Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Before the Decision
Easton
Aweek didn’t sound like much on paper.
In reality, it felt stretched longer than I could remember. Every day since Camden’s text had carried a different weight, as if the world had quietly shifted and expected us to notice.
But I felt it. The difference. Like the ground had tilted just enough to make you watch where you stepped—or risk falling without realizing it.
The day we’d been waiting for was here. Our appointment with the attorney was set for 11:00 AM.
Emma was already at the table when I came downstairs, hair loose down her back, one sleeve of my old shirt pushed up her forearm as she worked.
A legal pad sat beside her laptop, papers spread in careful stacks—anniversary celebration plans, schedules, vendor notes, lists with boxes checked and others waiting their turn.
The history of Lovelace laid out neatly in ink and intention.
She looked up when she heard me, her mouth curving into a smile that softened something low in my chest. Not a big smile—just for me. Familiar. Private. Then she returned to her notes, pen tapping once against the pad as she thought.
“How many moving parts left?” I asked, pouring coffee.
She exhaled softly, the sound carrying more weight than the words. “Enough to keep me honest. But it’s coming together.”
I leaned against the counter and watched her, letting myself do it without apology.
She’d been like this all week—focused, methodical, holding the responsibilities of the Historical Society together with one hand while carrying something much more fragile with the other.
There was a tension in her I’d learned to recognize—not fear exactly, but a restraint like she was bracing herself not to hope too hard.
I crossed the room without thinking and stopped behind her chair. My hands settled on her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight muscles there. She let out a quiet sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a protest—and leaned back just enough to acknowledge me.
“You’re wound tight,” I murmured.
She tipped her head slightly, exposing the curve of her neck. “Says the man who’s been up since dawn pretending he isn’t nervous.”
I bent and pressed my mouth there, just below her ear—slow, deliberate. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard, breath hitching once before she caught it.
“Not pretending,” I said against her skin. “Just… prioritizing.”
She turned her head, meeting my eyes over her shoulder. There was heat there—quiet, steady, unmistakable. The kind that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with wanting.
“You ready?” she asked softly. The question carried more than the appointment—more than paperwork and judges and decisions waiting just down the road.
I slid one hand to her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the thin cotton. “As I’ll ever be.”
She closed the laptop with a decisive click and stood, turning fully into me. For a moment, we just looked at each other—close enough to feel the heat, to remember everything that had brought us here.
She reached up and kissed me first—slow, unhurried. A kiss that wasn’t asking for reassurance, just reminding us who we were before the world complicated things. I deepened it, one hand cradling her jaw, the other steady at her back, grounding us both.
When we finally pulled apart, her forehead rested briefly against me.
“Let’s go,” she said.
On the way out, I cut through the garage to grab my jacket.
The motorcycle sat where it always had since the day I brought it home—clean, polished, now unridden.
Not even a layer of dust yet, which somehow made it worse.
I’d bought it right after the Powerball win, back when freedom had felt like speed and noise and open road.
When the idea of not being tied down had felt like a prize instead of an absence.
Back then, the guys and gals from the club had been a constant presence—calls at odd hours, weekend rides planned on a whim, long stretches of highway where nothing mattered but throttle and distance. It had been easy. Loud. Temporary in a way I hadn’t questioned.
Now the bike just… waited. The calls had slowed without anyone making a big deal of it.
Fewer group texts. Fewer last-minute invites.
No one was mad. No bridges burned. Lives just shifted.
Mine, more than most. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped reaching for the open road and started choosing to come home.
I hadn’t ridden it once in weeks.
Not because I’d decided anything outright.
Just because every time I thought about it, there was somewhere else I needed to be.
Someone else I wanted to be with. A hospital room instead of a highway.
A kitchen table instead of a bar. A woman building a life in front of me instead of a horizon that never asked me to stay.
The bike wasn’t a regret. It was a marker. I shut the garage door behind us without looking back.
The drive into town was quiet at first, the road familiar enough that I could’ve driven it with my eyes closed.
Emma broke the silence by talking through the anniversary timeline—parade staging, exhibit placement, where the historical displays would go in the old mercantile building that became the Historical Society, and what still needed confirming if the weather turned on us.
She talked with her hands, one foot tucked under her, eyes focused but thoughtful. This wasn’t busywork for her. It mattered. The town mattered. The idea of continuity mattered. I listened, asked a question here and there, and offered to call the sheriff about barricades and traffic flow.
She glanced over at me, surprised. “You don’t have to do all that,” she said.
“I know.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
That earned me a softer look. “Thanks,” she said. “For caring about all this.”
“I care about you,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the road even though the words deserved her full attention. “This comes with it.”
Her mouth curved slightly, but her eyes stayed serious. Thoughtful. Like she understood that what I was offering wasn’t help—it was alignment.
And for the first time since I’d bought that motorcycle, I knew I hadn’t given anything up. I’d just chosen where to stand.
The attorney’s office sat just off Main Street, tucked between a real estate firm and a hardware store that had probably been selling the same nails since before I was born.
The building itself had a permanence to it—brick worn smooth at the corners, a brass plaque by the door polished thin from decades of hands brushing past.
Inside, wood-paneled walls lined with law books, and framed certificates hung precisely. A faded black-and-white photo of the courthouse from decades ago watched over the room, a reminder that decisions here tended to last. The man behind the desk stood as we entered.
“Easton Maddow. Emma Matthews.” He shook our hands firmly, once each. “Caleb Whitaker.”
He didn’t rush us to sit. He waited until we’d settled into the chairs across from him, until Emma set her bag at her feet and folded her hands in her lap, until I rested my forearms on my knees. Only then did he lean back slightly and say, “Tell me what you’re hoping to understand.”
That alone told me we were in the right place.
We talked first—about Jacob, about the baby box, about our interest in fostering.
Whitaker listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally, making a note here and there on a yellow legal pad.
When Emma spoke, he watched her closely.
When I did, his gaze sharpened just a fraction, like he was measuring intent.
When he finally spoke, it was without drama. “Montana foster care prioritizes stability above all else,” he said. “Safety. Consistency. The ability to provide care without conditions attached.”
He folded his hands on the desk. “Foster parents do not have parental rights. The child remains under the state’s authority. The goal, whenever possible, is reunification.”
Emma’s fingers tightened together.
“Adoption,” Whitaker continued, “only becomes an option if parental rights are legally terminated. That process takes time. And it’s not guaranteed.”
Emma leaned forward slightly. “What does the home study involve?”
He explained—background checks, interviews, training hours, references, financial disclosures—the kind of scrutiny that wasn’t personal but felt that way anyway.
“And timelines?” she asked.
“Variable,” he said honestly. “Nothing moves as fast as people want it to when children are involved.”
I waited until there was a pause. “What happens if the mother shows up later?” I asked. “If she wants her child.”
Whitaker didn’t hedge. He didn’t soften his voice. “Then the court takes that very seriously,” he said. “Especially in cases of safe surrender. Leaving a child at a baby box protects the infant, but it does not automatically sever parental rights.”
Emma went completely still beside me.
“If the biological mother engages with the system and meets the court’s requirements,” Whitaker continued, “reunification could be the goal.”
I didn’t like the word could. It left too much room for loss.
“What protects the child from being moved again?” I asked.
Whitaker met my gaze squarely. “Strong placement. Consistency. Judges pay attention to who shows up. Who documents involvement. Who demonstrates long-term stability.”
He glanced down at his notes, then back up, hesitation flickering just briefly across his face.
“There is another factor you should be aware of,” he said. “Judge Dirk Teague.”
I’d heard the name long before this room.
“He tends to favor married couples,” Whitaker said carefully. “It’s not a statutory requirement. But in matters involving permanency planning, he sees marriage as a marker of stability.”
Emma’s jaw tightened. She didn’t argue. She didn’t react outwardly at all. But I felt the shift beside me like a change in air pressure.
Whitaker slid a folder across the desk. Inside was a checklist—applications, background checks, training schedules, and home study initiation. Real steps. No illusions.
“This isn’t about convincing the court you care,” he said. “It’s about proving you can stay.”
We left with more paperwork than certainty.
In the truck, Emma didn’t speak right away. She stared out the window as Main Street rolled past, the town going about its day like nothing monumental had just been laid at our feet.
“So,” she said finally, voice quiet, steady. “We could love him.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And still lose him.”
“Yes.”
Her throat worked once. Then she nodded. “Okay.”
That was it. Not acceptance. Resolve.
We went to the hospital after—our routine now, as familiar as morning coffee. Jacob slept through most of it, his chest rising and falling in that steady way that felt like a small miracle every time. Emma talked to him anyway, her voice low and gentle, like it mattered whether he heard her or not.
I stood back, watching her, understanding something with a certainty that startled me.
No matter what followed—court rulings, schedules, outcomes beyond her control—Emma was dedicated to Jacob’s care.
That night, back at the ranch, Emma was at the kitchen table reviewing the papers she had printed off from the state website regarding fostering a child.
When I joined her, the warm glow of the overhead light softened the sharp edges of the day.
She looked up as I approached, worry flickering across her face before settling into something steadier.
“The attorney said something that’s been bothering me,” she said.
I pulled out the chair across from her and sat, giving her my full attention. “About marriage?”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften it. “I don’t want to do that because a judge prefers it.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” I said immediately. “Not for a judge. Not for optics. Not like that.”
She searched my face, as if weighing whether I truly meant it or was still figuring it out myself.
“But,” I continued, choosing my words carefully, “I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter what we look like on paper. Or that this conversation isn’t coming sooner than we expected.”
Her shoulders eased slightly—not because the problem had disappeared, but because it had been named honestly.
Silence settled between us. Not heavy. Not awkward. “We don’t have to decide tonight,” she said finally.
I reached across the table and took her hand. “No,” I agreed. “But we will decide.”
Her fingers threaded through mine, warm and sure. She squeezed once, grounding us both.
Suddenly, something shifted inside me—not dramatically, not all at once, but solid and unmistakable. Some choices aren’t about timing. They’re about being ready to stop running long enough to stand still—and choose the direction you’re willing to walk in for the rest of your life.