I didn’t want to examine. “I know.”

“And you’re not someone who enjoys upside down.”

“Not even remotely.”

She squeezed my hand again. “Then be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

We moved on. Or at least she did.

Mom pushed away from the table and crossed the kitchen to her quilting station—a sprawling setup of fabrics, measuring tools, chalk pencils, and enough thread to circle the state. She hummed as she worked, the gentle melody rising and falling with the steady motion of her hands as she sewed.

Her phone buzzed. She lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Hank sent a picture!” she said, tapping the screen. “Look at this one—little cedar planks and a tiny metal roof! Isn’t it darling?”

She held up the image of his latest birdhouse creation. It was, admittedly, adorable—like a miniature replica of one of the old pioneer cabins outside town, complete with a tiny porch and a hand-painted “Home Sweet Home” sign.

She giggled.

My mother actually giggled.

Something in my chest cracked open a little.

“I’m meeting him tomorrow,” she said casually, as if I hadn’t just watched her transform into a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush.

“I’m driving to the craft fair in Missoula in the morning.

We plan to meet up there. Hank wants me to help him set up his booth, but I have to be back Sunday night since I’m scheduled to volunteer at the hospital gift shop on Monday. ”

“That’s great, Mom.” And I meant it. She deserved happiness. Fun. Adventure. A life beyond the Historical Society and me.

But as she gazed dreamily at her phone, something quiet and uncomfortable settled low in my stomach.

Loneliness.

Not the big, dramatic kind. Just a soft pang. A reminder that my world had become very small. Books. Artifacts. Grant deadlines. My mother’s quilting. My mother’s joy. My mother’s adventures.

And me.

Still at this table. Still in this house. Still doing what I always did.

I turned back to my laptop, forcing my focus onto the grant opportunities I’d bookmarked earlier.

The Lovelace Historical Society needed funding—desperately.

The Lovelace 50th Golden Anniversary Celebration was clinging to life, and the summer interns the board wanted me to supervise would only be possible if we secured at least one grant. I clicked open another application.

Heritage Education Initiative.

Deadline: June 15.

Award: $25,000.

My heart kicked up that familiar mix of hope and nerves.

Twenty-five thousand dollars wasn’t just helpful—it was transformative.

It could cover the Golden Anniversary celebration and then some: fresh paint for the outdated rooms, repairs we kept patching over, maybe even a few new outreach programs. Outside, I heard the faint roar of someone's motorcycle engine fading into the night.

I closed my eyes, inhaled, and imagined the scent of his leather jacket—rain, cedar, heat, a whisper of something wild. The memory of his calloused fingers brushing mine when I handed it back made my skin tingle in a way that scholarly journals never had.

Stop daydreaming.

I was a historian. A planner. A woman of logic and routine who color-coded her calendar and kept emergency granola bars in her glove compartment. I'd once spent three hours reorganizing the Historical Society's archive system just because a single folder was misfiled.

Easton Maddow was a millionaire cowboy biker who treated the open road like a personal invitation from God. A man whose idea of planning ahead probably meant checking if his gas tank was full before racing toward the horizon.

We were not a match. Period.

Still, as I typed out the first line of the grant proposal, I couldn't stop wondering why my hands were still trembling.

And why, deep down, part of me wished I'd never given his jacket back.