Chapter 24
LILY
Emma Hayes
Istare at my phone for a full minute before responding.
My first instinct is to decline—I don't do lunch dates. I’m usually working.
It’s been a slow process, but over the past year I’ve been here, the ranchers have started to trust my competence, so I’ve been taking more calls out in the field.
Visiting ranches gives me the opportunity to explore without it being weird.
But I like Emma. Not to mention she’s Jake Callahan's partner, and Jake Callahan is Mason Rivera's family, and Mason Rivera saw my barcode tattoo three nights ago. Has he said anything to her? Is she on a reconnaissance mission?
The thought that she might have a hidden agenda makes me wince.
I need to find out, so I text back.
See you there.
The Iron Ridge Diner sits on Main Street between the hardware store and the post office, its sign promising HOME COOKING in faded red letters. The lunch rush is in full swing when I arrive—booths packed with ranch hands and retirees, the air thick with the smell of bacon grease and burnt coffee.
I do my scan of the room. Exits: front door, kitchen access, emergency exit near the restrooms. Threats: none visible. I look one more time to make sure I haven’t missed that man, and I relax a little when I don’t see him.
Emma's already here, tucked into a corner booth with a view of the door. She waves when she sees me, her smile warm and genuine in a way that makes my chest tighten. Emma trusts with her whole heart, which feels reckless, but somehow she makes it look strong instead of na?ve. She’s everything I don’t know how to be: open, warm, and emotionally brave.
Really, I’m not sure why she wants to be my friend, but her bright light’s drawn me in from the first time we met.
“Hey, Lily,” Emma says with a wide smile. She's wearing a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes, her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looks settled and content—like a woman who's found her place in the world and isn't afraid to claim it.
I wonder what that feels like as I slide into the booth. “Hey.”
Martha, the owner, appears right behind me. She pours us coffee while she talks loudly to another customer across the room. She sets down two laminated menus and disappears back toward the kitchen.
Emma wraps her hands around her mug. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, and I needed to get out of the house, so I’m glad you were free today.”
“Two birds, one stone?” I ask, pulling my coffee toward me, testing the waters to understand what this is.
“Something like that.” Emma laughs, and it's easy—no hidden agenda whatsoever. “Jake's been swamped with ranch stuff, and honestly, I just needed girl time. Have you heard from Harper?”
Harper Garrett was the first person I met in town. I like her. She has the sort of confidence that makes people move around her rather than against her. I guess that’s why she makes such a good deputy sheriff. “It sounds like she’s been busy.”
Emma’s smile dims a bit. “There’s been a lot going on around Iron Ridge the past few weeks.”
I know we’re both thinking of her house and how it was set on fire. One night after one too many whiskeys, Harper told me she thought Cole Turner was behind the arson. The Circle H borders the Turner land, so that didn’t surprise me. I’m just glad Emma hadn’t been there that night.
Martha comes back to the table. “The usual, ladies?”
Emma says yes, but I don’t get a chance to answer before Martha bustles off.
“I wonder what I’ll get. I don’t have a usual,” I admit with a shrug. “I’m always too busy with patients to come here for lunch.”
Emma laughs. “You weren’t busy today?”
“I decided I could take an hour off.” I take a breath, deciding to probe. “I ran into Mason at the Rusty Spur Friday night.”
Pushing her coffee cup aside, she puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “What?”
“Yeah. We talked for a bit.” I know this’ll get her going, because she’s been teasing me about Mason liking me for a few weeks now.
“He didn't mention it.” Her eyes narrowing in thought. “Mason doesn't talk about women. Not with me, anyway. But you’re my friend, so I’d think he’d say something. Jake hasn’t mentioned anything either, so I doubt Mason’s said anything to him.”
I toy with the edge of my paper napkin. “Does he keep things private when he's interested in someone?”
“Based on what Jake’s told me, Mason doesn’t do interested.” Emma tilts her head, studying me, her gaze bright with curiosity. “Luke’s a playboy, and Jake wasn’t a choir boy before me either, but Mason keeps to himself. Jake says that when it comes to that sort of stuff, Mason handles himself.”
I blush. I can picture Mason “handling himself.” It’s something I want to picture again, later when I’m alone.
Emma must realize what she said because she blushes too. “Um, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant that Mason doesn’t go after women often.”
“Hmm.” Does that mean he’s not actually interested in me, or does that mean I’m special? My mind wants to race down the latter track—desperately—but I put the brakes on.
Leaning closer, she lowers her voice. “If he saw you at the Rusty Spur and didn't tell me or the boys about it, it’s got to mean something.”
Something settles in my chest—relief and another emotion I can’t place. Mason hasn't told her about the tattoo. He's kept that part of me private, protected.
“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Emma grins at my startled look. “I mean, if you go for the dark, intense, brooding type, which obviously I do.”
Mason was more than hot. Hot was simple and harmless and temporary. Mason Rivera was the kind of man women wrote warning labels about—feral, controlled, and intense enough to make your pulse trip every time those dark eyes settled on you.
“And he’s a great cook. He makes a mean omelet,” Emma adds, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “If you’re ever at the ranch for breakfast.”
My heart starts to pound, imagining being at their ranch for breakfast. That’d only mean one thing.
I’ve never had a morning after. I’ve never had a morning, period—or a night, or even an afternoon.
“An omelet, huh?” I manage a small smile, not wanting to confess that I’ve never had sex with anything other than a toy.
“The best. Seriously.” Emma grins. “Jake won't even let me try anymore because Mason's are so much better.”
Martha returns with lunch. Emma has a cobb salad. I have a cheeseburger and fries. It looks good, so I shrug and pick up a fry. As we eat, Emma tells me about the horses she gave Blackthorn Ranch, that Mason’s training, and about the breeding program Mason is starting.
I listen and nod, asking the right questions at the right times. I set everything aside and forget everything except that I’m having lunch with a friend.
The door opens, and I immediately dart a glance to check who’s entering.
It’s Harper. She spots us immediately, her face lighting up with the kind of unfiltered enthusiasm I haven't felt since high school.
She's wearing her uniform, her gun belt around her waist and curly brown hair tamed into a smooth bun.
She looks exactly like what she is: a woman who works hard, laughs loud, and doesn't apologize for taking up space.
She struts over to us. “Move over,” she tells Emma as she starts to slide into her side of the booth. “I’m joining you.”
Emma flashes me an amused look as Harper reaches over and snags one of my fries. “Hungry?” she asks, pushing her untouched coffee toward her.
“Starved.” Harper gestures to Martha and then my plate, before taking another of my fries. “God, it’s been a long day already. My dad's been on my ass all morning.”
The ease I’d been feeling fades, and I frown, thinking about Turner and his scary lackey. “Trouble in town?”
“More than usual?” She snorts. “No, it’s just my dad being him. You'd think after five years being his deputy he'd trust me, but no. I’m surprised he even lets me carry a gun, much less leave the house.” She snatches another fry, pointing it at me. “Don’t even get me started on my sex life.”
“What sex life?” Emma teases.
Harper rolls her eyes. “Exactly.”
Despite myself, I smile. There's something disarming about Harper—a lack of pretense that makes it hard to stay guarded. She's the kind of person who says what she thinks and doesn't worry about the consequences.
I envy that.
“So.” Harper picks up Emma’s mug and takes a sip. “What are we talking about? Please tell me it's something juicy, like Emma getting laid all the time.”
“Just catching up,” Emma says, her cheeks pink.
“Boring.” Harper hums in appreciation at the burger Martha sets in front of her. She picks it up without ado. “We should do something fun. Like a girls' night. When's the last time either of you went out and actually had a good time?”
The question hits me harder than it should. I can remember surviving. I can remember rebuilding. Working. Investigating. Existing. But fun? The word feels distant enough that, for a second, I have no idea what to say.
Quite frankly, the last time I remember having fun was the night Mandy and I were taken.
Fortunately Emma fills in the gap. “I had a good time a couple hours ago, actually.”
“Braggart.” Harper gestures to us with her burger. “We're doing this. Friday night. Drinks, dancing, maybe some karaoke if there’s enough tequila. No excuses.”
Emma shakes her head. “Harper—”
“No excuses,” Harper repeats firmly. “You're both coming. I'm not taking no for an answer.”
I should say no. Should make an excuse about work or prior commitments or literally anything that gets me out of this.
But part of me—the part that's been buried under thirteen years of survival and vengeance—wants to say yes.
I want to pretend, just for one night, that I'm a normal woman with normal friends doing normal things. “I'm in.”
“Yes!” Harper beams. “Emma?”
Emma hesitates. There's something in her expression—conflict maybe, or hesitation. She opens her mouth, closes it, then takes a breath. “I can't drink.”
“Why not?” Harper frowns. “You on antibiotics or something?”
“No.” A soft smile lights her face. “I'm pregnant.”
The words hang in the air.
Harper's eyes go wide. “Holy shit. Seriously?”
Emma nods, a smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to wait to tell people. I’m not that far along. But, yeah, we’re having a baby.”
“Oh my God.” Harper throws an arm around Emma’s shoulders and squeezes her into her side. “Emma, that's amazing. Congratulations!”
“Thanks.” Tears glisten in Emma’s eyes, but it’s obvious they’re tears of joy. “It's still surreal. So fast. But good. Really good.”
I watch the exchange, something tight and painful lodging in my chest. This is what normal looks like. This is what life looks like when you're not running, not hunting, not carrying the weight of a dead sister and a barcode tattoo.
Gripping my wrist, I think of Mason. A flicker of something lights in my chest. Could I ever have this?
“Lily?” Emma's voice pulls me back. She's watching me with concern. “You okay?”
Shaking my head, I force a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—congratulations. That's really wonderful.”
And I mean it—I do—but it doesn't stop the ache.
Harper's already planning. “Okay, so girls' night is definitely still happening, but we're making it a celebration. A pre-baby-shower baby shower. No alcohol for you, obviously, but we can still have fun. Dancing, terrible food, maybe some embarrassing stories about Jake—”
“Please don't,” Emma says, but she's laughing.
The conversation shifts into logistics—where to go, what to do, whether the Blackthorn men should be invited or if this is strictly a girls-only event. I contribute when expected, laugh at Harper's jokes, and try to ignore the way my chest feels like it's being crushed.
Because I'm not here to make friends or go to girls' nights or celebrate pregnancies. I'm here to hunt the men who killed my sister. I'm here to burn Turner's operation to the ground and make sure every man who touched Mandy pays in blood.
And when that's done—when the mission is complete and there's nothing left to hunt—I'll disappear. I won’t be able to stick around, not once people discover my past, and that’s bound to happen if I help bring down Turner and his operation.
These women will move on. Emma will have her baby. Harper will probably become sheriff one day. Mason will find someone who isn't broken and marked.
And I'll be alone again.
The way I've always been.
By the time we leave the diner, the sun is high and bright, the kind of clear Montana afternoon that makes everything feel possible. Emma hugs me goodbye—a real hug, warm and genuine—and Harper extracts a promise that I'll show up Friday night.
I watch them walk away together, their voices carrying on the breeze, and I feel the weight of the barcode on my wrist like a brand.
I'm not one of them. I never will be.
But for a few hours, I let myself pretend.
And maybe that's enough.