The Way to a Cowboy’s Heart (The Hardestys of Montana #4)

Chapter One

E mily Quinn hurried up the steep stairs from the Broadway subway station, half-running toward the Wall Street crosswalk and the offices of Bledsoe, Tamarin, and Carter. Even from here, the building that housed their offices towered over the street known for behemoths. A monument to greed made of glass, stone and ambition.

She glanced at her watch as she hurried down the street. It read 7:56 a.m.

She was late. For that, she blamed the flourless chocolate tart that had taken its own sweet time baking at the crack of dawn. But the result was worth it. It was perfection if she did say so herself.

Which put her forty minutes behind. Nate would notice. Nate always noticed. She had, however, earned a few minutes of grace. Particularly since, without any life to speak of, she never took vacations or sick days. And her weekends were inevitably spent right here, too. All of which made tonight’s monthly gathering—her supper club —the thing that made it all tolerable.

There was a notable dearth of stonks—more politely known as Wall Streeters—on the sidewalk at this hour. Since the partners had called everyone back to the office to work, all or most, were safely ensconced—some would say held hostage—by seven a.m. and up to their necks in trades, shorts, or some kind of high finance. Some likely selling their souls for a bigger piece of the action.

Working in that particular hell wasn’t her actual job anymore, though she had been especially good at it. Good enough to climb above all that and secure a corner office with a view since returning after working from home. Though, her reputation for prescience in the investment world was not, in her opinion, a gift she could take credit for. Maybe it was God-given or plain luck. Maybe it was simply her path. Though lately, she’d begun to wonder if choosing that world was really a choice at all or merely accepting the inevitable.

Her father had worked in the British parliament and his father before him. Her older brother was the darling of a London think tank that specialized in environmental economics and was destined for parliament, too. So, what chance did she have, really? Six years ago, she had run away from all that, across the pond, headlong into a world that seemed to now settle over her like an ill-fitting coat. A coat for which she was both grateful and weirdly ambivalent. She’d survived, sacrificed, and bled for those years.

And even as she rushed up this canyon of skyscrapers to get to the place that paid handsomely for her life, all she could think about was that flourless chocolate cake and how it would taste tonight, decorated with tiny carved mint leaves and the snipped lavender blossoms she’d collected from her windowsill garden.

It was Valentine’s Day. And with no one to send her flowers, she’d had some delivered to herself. A big bouquet of roses, lilies, and hydrangeas that her sister would be there to receive. She could almost smell the flowers as she walked.

The intersection of Wall Street and Broadway was alive with noisy traffic, a handful of yellow cabs speeding by, and the unhoused guy she knew as Pete standing on the corner, asking for money. She kept a ten-dollar bill in her pocket for him in case he was there, simply because she liked him.

As she reached him at the corner, he smiled at her through his scraggly beard, his clothes looking decidedly worse for the wear. He had a scarf around his neck and a ragged knit cap that could have been either blue or brown, but hardly seemed sufficient against the February cold.

He wasn’t old. Not even forty, she guessed. She wasn’t even sure how he’d come to be here alone on the streets of New York City. She suspected he was a veteran because he always irreverently saluted her when they crossed paths. But she didn’t ask about his history. It wasn’t her place.

“You’re running late today, ma’am.” Stating the obvious was one of his talents.

“Thank God I have you to remind me,” she said with a grin, slowing down long enough to hand him the money. He always seemed embarrassed to take money from her, but he did anyway. “You warm enough, Pete?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, lowering his sign to touch the edge of his knit cap in a thank you gesture. “Those socks you gave me last week are sure fine. Warm. I’ll buy me some coffee with this.”

“Good and maybe a bite to eat,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t wait too long. It’s about to rain again.”

“Take care, Ms. Quinn. Those shoes of yours ain’t made for running.”

“They absolutely are not. Cheers!” Her red, Louboutin heels were certainly not made for New York City streets nor wet February weather, but they would have to do. The light changed and she stepped into the crosswalk.

From out of nowhere, a yellow cab screeched around the corner, nearly hitting her but Pete shouted, “Watch out!” and she managed to dodge the cab in time.

Shaken, she threw her hands up in the air, with a “ Wanker! ” thrown in for good measure, but the driver barely glanced her way.

But Pete… Pete Frisbeed his folded cardboard sign at the cabbie’s window, shouting, “ Hey ! You blind!? Ya’ll don’t see her walking here?” before finishing with something decidedly spicier.

If the driver had seen her, he didn’t care. Then again, maybe she was invisible? Sometimes, in this city, she felt like she was. She pointed at Pete with a thank-you shake of her head. He did the same and waved her on.

It didn’t hurt to have a guardian angel on the streets of NYC.

With two blocks to go, she looked up as a fat, wet drop of freezing rain splatted against her cheek. Then another. Perfect. Late and drenched, too.

Instead of worrying, she turned her thoughts to tonight’s dinner party.

It was a bit of a symphony, all the food, the way it came together. She’d prepped most of it into the wee hours of last night, which accounted for her lateness now, but the execution required most dishes be completed on the spot. Muriel, her younger sister who was visiting from England, would have the table set up by tonight and have the apartment looking great by the time Emily got home from work.

On the menu, there were only a few touches left to do. The delicate shallot infused vinaigrette that would dress the bibb lettuce and baby greens, which would need some chive flowers cut at the last second. Halved cherry tomatoes, some shaved Parmesan cheese… and some of the croutons she’d toasted last night. She’d already sourced some organic pansies for the salad from Joseph, her favorite organic gardener, on the rooftop of their building. He had snagged several invitations for that, and his other contributions.

Then there was the seared halibut on its bed of creamy Parmesan polenta topped with broiled asparagus and capers. Milton, her favorite fishmonger down the street, had graced her with the most beautiful, thick halibut filets, and she couldn’t wait to serve them to her friends.

And for the dessert, the flourless chocolate cake drizzled with more rich, dark chocolate and a scoop of fresh whipped cream and, of course, the herbs.

Lost in her thoughts about the food, she didn’t notice—until she was almost upon her building—the dozens of unmarked sedans parked at random angles in the street and the FBI adorned jackets of the handful of people mingling outside the building’s entrance.

The sight stopped her cold. What in the world? Her stomach dropped at the thought that somewhere in her office building, someone was about to hurtle down a long dark tunnel of legal woes. At the same time, a guilty pang of schadenfreude struck her, knowing that dark tunnel was surely coming nowhere near them. Their reputation was flawless and admired, one of the reasons she was still here.

Emily flashed an acknowledging smile at one of the agents who stared back at her without expression, and she hurried on to the bank of elevators and pushed the up button. Boy, this would be the talk around the water cooler for days to come. She wondered what office was involved. Did she even know them? There were maybe hundreds of offices in this building.

“Who are you?” someone behind her asked. “And where are you going?”

She turned to find a burly, rather intimidating-looking agent frowning at her. She looked around her to see to whom he was talking. But it was obvious she was alone. “Excuse me?”

“Your name?” he repeated.

“My—I beg your pardon, but I’m just heading to work and I’m running late, so if you don’t mind…”

“I’ll only ask one more time.”

She sighed. “Emily Quinn.”

She watched as he slid a finger down his little clipboard list of names. Then turned the page.

“I’m sorry. What’s this all about?”

His finger stopped moving on a spot she couldn’t see. Then he nodded to a partner standing nearby she hadn’t noticed until now. “Ms. Quinn, please come with me.”

He reached for her arm, but she dodged him. “Wait. What? ”

“You work at Bledsoe, Tamarin, and Carter, correct?”

Shock punched her in the stomach, and she swiveled a disbelieving look at the pairs of agents mingling in the lobby. No. Impossible. They had this all wrong. If there was something wrong—or… illegal —going on at the firm, she would know. Of course, she would know. Wouldn’t she?

“What’s this all about?” The elevator doors slid open, and he moved to hustle her onto the lift. “Please take your hands off me!”

Another man joined them. This one was tall and balding with a face lined with time. If she didn’t miss her guess, he was in charge. “Let her go, Bruce.” The man unhanded her. “We’re moving all employees of your firm into the conference room. So, if you don’t mind?”

She minded. She minded a lot . She wanted to talk to Nate. Or William. Even Jacob would do, even though he was her least favorite person on the planet. Maybe Jacob had done something. Something awful.

Not since her mother had died, many years ago, did she so desperately want to call her right now. To hear her voice. Tell her that she was scared. Not that she could help her. Or even calm her down.

But she allowed them to escort her onto the elevator and watched as they pushed the twenty-first-floor button. The steel doors swooshed shut.

Bollocks.

Her pulse whooshed against her eardrums. She felt like she might… faint. Or cry. Or lose it. None of those things was appropriate, so she did nothing but watch the floors ding past as the elevator rose. When they reached the office, it was even worse than she’d imagined. Every employee was crammed into the conference room, some sitting, others pacing. She couldn’t see Nate or Jacob, but William Bledsoe, the founding partner, was sitting in his assistant’s chair with his head in his hands.

Her stomach twisted. How can this be?

“I’ll need your laptop and your phone,” the lead agent said.

“This is all a terrible mistake.”

“Yeah, and your boss made it,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“You can wait in that room with the others,” the older agent said as she reluctantly emptied out her bag and handed over her electronics.

The thick smell of fear had settled over the conference room. As she walked in, everyone looked up with a haunted look of despair. These people. She’d worked with all of them for so long, knew each of them and their families. She understood that look and what all this meant for them and for their futures. Several were huddled in quiet conversation and Willam’s assistant was crying softly.

Jay Needham, a long-time friend and colleague, was leaning against a wall as she approached, and gestured to the empty spot beside him.

“Emily.”

“Jay?” she said, still in shock.

“You’re just in time.” He tilted his head back against the wall with a sigh. “Welcome to the end of everything.”

*

An hour later, she stood on the curb in front of the building in the pouring rain, alongside Mitch Abrams, Rachel Dougherty, and Kendall Black, each cradling a smallish cardboard box full of their personal things—all strictly inspected by the FBI for contraband before leaving the building. No one needed to tell them it was the end of their firm, regardless of whatever the outcome of the FBI probe. William Bledsoe had been led away in handcuffs without a single glance at his employees. No apologies or explanations. Just gone.

As the rain soaked them, the three briefly hugged, knowing they’d likely never cross paths again and went their separate ways, all of them unsuccessfully choking back tears.

Emily thought of hailing a cab, but she had a better chance of being struck by lightning than she did getting a cab in NYC in the rain. So, she headed back toward the subway.

But she’d only gone a half block before she caught the heel of her useless Louboutin shoe in a sidewalk grate, neatly snapping it off. She wobbled comically trying to catch her balance, before nearly face planting on the sidewalk. But for the box she held that spilled across the walkway, she would have done more than scrape the hell out of her knees and wrists.

She muttered another curse.

For the longest moment, she lay there, with the wind knocked out of her, and the rain soaking her, wondering what wicked thing she must have done to deserve this day. This utter cataclysm. Some karmic debt maybe? Some past transgression? All these years of hard work and this was the end? Gutted by a man she’d trusted with her life?

Her knees and palms burned as she got to her feet to collect her scattered things, her wet hair dangling in her face.

Someone reached for the shattered picture frame with a photo of her sister and her and handed it to her. Emily looked up.

Pete stared down at her with a worried frown. “Can I give ya’ll a hand, Ms. Quinn?”

On a near sob, she reached for his hand, and he helped her up. “Thank you, Pete.”

“It ain’t nothin’. I’ll get these things for you. Walk you to the subway.”

“You really needn’t—”

“I’m goin’ that way anyway. Be happy to carry these for you.”

His kindness was almost too much to bear right now. So, she simply nodded and let him collect the remnants of the life she’d lived for the past six years, all contained in a half-collapsed cardboard box. With a hostile wrench, she tore the broken heel off her shoe and tossed it in a rubbish can.

As she limped along beside him, he said not a word about the broken shoe—not as if he hadn’t warned her—nor did he ask her a single thing about why she was carrying her life down the street. No doubt he and every other Wall Street patron and pedestrian had seen the FBI swarming the street like busy little bees, disassembling the lives of all of her friends.

And hers.

She wouldn’t be able to buy a job in this town now. Not for months. Or maybe years. Maybe never. Her resume would now be worth approximately what these useless shoes of hers were worth, because her name would be tainted with William’s ill-gotten gains forever.

She still couldn’t believe it. But she saw it. They all saw it on his face. He knew he’d been caught. Busted. And he’d screwed people he knew. Loved, even. And he’d screwed his employees as well.

She wiped the rain off her face, glad that Pete couldn’t see that the rain had mixed with tears. She guessed her mascara was a bloody mess by now.

Think of the chocolate tart. Or the vinaigrette.

In her mind, she poured the ingredients together into the carafe, but it all got muddled and wrong. Oh, no. Should she cancel dinner altogether? Could she now?

She wanted to call Muriel, tell her what happened, but the FBI still had her phone.

They climbed down the subway stairs to the tunnel and Pete carried her box the whole way.

When they were almost at the platform, he stopped in front of her. “You bleedin’ there, Ms. Quinn,” Pete said, pointing at the trickle of blood sliding down her leg. “Maybe we should stop and buy some bandages before you get on that dirty subway.”

She breathed a laugh. Really. She’d shredded her knees on a filthy NYC sidewalk. How much worse could it get? “I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

“Will you, though?” he asked sincerely.

The concern on his face made her feel almost worse. There he was, homeless, unemployed, living off God knew what, and he was worried for her. She had plenty of money to get by for a while. She wouldn’t be on the street next month. Or even next year.

She would just be… what ? Deported. That was what.

“Today’s just… rubbish. But I’ll get through this. Don’t worry about me, Pete.”

“You know, most people never give me the time of day. In fact, most won’t even look me in the eye. But you did. And even though I’m just a nobody, livin’ on the street, I do. Worry, that is,” he said, handing her the box.

“Well… thank you.” For a moment, she searched his face. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from, Pete?”

He looked at first confused by her question. “Kentucky. Originally. Outside ’a Lexington.”

“Oh, I adore Kentucky.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I’m not from here originally either,” she said.

He smiled at her. “You don’t say, now?”

Emily rolled her eyes knowing it was quite clear to everyone she was an import. “Sometimes, I think I should just go home.”

He stared down at the floor. “Yeah. I get that. Thing is, I got nothing to go back to Kentucky for. No body , that is. They all gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

His face brightened a little. “I’d better let you go. I hear your train a’coming.”

She frowned for a moment. “Wait. Will you hold this for me for a minute again?”

Confused, he did, and she took out a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to him. “I’m having… a dinner party tonight, despite—or rather in direct defiance of—what happened today. I do it once a month for friends and even some friends of friends that I don’t know. Strangers. I do it because I love to cook, and I love to cook for people I care about and because that… well, that job I just lost, let’s just say it was not exactly a facilitator for human connection. Here. That’s my address. I’d love it if you would come.”

“ Oh. ” A look of horror crept to his expression. “What? No. I-I couldn’t. No.”

“You could,” she said taking the box back. “I’m inviting you. They’re all very nice people. You should come. The food will be good. I promise.”

He backed away. “I… I don’t… no. I don’t need a pity dinner. Thanks.”

“No. Not pity,” she said quickly. “Pete. You’ve always been so kind to me. You look out for me, save me from wayward cab drivers and icy sidewalks. Today wasn’t the first time. And I… I just want to say thank you.”

“That’s enough. Your thanks. That’s enough. You been good to me, too. But no. I couldn’t.”

“Okay. But you keep that,” she said, pointing at the address. “If you change your mind, I’m just up the B line. Seven p.m. And… if I don’t see you, I hope our paths will cross again one day.”

“Yeah.” He shuffled his feet, then looked up at her through his dark lashes. “Goodbye, Ms. Quinn.”

She smiled a little sadly at him. “Pete.”

“Ya’ll take care, now.” He nodded and disappeared up the steps they’d come down.

She sighed . Drat. She’d messed that up, too. Why did she even ask him that? She’d probably insulted him somehow. At the very least, angered him. Of course, he couldn’t imagine that he would feel comfortable with her friends. But he didn’t know her friends. And she’d meant every word.

There was something about him. He wasn’t a drug user. She knew enough of those to recognize the signs. He was simply unhoused and alone and whatever had happened in his life to put him there made her want to do something for him. But he’d taken it wrong.

Could this day get any worse? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Ever.

Buck up, Emily. This is your life now.

The train pulled onto the platform, and she juggled the box in her arms as she navigated the crowded doorway of the train as several people pushed past her. With her wonky shoe, soaked hair and her arms full, she was a disaster by any measure, but she didn’t care. No one and nothing could make her feel any worse than she already did.

Except, perhaps, the glare of the psychotic-looking woman standing next to her.

With wild, graying hair and a locked-in frown, she narrowed a look at Emily. “I was here first,” the woman said, taking possession of the hand strap over Emily’s head.

Emily responded with a death stare of her own but moved farther down the crowded aisle. There were no seats. No straps left. So, she braced herself, holding her humiliating box, which she was sure everyone identified for exactly what it was.

As the train began to move, someone tapped her shoulder.

“Please. Take my seat,” said the man standing suddenly beside her—a cowboy wearing a black Stetson who had just vacated the seat near her.

He was—plainly stated—beautiful, with the most striking hazel/green eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that matched the rain-damp, deep blue denim shirt he wore under his sheepskin jacket.

“Oh. Thank you… that’s very—” But before she could finish, a teenager with blond dreads jumped into that open seat and immediately lost himself to his phone.

The cowboy looked… chagrinned? Annoyed? No, maybe shocked was the word. As if he couldn’t fathom such rudeness.

“Kid,” he said to the boy. “I was offering that seat to this lady.”

“Huh?” the kid said, not bothering to look up.

“I said—”

“It’s my seat now.” The dreadlocked kid glared up at him with a challenging grin.

She actually saw the cowboy’s impulse to physically change the kid’s mind, but she shifted her box in her arms and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Let him have it,” she said, and the kid gave a shoulder roll of victory. “I’m not going far. And someday, he’ll get it,” she said loud enough for the boy to hear, “but by then he’ll no doubt be fat, middle-aged, and wretchedly alone and wondering what happened to his sad, lonely life.” The boy froze in his scrolling and scowled but was definitely dug in. “But today isn’t that day,” she went on, turning her attention back to the cowboy. “And he’s definitely not worth ruining your day for.”

“Not so sure about that, actually,” the stranger said.

Emily shook her head and smiled at the man as the train rattled on, ducking through deep underground tunnels and speeding past mysterious doorways and walls so close one could almost touch them. “It was a lovely thought, though,” she said. “Thank you. I can’t honestly remember the last time anyone offered me a seat on the subway. Rain or shine.”

“Well, now, that’s a real shame,” he said, his western drawl making an appearance. “Where I’m from, it’d be a given. Not that we have subways. But still.” His jacket was sparkling with drops of rain and his shirt was damp, stuck to his rather… clearly… muscular chest with which she found herself nearly at eye level.

Curious, she asked, “Where exactly is this mythical place where men are still chivalrous? Which is, I’m afraid to say, quite politically incorrect.”

He laughed a little. “Montana.” His voice was deep and a little gritty as if he hadn’t talked much in a while.

“Montana? You are a long way from home.”

“Another universe. Pardon my saying so, but you don’t sound like you’re from here either.”

“No, you’re right. London, originally. But I’ve been here a bit. Wait. Don’t tell me I still have an accent,” she said with a straight face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m kidding. It’s all right. I’m quite used to it. But I rather consider myself a New Yorker now. So, I do apologize for the weather. It must be spoiling your sightseeing.”

“Not at all.” A tiny frown formed between his brows beneath the brim of that hat. “From the looks of that shoe, your day’s going a lot worse than mine.” He gestured at her broken shoe and didn’t have to even mention her bedraggled appearance or the box in her arms.

She shifted her weight onto her one good shoe. “Oh, that? Honestly, that’s the least of it.” She laughed because the alternative seemed ridiculous.

“That bad, huh?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” she said. “Perhaps a minus twenty.”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “That’s all right. Your kind—if neutralized—gesture did make it slightly better, though.”

He shook his head with amusement with a glance at the brat who’d stolen her seat. “Say the word, I’ll un-neutralize it.”

“Tempting. But quite unnecessary.”

He met her eyes with a look that said he was flirting with her. Or was she flirting with him? Good God. It had been so long since either had happened, she wasn’t entirely sure. She never talked to anyone on the train. That generally seemed unwise and unsafe. Yet, he seemed… normal. Not creepy at all. And it felt almost fine to do it, here on a train, when she knew she’d never, ever see him again.

The train stopped at Canal and the car lost a few passengers and added a few more. Elbows and shoulders jostled for space. She couldn’t help but move closer to him.

He smiled. She smiled back. Then both of them, at once, broke eye contact though she still sensed him staring at her before finally turning his attention to the subway route map above the windows, studying it. “Easy to get lost in this place,” he said under his breath. “In this city.”

“Are you?” she asked, grateful to have another chance to say… something. “Lost?”

“Not if Times Square is somewhere on this line. I am on the right train, aren’t I?”

“Oh, yes. A few more stops up the line. Forty-Second Street is likely your stop.”

He looked relieved. “Thanks. That sounds right.”

The train picked up speed, then rolled over a curve in the tracks and she wasn’t the only one to sway precariously sideways, nearly colliding with him, but the cowboy braced her elbow until the train straightened out. She got a surprisingly delicious whiff of him that close, some mixture of amber and rain that went straight to some primitive part of her brain, which sent a shiver of awareness through her. Then, he let her go.

“Ugh. How embarrassing,” she said when she regained her balance. “I’m usually much better at this standing upright thing.”

“These trains… they don’t seem real people friendly.” He shot a look back at the boy still comfortably on his phone.

“Oh, some would say that’s just New York City in general.”

“How about you? Would you say that?”

She sighed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t ask me that on this day in particular. On the other hand, there are a few upsides to the city. Central Park—even in the winter—it’s quite nice. Broadway shows. The holiday windows on Fifth Avenue. Oh, and of course, The Met…”

“The Met?”

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art. You can spend the whole day there. Especially on a rainy day like this. I highly recommend it. Not to be confused, mind you, with the Metropolitan Opera, Met . Which is also wonderful but… two totally different… Oh, I’m sorry. I’m babbling now.”

“Not at all.” He seemed amused, watching her as if trying to remember her from somewhere. Some little crease in his cheek kept appearing and disappearing. “I’ll sure keep those in mind.”

Well… she’d met her fair share of frogs—even toads—in NYC and even kissed a few of them. And worse. But the way he was looking at her… as if there weren’t a dozen other people sandwiching them together and it was just two strangers on a train forging some kind of a connection.

Shake it off. You’re never going to see him again. And, furthermore, he lives all the way across the country if you have your US geography right.

And he was definitely not her type. Not at all. When she dated at all, she went for intellectual Wall Street types who pulled their weekend BMWs out of the garage and took her to Nobu or a Broadway show. Or to the Hamptons for the weekend. Or she took them. Though, admittedly, in both cases, it had been a while. So, it was, no doubt, just the sexy cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, or that silver buckle glinting on his belt or the way his jeans hugged his long legs or, more likely, the fact that her entire life had imploded this morning that had her stomach tumbling at his look.

But… maybe she was all wrong about her type. Maybe her type was… him .

The train slowed at Forty-Second Street, and she watched the platform slowly appear. She turned back to him. “This is you, then.”

“Right.” With a touch of his fingers to the brim of his cowboy hat, he smiled at her again. No wedding ring, at least. “It’s Liam, by the way,” he said, reaching out for her hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

She blinked at his hand for a moment before taking it. His fingers were warm and callused and strong, and he didn’t hold on too long. Just long enough.

“Nice to meet you, too, Liam. I’m—”

The train lurched to a stop and the doors swooshed open. Instantly, the crowd began pushing toward the exit. He frowned, trying to catch what she’d been about to say, but psycho lady shoved her from behind and knocked her a little off-balance with a hostile glare. And by the time she had caught her balance, Liam was already six seats toward the doors in the surging crowd.

Looking as if he had more to say, he held up a hand in a wave as more passengers came between them.

She waved back.

He gave a little shrug, as if to say, “Well, that’s that, then.” But as he passed the kid who’d appropriated her seat, he leaned down and whispered something in the boy’s ear that made the kid go pale, stand, and quickly hurry to the other end of the car.

The seat was immediately taken by an elderly Hispanic woman who definitely needed it more than Emily did. Emily shook her head with a secret smile at him. He smiled back on his way out the door. And with one more touch of his hat, Liam—whose last name she would never know—disappeared into the crowded subway platform and out of her life forever.