Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Smoke, Steel, and Second Thoughts
Easton
The smell of hickory smoke drifted low across Lucky Ranch, heavy and sweet, settling into my clothes like a fragrant memory.
Above, the Montana sky stretched wide, a brilliant blue marred only by wispy clouds snagged on the mountain ridge like forgotten dreams. Spring had finally shaken off winter’s chill, leaving the air warm enough for a T-shirt as I stood before a roaring grill.
I flipped a rack of ribs, savoring the satisfying sizzle as the fat met the coals. Behind me, the Lovelace Roaring Riders—my newly minted motorcycle club—were already two beers deep, arguing animatedly about whose bike could conquer the mountain curves.
“Easton! You sure you didn’t cheat tuning that hog of yours?” Rick hollered from his perch on the tailgate of his truck, scratching his beard with a dubious look, which could have been suspicion or just indigestion. Hard to tell with him.
“If I cheated,” I replied, reaching for the brush to slather sauce on the ribs, “your sorry stock exhaust wouldn’t keep up with me.”
Laughter erupted around me—boos, hisses, and one enthusiastic belch that could rival a hawk’s cry overhead. Just another Saturday with my crew.
Harleys lined the gravel like gleaming metal beasts—shiny chrome and black paint that reflected the sunlight so fiercely it nearly blinded me.
Beyond the yard, Lucky Ranch sprawled out, a tapestry of greening pastures and distant tree lines still shadowed by lingering snowmelt.
The old barn creaked in the gentle breeze, and the scent of pine mingled with smoke, dust, and a hint of gasoline.
It was the kind of day that made a man grateful for every bad decision that had led him here.
I checked the ribs, tossed a few more patties onto the hot side of the grill, and turned to see Tara stroll over, her blond hair tucked under a bandana and a beer in hand.
She leaned on the picnic table, a playful wink in her eye.
“You spoil us, Easton. Trying to keep your presidency secure, Maddow?”
“Votes don’t matter when it’s clear I’m the best cook around,” I shot back with a grin.
Rick scoffed. “Best cook? Easton, you burned the beans last month.”
“That happened one time,” I reminded him, rolling my eyes. “I was distracted by your shiny new bike.”
“Sure you were,” Tara teased, her grin turning mischievous.
I flipped her off playfully, and she saluted with her beer bottle, laughter ringing out like a warm embrace.
Yeah, it felt good having my crew here. We were loud, opinionated, and half-incompetent at assembling anything with a user manual.
But these were the people who understood the thrill of two wheels tearing down an open road, ready to jump in at two in the morning if your bike broke down or you needed a hand hauling gear to Sturgis.
Not family. But something close enough.
Bruce arrived next, rolling in with his rattling state truck—the white Montana DNRC vehicle, splattered with mud that practically camouflaged it in the landscape.
He stepped out, a rolled-up map clutched under one arm and a brand-new Harley vest perched on his shoulders like he was still getting used to the idea of wearing it.
“Hey!” he called, waving the map above his head. “Got something to show you!”
“Oh God,” Tara murmured to me. “Is he bringing another pamphlet about fire danger? Because last time he lectured us for twenty minutes about spark arrestors.”
“No idea,” I said, suppressing a chuckle. “But if he starts repeating statistics again, we’re blaming you for encouraging him.”
Bruce marched up, boots dusty and hair wild as if he’d been driving with the windows down in a windstorm.
“Afternoon, Bruce,” I said. “You get lost? This ain’t a forestry meeting.”
He grinned wide, eyes sparkling. “Nope. Got something better. Found an old DNRC map of the backcountry up near Crater Ridge while filing archive reports. And you’re not gonna believe what’s marked on it.”
Tara groaned. “Please tell me it’s not hydrological data.”
Bruce unfurled the map right across the picnic table, nearly toppling Rick’s beer in the process.
“An old logging road,” he announced proudly. “Closed seventy-five years ago. Completely forgotten. These lines—see that?—it cuts right through state forest on land nobody touches anymore.”
I leaned in, my heart racing as I studied the contour lines, the path weaving through hills and dense tree stands. This was precisely the kind of adventure that set my pulse racing—unexplored, wild, half-lost to time.
“Where exactly?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
Bruce tapped two fingers near a creek drainage. “Up past Birch Gulch. You’d need a dirt bike to get through some sections. Maybe a dual-sport at least. But it’s all there.”
A familiar spark ignited in my chest, the kind of pull I always felt before a long ride. Before adventure.
“Damn,” I murmured. “That’s… actually something.”
“Right?” Bruce beamed. “Thought you’d like it.”
Just as I was about to respond, Rick swaggered over, leaning in like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.
“What’re we looking at? Treasure map?”
Bruce’s enthusiasm faltered. “It’s… a DNRC map—”
“Boring,” Rick declared, spinning around to face the women. “Ladies! You wanna see some real skills?”
Oh hell.
Rick dragged out two dented barrels, an old wooden pallet, and an irrigation pipe he must have scavenged from behind the barn. He arranged them in a crooked line, puffing up with pride.
“Behold!” he announced. “A Harley obstacle course!”
Laughter erupted from the group, the sound rich and infectious.
“Rick,” Tara said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “you can barely ride in a straight line sober.”
“Exactly,” he replied, chest puffed. “So imagine how impressive this is gonna look!”
He mounted his Harley, revved it like a man with something to prove, and attempted his grand demonstration.
The moment he tried to weave between the barrels, he clipped the first one, panicked, jerked the handlebars, and plowed straight into a stack of hay bales I’d set aside for the horses.
He went flying—less like a graceful stuntman and more like a sack of potatoes shot from a cannon. Rick hit the dirt, rolled twice, and came up coughing dust.
The women burst into laughter, nearly dropping their drinks as they doubled over.
Rick staggered upright, brushing off dirt like a triumphant knight. “Nailed it!” he declared.
The club erupted into hollers, clapping, and whistles, the sun casting a golden hue over our chaos.
Bruce leaned in close, whispering, “This… is why I’m still practicing in parking lots.”
I clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Smartest guy here.”
He wore a look of ridiculous pride, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of camaraderie.
The afternoon rolled on—rude jokes, clinking beer cans, the steady rumble of engines revving for no reason except that we liked noise.
The mountains loomed behind us, their slopes tinged with late-spring green and streaks of stubborn snow.
The sun beat down. The sky stretched infinitely.
And the air tasted like freedom, dust, and hickory smoke.
Eventually, plates emptied and laughter faded. The club drifted toward the truck where Bruce’s map lay open.
“So what’s the plan?” someone asked. “We hitting this ghost trail or what?”
I straightened, shaking my head. “Not on Harleys. You’ll bottom out your suspension before we hit the tree line.”
Rick scoffed, leaning back with arms crossed. “I’m not buying a dirt bike. I’m not twelve.”
“Yeah, no,” Tara chimed in. “My Softail costs more than my condo. I’m not dragging her through mud because you’ve got some wilderness fantasy.”
Votes went around. Every single one: No.
The group packed up, engines roaring to life. Dust kicked up behind tires as the Roaring Riders peeled out of Lucky Ranch’s gravel lane, a rolling wave of leather, chrome, and bravado.
Within minutes, the ranch fell quiet again.
Just me, Bruce, and the fading smell of BBQ.
Bruce lingered awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Hey, uh… if you wanted to check out that logging road sometime… I bought a used Yamaha last month. Same model you’ve got. Figured… I dunno. Might be fun. Just us.”
He said it like he expected me to laugh at him.
Instead, I smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that. Nobody else’ll have the guts to go with us.”
His face lit up like a kid’s, and he nodded eagerly. “Really?”
“Really,” I assured him. “We’ll ride it.”
He nodded so many times I wondered if he’d sprain his neck, then climbed into his truck and drove off, leaving dust swirling behind him.
The ranch settled into early evening quiet. The sky shifted from gold to lavender, that fleeting beauty that never lasted long enough. Crickets began their serenade, and somewhere across the pasture, a horse snorted, kicking at the last pile of hay the wind hadn’t claimed.
I shut down the grill, stacked chairs, and dumped the trash into the metal bin by the barn. Smoke clung to my shirt, fingers reeking of charred meat and engine grease—a mix that felt undeniably like home.
Inside the house, I spread Bruce’s map across the kitchen table. The overhead light cast soft shadows across the ridgelines and creek beds, the hand-drawn road weaving through them like a long-forgotten secret waiting to be rediscovered.
A road lost to the world. Which made me want to chase it even more.
My phone buzzed.
A club group chat. I ignored it.
Another buzz.
Some ad.
I tapped my fingers on the table, staring at Bruce’s penciled note—possible old cabins near the top of the canyon.
My thoughts drifted, unwelcome and persistent, straight back to the woman clinging to my back in a thunderstorm the night before.
Emma Matthews, quiet as snowfall and twice as easy to melt under your fingers if you weren’t careful. Reclusive, bookish Emma with a soft voice, sharp mind, and a stubborn streak that ran deeper than she realized.
She’d looked like trouble in that ruined dress—rain-soaked, shivering, trying like hell not to lean into me more than she already was.
I shouldn’t have enjoyed that ride as much as I did. I sure as hell shouldn’t have spent the night thinking about how good it felt to have her pressed against me.
But here I was, staring at a map I’d been excited about ten minutes ago, losing focus because of her hands gripping my jacket.
Someone at the BBQ had shouted, “Who’s the girl you were riding with, Easton? Got yourself a new girlfriend?”
I brushed it off, told them I was “working on it.”
Was I?
Hell if I knew.
Emma wasn’t the kind of woman you chased lightly. And I’d be damned if I was going to come off as desperate.
If she wanted something… she’d reach out.
I’d let her make the first move. That’s what I told myself as I stared at my phone like an idiot. Sighing, I scrubbed a hand down my face, grabbed the phone, and hit her name before I could talk myself out of it.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
I exhaled slowly, setting the phone facedown on the table.
Fine.
Let her come to me. I wasn’t some lovesick teenager with a crush.
I glanced back at the map. The logging road curved toward the mountains like a dare. And damn, did I need something to chase besides a woman who smelled like lilacs and trouble.
Still…
As I folded up the map and turned off the kitchen light, I knew the truth.
If Emma Matthews decided she wanted something real with me, I’d drop everything and ride straight to her door.
Even if I wasn’t ready to admit that out loud yet.