Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Frontier Echoes
Emma
Monday mornings in Lovelace felt overly bright, as if the town believed sunshine could solve anything. The early chill bit at my cheeks as I walked up Main Street, coffee cradled in one hand and the Historical Society’s mail tucked under my arm.
Ahead, the old mercantile loomed large, its brick facade catching the morning sun, steadfast and familiar.
Across the street, the volunteer fire station buzzed to life—bay doors half-open, an engine’s chrome bumper glinting, laughter spilling out along with the clank of tools and the faint strains of someone’s Monday playlist.
I wrestled with the mercantile’s temperamental lock until it finally gave way with its usual groan, and I stepped inside.
“Morning, gorgeous,” I murmured to the building, the words echoing softly as the lights flickered awake.
The front room emerged from the shadows—wide-plank floors, wavy glass windows framing the history of Lovelace, and rows of cases filled with artifacts that told our town’s story.
The air carried the scent of Pledge wood polish, old paper, and an ever-present hint of dust that refused to leave despite my best efforts.
These quiet minutes—before the tourists arrived and the chaos of field trips began—were the ones I cherished most. Just me and the ghosts of the past. I locked the door behind me and flipped the sign to CLOSED, then carried the mail back to my office.
The original safe sat hunched in the corner, a decorative relic of our history.
I shrugged off my cardigan, settled into my chair, and spread the envelopes across my desk.
Bill. Junk. Flyer. A donation check that would keep us stocked in toner for another few weeks.
“Still keeping us alive,” I murmured, but then my breath caught halfway through the stack.
A familiar logo stared up at me—clean black lettering, Helena address.
Montana Heritage Foundation.
My stomach twisted uneasily. “Okay,” I whispered. “Moment of truth.”
I slid a finger under the flap and eased the envelope open. One page. I glanced down, scanning for the expected heartbreak: "Unfortunately… limited funds… regret to inform you."
Instead, I found:
Dear Ms. Matthews… impressed by your proposal… strong community impact…
My pulse quickened, then did a somersault.
However, we would like to invite you to submit a revised proposal with additional detail on community engagement and a historically grounded exhibit centered on Lovelace’s late-nineteenth-century frontier period. If selected, the grant will provide up to $25,000…
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Enough to elevate the Golden Anniversary from a “cute small-town effort” to something Lovelace would cherish for decades. Enough to refresh this entire building and create the interactive displays I’d only dared to dream about.
But the catch? Build an entirely new exhibit rooted in frontier-era Lovelace—before sidewalks, before Rotary banners and summer crowds, when our town was more grit than postcard.
I leaned back, letting the chair sigh beneath me as I read the letter again. Revised proposal. Exhibit plan. Community engagement. Deadline: six weeks.
Six weeks to make this happen. I rubbed my forehead, a wave of pressure crashing in. “No pressure at all,” I muttered.
In the main room, the exhibits waited—schoolhouse corner, photos of early ranch families, mining tools. Most of our collection was from the early twentieth century onward; the true frontier years felt thin—whispers, fuzzy photos, brittle records that few ever touched.
The Golden Anniversary mattered. This town hadn’t survived droughts, recessions, and abandonment by the railroad just to fade into obscurity. Families stayed. Roots deepened.
I was supposed to honor that. “If I blow this,” I told the linen-white wall, “we’ll be celebrating fifty years with a bake sale and one sad banner.”
On the wall hung a photograph of the first town council—my great-grandfather’s father at the end of the row, expression earnest and stern. He’d voted this town into existence.
A truck door slammed outside. Footsteps climbed the stairs. The door creaked open.
“Back here,” I called.
Chief Holt stepped into the doorway, tall and solid in his navy Lovelace Fire & Rescue T-shirt. His radio, clipped to his hip, crackled faintly, and his hair looked damp from a rushed shower at the station.
“Morning, Em,” he said. “Beat the rush?”
“Just me and the ghosts.”
He leaned against the frame, a familiar figure who’d been here too many times to count. “I looked over the proposal you emailed on Friday,” he said. “The grant language checks out.”
Relief washed over me, loosening something tight in my chest. “Perfect timing, actually. Looks like we won’t need to submit the fallback grant after all.” I held up the letter. “The Montana Heritage Foundation finally wrote back.”
His eyebrows rose. “Took their sweet time? What’s the verdict?”
“Not bad.” I handed him the page. “Not great. But promising.”
He read, lips moving quietly. Then a soft whistle. “All twenty-five thousand we asked for. That’s a whole lot of chairs and port-a-potties.”
I snorted. “Why does your brain always go straight to sanitation?”
“Because the rest of you forget about it,” he said, handing the letter back. “If you can get this grant, I’ll make sure everything lines up with the city council’s plans. They’re aiming high for this anniversary.”
“High how?”
He gave me a knowing look. “Parade route doubled. Fireworks budget bumped. The mayor wants a ‘Legacy Luncheon.’ No idea what that means, but it sounds expensive.”
I groaned. “And here I am trying to build an exhibit in record time. We won’t even know if we got the grant for six weeks.”
“You can do it,” he said simply. “You’ve been prepping for this your whole life. Just get out of your own way long enough to write the damn proposal.”
I pressed my lips together, stifling the swirl of self-doubt. “Have you met me?”
He laughed. “Every day. And listen—when this all comes together, people won’t remember the port-a-potties. They’ll remember what you built. Don’t forget that.”
The warmth of his words settled in my chest, surprisingly grounding. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
“Anytime.” He pushed off the frame. “Now, if I don’t get back, Jeff’s already threatening to combust because one of the guys parked Engine Three crooked.”
“That sounds like Jeff.”
“See you later, Em.” He tipped an invisible hat and headed out.
The building fell silent again, the hum of the HVAC settling into the quiet. I drained the last of my lukewarm coffee and pulled my legal pad closer. “Draft first,” I told myself. “Panic later.”
I began sketching ideas—frontier storefront replicas, blown-up photographs, soundscapes—when my thoughts drifted to Easton. His laugh. His warmth. The way my body softened around him without permission.
A shiver rolled down my spine. “Focus, Emma,” I muttered. “Exhibit now. Gorgeous man later.”
My phone buzzed. Lilly.
I picked up. “Please tell me you’re calling to save me from drowning in grant paperwork.”
“That depends—will food save you?”
“It might. I heard back about the grant. They want a whole new exhibit featuring Lovelace’s frontier days before they approve funding.”
She squealed—a loud, happy, ear-shattering thing that made me pull the phone back.
“Emma! That’s incredible! Terrifying, but incredible!”
“That’s exactly the ratio,” I said. “If I pull it off, it could be huge for us.”
“You will pull it off,” she said. “Lunch at noon? The Diner?”
“Perfect. I’ll bring old photos—I think your grandparents might recognize some people.”
“Done. And Em?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
Warmth flooded my chest. “Thank you. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When I hung up, the silence deepened—like the room approved of my plans.
I stood and stretched, rolling the tension from my shoulders, when a low, familiar rumble drifted through the glass.
No. Not now. Not him. But my heartbeat betrayed me.
I crossed to the front window. Easton swung off his motorcycle, the morning light catching on the leather of his jacket and the dark sweep of his hair. He straightened, glanced at the building… and saw me.
His smile—slow, warm, a little dangerous—hit me square in the chest. Before I could pretend to be unaffected, the door opened, and he stepped inside, the cool air rushing in with him.
His eyes found mine. “Hey,” Easton said. “Just wanted to check on you after the surprise. Marla and Hank… had no idea they would find me at your house since my bike was parked in the side yard.”
My pulse tripped. “I’m okay,” I said gently. “Didn’t exactly plan on an audience.”
“Trust me, neither did I,” he said, smirking.
He gave the room a slow once-over, taking in the morning light across the floors, the displays, and the quiet. When his gaze returned to me, something warm flickered there. “This place suits you,” he said. “Peaceful. Unlike the other afternoon.”
I laughed softly. “That was… a lot.”
He stepped closer, the boards groaning slightly beneath his boots. “Saw your car outside and figured you were hiding in here, pretending you weren’t still shaken from your mom and Hank appearing out of the blue.”
“Maybe I am a little.” I held up the letter. “But this is more important than Mom’s surprise. Grant stuff.”
“Good news?” he asked.
“Potentially.”
The way he looked at me—curious, impressed—sent heat curling low in my stomach.
Then his phone buzzed. He sighed without looking. “Bruce.”
“Crisis?” I asked, half-teasing.
“For him? Always.” He glanced at the screen, then groaned. “He’s got the day off and wants to ride up to Billings. Found a piece of chrome he needs to see in person before he ‘dies of artistic deprivation.’ His words.”
I grinned. “Sounds dire.”
He slid his phone into his pocket and met my eyes again—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing something about me he wasn’t ready to name. “You sure you’re okay with everything?” he asked.
My breath tightened. Just like that, he had me. “I will be,” I murmured.
Something softened in his expression—just for a beat—before he straightened and stepped back, like he suddenly remembered he was supposed to be leaving.
“Well,” he said, lips curving in that quiet, devastating smile, “if you need a break later… I make a mean grilled cheese. The kind people fall in love with.”
I lifted a brow. “Fall in love with?”
His grin went full sin. “Guess you’ll have to try it and tell me.”
A flush warmed my skin. “Maybe I will.”
“Good.” He winked.
And then—right when the world felt suspended between us—his phone buzzed again, and something shifted behind his eyes. He pulled away, reaching for the door a little too quickly. It was clear Bruce’s chrome—and whatever adventure came with it—suddenly outranked… this.
“See you later, Emma,” he said. “Don’t let this place steal your whole day.”
He was halfway out before I could exhale. “Tell Bruce good luck with his shopping spree,” I managed, but the words felt thin and stretched.
He gave me a fast, distracted laugh and jogged down the steps.
After the door shut behind him, resentment slipped in before I could slam the emotional door on it—quick, sharp, unwelcome. I hated its sting—hated that it meant he mattered more than I wanted to admit.
Because while I was here, juggling a grant that could change my entire world, he couldn’t wait to run off to whatever shiny thing Bruce wanted to chase.
And why did I feel so stupidly replaced?
A second later, his motorcycle rumbled to life, loud and sure, and then faded down Main Street until the silence pressed in around me.
This time, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful. I felt abandoned.
I sighed and returned to my desk, trying to shake it off, smoothing the grant letter with fingers that weren’t quite steady.
“All right,” I told myself, anchoring my thoughts. “He can go chase chrome. I’ve got an entire town to celebrate.”
I exhaled slowly, allowing a hint of my bitterness to fade so I could think clearly again.
Time to make the magic happen.