Chapter 7 Emma
"E mma! Emma, where are you?"
Eric’s voice booms through the house, shaking the walls and rattling my spine. I press my back against the cool bathroom door, my heart slamming against my ribs. My mind spins, replaying every illicit detail of what I just witnessed. The front door slams, the force of it echoing through the quiet, sending a thrill of panic—and something darker—racing down my spine.
“In the bathroom! I’ll be down in a sec!”
My voice bounces off the tiles, too high and too breathy, but instead of waiting, Eric storms up the stairs like a stampede, each step vibrating through the house. I clench my fists, my entire body thrumming with the deep, heated embarrassment of it all. But beneath it, under the mortification, a deep ache refuses to be ignored.
I never should have gone back to the barn. And I never should have peered through that damn crack in the wooden wall.
But I did.
And I saw everything.
Eric, sprawled back on a hay bale, jeans pushed down just enough, his large hand gripping his hard cock. His lips moved silently, like he was murmuring my name, though I couldn’t hear past the thundering pulse in my ears. His hips thrust in slow, deliberate strokes, and my breath caught, my thighs pressing together as heat pooled low in my belly.
Then my phone buzzed like a loud and obnoxious time machine. It was the only sound in the heavy, sultry silence of the barn.
Eric heard it, his head snapped up, and I ran.
I jump as a sharp knock raps against the door, followed by his deep, commanding voice. “Emma. Open the door.”
I take a few deep breaths, shake out my hands, and twist the lock open.
“What’s up, Eric?”
I blink rapidly, feigning innocence, but Eric is too damn perceptive. His gaze sharpens, his body blocking the doorway like a wall of solid muscle.
“Emma, what you saw?—”
“I saw nothing.” My voice is breezy, and too casual. “Well, not nothing. But I left immediately when I saw you were... busy.”
His jaw ticks. “Busy?”
I shrug. “It’s only natural. Everybody does it.”
I step forward, but Eric doesn’t move. He stays put, staring at me like he’s trying to read every single thought running through my head.
“So, you saw me jerking off.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Maybe?”
A slow, wicked grin stretches across his face. “You don’t know what a man with his hand around his cock looks like?”
I exhale, long and dramatic. “Fine. I saw you jerking off.”
His lips twitch, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve caught me in a more... compromising position.”
My stomach clenches. “What position would that be?”
He steps forward, closing the space between us.
"Should I knock on the barn door before I enter next time?" I ask.
His forearm braces against the doorframe, but then, he lets go, allowing me to pass. But the second I reach my bedroom door, his hand wraps around my wrist and yanks me back into his arms.
We’re standing face to face, and chest to chest. While he’s breathing hard, I can barely breathe at all.
His lips graze my ear, his voice a low, dark whisper. “What else have you seen in that barn?”
A memory of his tight, muscular ass plunging between a woman’s thighs, burns through my brain.
“Emma?”
His grip tightens around my wrist, like a handcuff.
I force a smirk, gripping the front of his ridiculous JoJo unicorn shirt. God, he has the weirdest T-shirt collection. And I love every single one.
"Fortunately for you, I keep secrets under lock and key."
I make a show of zipping my lips and tossing away an imaginary key.
“Fortunately?” His grip loosens just slightly. “So, you are keeping a secret.”
I tilt my head, my fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Tonight wasn’t the first time I saw your... assets. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
His pupils flare. “Really?”
He moves closer, his breath hot against my lips, his fingers trailing lightly up my arm, the touch leaving a path of fire in its wake. His fingers reach my collarbone and draw over my sunflower pendant—a gift from my mom.
I swallow hard as my knees threaten to buckle.
Then, just like that, he’s kissing me.
His lips crash against mine, stealing my breath, and setting fire to every nerve in my body. I let out a small gasp, and his hands tighten around me, pulling me deeper into his heat.
The kiss is reckless, hungry, and so damn good I could die right here and have no regrets.
I press against him, my hands sliding up his chest, and my fingers threading into his hair. He groans into my mouth, his grip flexing, sending an electric thrill through my limbs.
And then—he stops.
Just like that.
His breath is ragged, his forehead resting against mine.
“What was that for?” I whisper, my heart still galloping.
His lips brush over my cheek, his voice rough and edged with desire. “I’m never embarrassed when I kiss. I take what I want. I do what I want. And I fuck what I want.”
Heat explodes through me, pooling between my legs. I’m shaking, aching, and ready.
This is it.
This is the moment.
And then?—
"Goodnight, Emma."
He steps back.
What?
He turns, strides down the hall, and disappears into his room, closing the door behind him like the final punctuation on a sentence I don’t want to end while I stand there, completely dumbfounded.
What. The. Actual. Hell?
Fuming, I spin on my heel, stomping into my room, shedding my slippers and yanking the covers over my head. My entire body is a live wire of frustration and need. The moment my body hits the mattress, I pull the blankets tightly around me, but it does nothing to stop the shivers of need rolling through my body.
It’s too late to call my father, and I’m too exhausted to think straight.
But sleep won’t come.
The country air clings to my skin, thick with the scent of hay, wood…—and him. It’s messing with my head, turning thoughts into dangerous whispers, blurring the already fragile line between reality and this reckless game we’re playing.
Because this isn’t real.
It can’t be real.
Except it feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.
I stretch out against the cool sheets, my breath uneven, my body wound tight with a tension I don’t know how to name—except, I do.
The memory flashes behind my eyes, vivid, and unrelenting.
Eric.
His hand wrapped around his thick length, pumping deliberately slow strokes. His muscles flex and jaw clenches, as his hips thrust into his palm and my name ghosts from his lips.
A sharp spark of heat ignites inside me, sending a shudder through every nerve.
I slide my hand down, skimming over my breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks until a whimper slips free. The ache builds, and intensifies, pulsing between my thighs, and demanding attention until I give in.
My fingers dip lower, my thighs parting as I press into my slick heat, my body arching to meet every slow, tantalizing stroke. My hips move of their own accord, chasing pleasure, and grinding into the rhythm my body already knows by heart.
Eric.
His name spills from my lips in a whispered plea.
I imagine his mouth on me, tasting, teasing, and owning my skin. His hands gripping my thighs, holding me down as his tongue traces every aching, throbbing inch of me.
Pleasure coils tight, winding, twisting, and ready to snap. My body trembles, teetering on the edge?—
And when I finally shatter, his name plays on my lips like a prayer.
Eric.
* * *
The sun slices through the window, bright and unrelenting. A rooster crows in the distance, like a damn cliché, while I groan and bury my face in the pillow. I barely slept.
Across the hall, Eric is probably still sleeping like a rock, completely unfazed, while I tossed and turned, replaying every humiliating second of last night.
I drag myself out of bed, bleary-eyed, stretching as I walk to the window. The scent of damp straw and fog drifts in when I push it open, crisp and earthy, calming in a way I didn’t expect. No honking taxis, no sirens, no morning rush of grumpy pedestrians pushing past each other.
It feels...nice. Too nice.
But what the hell happened last night?
First, I caught Eric in the barn, his hand wrapped around his cock, lost in the rhythm of his own pleasure. Then, he kissed me like I was his, like I had been his, like I always would be his.
I shiver, dragging my hands down my arms, my body still buzzing from the memory.
It was just a kiss.
Except it wasn’t.
I shake it off, changing into jeans and a flannel shirt, and tiptoe past his bedroom. No movement, no sound. Either he’s sleeping or avoiding me, and I don’t know which one irritates me more.
Downstairs, I find a note on the kitchen table, his familiar scrawl catching my eye.
Emma,
I’m sorry I had to leave on your first morning in Lords Valley. Hope the coyotes didn’t keep you up last night. I went to assist Blake with a foal. Grandpa is excited for your visit this morning, and I can’t wait to catch up with you later today.
Your fiancé,
Eric
I snort, muttering, “Sure, it was the coyotes that kept me up.”
I remember my own hand between my thighs, the way I imagined him there instead, and shake off the heat curling low in my belly.
Focus.
I snatch a sheet of paper and scribble out a letter to corporate, officially announcing our engagement. This way, there’s no chance for my brothers to catch wind of it through the company’s network. Our fake relationship isn’t just about Eric getting his inheritance. I have my own stakes in this game, and I need to make sure I get my partnership before my brothers find a way to stall me again.
Just as I finish, Grandpa Albert yelling outside.
“Emma! I’m ready for breakfast!”
I glance out the window to where he stands on top of the hill, hat on his head and hands on his hips. I leave the pen next to the letter for Eric’s signature, slip on Annabelle’s sneakers, and head up the hill toward the Waters’ house.
The scent of fresh bread and pumpkin spice drifts through the air, wrapping around me like a warm hug.
“Good morning,” I say, inhaling deeply. “What smells so good?”
“Joanne put a pie in the oven,” Grandpa says, adjusting his hat. “I was hoping to talk with both of you this morning, but Eric rushed out a few hours ago.”
“He’s helping with a foal,” I explain.
Grandpa frowns. “A foal? That foal was fine yesterday.” He mutters to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s a different one.”
I link my arm through his, smiling. “Well, I guess you have me all to yourself today.”
He pats my hand, eyes twinkling. “Lucky me.”
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask.
“We’re going to town. Sheriff’s office.”
I nearly do a victory lap in my head. Finally. A chance to dig into John Huntz and prove to my brothers I’m more than a glorified intern at Silver Securities.
“Does a city girl know how to ride a bicycle?” Grandpa nudges a dusty old bike with his foot. Another one leans against the fence, its front basket looking suspiciously like something out of a 1950s postcard.
“You sure you can ride?” I ask, arching a brow.
"Don't let the gray hair fool you. I can still pedal circles around most folks half my age."
The way he kicks up the bike stand tells me he’s not bluffing.
As we set off, a cool breeze nips at my cheeks, and Grandpa Albert takes the lead like he’s training for the Tour de France. I pump my legs to keep up, my thighs burning, but I refuse to fall behind.
Fields of wheat stretch endlessly, the golden stalks swaying like ocean waves. The ride is peaceful in a way that makes my city-girl brain short-circuit.
Thirty minutes later, we roll into town, parking our bikes outside a red-brick building with a faded sign. I shake out my legs, pretending I don’t feel like I just completed an endurance race.
Inside, the Sheriff’s office smells like old leather and coffee, the walls lined with framed photos and case files. A man who could have walked straight out of an old western stands behind the desk—hat, boots, belt holster, the whole deal. His badge gleams, but the dust on his sleeves says he does more than just sit behind a desk.
“Albert!” His deep voice booms through the space. “Good to see you. And who’s this beautiful young lady?”
Grandpa grips his hand in a firm shake. “Simon, meet my grandson’s fiancée, Emma Silver.”
The Sheriff doesn’t bother with a handshake. Instead, he hauls me into a bear hug, his laugh hearty and warm.
“Congratulations, young lady.”
“Thank you,” I manage, smiling as he finally lets go.
“Emma’s a private investigator in New York,” Grandpa adds, and I swear there’s a hint of pride in his voice.
Sheriff Simon eyes me, intrigued. “Fred Silver’s daughter?”
“That’s right,” I nod.
He sighs, shaking his head. “How’s Fred doing? He hasn’t visited in years. Mister big-city forgot the good old days on the farm?”
I chuckle. “No, he just retired a few years ago. He’s finishing his third round of chemo now.”
The Sheriff’s smile fades. “Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. Please give him my best.”
“I will.”
Simon sets down his coffee mug. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“I’m interested in anything you have on John Huntz.”
The mood shifts instantly. Grandpa and the Sheriff exchange a look, the kind that carries more weight than words.
Simon exhales, rubbing his jaw. “John Huntz shook this town awake almost three decades ago, on November 16th, at four in the morning, the day after Harvest Fest. Eric and Annabelle were lucky to come out alive.”
A gust of wind howls outside, rattling the door.
“Do you have anything in the evidence room?” I ask.
Simon gestures toward a plain wooden door. “Let’s take a look. But I’ll tell you now, we never found much. That bastard’s still walking free because there wasn’t enough to hold him.”
As we step into the back room, I brace myself for a wall of neatly stacked case files.
Instead, I’m met with three dusty boxes.
Three.
For over two hundred years of crime in Lords Valley.
Grandpa clears his throat. “It’s a peaceful town.”
I blink. “Three boxes? That’s it?”
The Sheriff shrugs. “Evidence from all crimes in Lords Valley.”
Unbelievable.
“You won’t find much on Huntz.”
A soft voice pulls my attention to the doorway.
A woman stands there, her long brunette hair pulled back and held with a yellow hair clip. Her pale skin contrasts against the deep blue of her skirt, and there’s something guarded in her expression.
“Hello, Misty,” Grandpa greets, removing his hat.
“Mr. Waters.” She nods before glancing at me.
“This is Emma Silver,” Grandpa says. “Eric’s fiancée. Maybe you can show her what she’s looking for?”
Misty’s eyes flick to mine. “You’re looking for Huntz?”
I nod. “Have you seen him?”
She adjusts the clip in her hair, her fingers fidgeting. “He picks up his mail sometimes. That’s all.”
I don’t buy it.
Time to find out what Misty isn’t saying. She strides toward the shelving unit, her movements precise and controlled. She pulls a folder from one of the three evidence boxes, flipping through its contents with an unreadable expression.
Then, without looking up, she asks, “Are you hungry? We’ll grab something quick at Valley’s Delights.”
It’s not a question.
Before I can reply, she’s already heading for the door, folder tucked under her arm. I quickly ask Albert for a raincheck for breakfast, and head outside. I grab my bike and follow her down the dirt road. The moment we approach the bakery, the rich aroma of fresh bread wraps around me, thick and indulgent. Yeasty warmth mixed with the faintest hint of cinnamon fills my nose.
My stomach growls. Loudly. It’s amazing how easily the smell of freshly baked goods can awaken my appetite.
The front window is plastered with Harvest Fest flyers and brightly colored pastry paintings, like a festive preview of the sweetness waiting inside. The second we step through the door, the bell jingles overhead, and conversations hit pause.
Heads turn and all eyes land on me. The energy shifts. I can practically feel the gossip machine humming to life, revving its engines.
Then, just as quickly, interest fades. The townsfolk return to their meals, their chatter picking back up, and I let out a long-held breath.
“They have good reception here if you need WiFi,” Misty says, heading straight for the counter. “I’ll get croissants and coffee. Black?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She nods and places our order while I fish my phone out of my back pocket. My stomach tightens when I see the empty screen with no messages, and no missed calls.
I swallow down the familiar irritation bubbling up inside me. How hard is it to send a single damn morning update on dad? They know I’m not there, they know I’m worried, but do they even think to fill me in?
They promised to text me every day.
I open the group chat with Tristan and Julian, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, debating whether to ask. Again. I’m always the one reaching out first. Always the one chasing updates like I’m begging for scraps of information they get freely. If I don’t ask, will they even tell me if something happens? I decide to call instead.
I try Julian first. No answer.
Then Tristan. Straight to voicemail.
My hands shake as I dial my mom’s number, pressing the phone to my ear. It rings four times before she picks up on the fifth.
“Emma, darling,” she says, her voice too bright, too forced. “How’s Lords Valley?”
I hesitate. “It’s good.” A beat passes. “Is everything okay at home? I can’t reach Julian or Tristan, and?—”
“Oh, everything’s fine, honey. I’m just getting an early start on lunch today.”
A noise filters through the receiver, muffled but distinct. Tristan says something about a doctor calling back after surgery.
A sharp spike of panic stabs through me.
“Was that Tristan? What surgery? Mom, what’s going on?” My voice wavers, betraying the calm I’m desperately trying to hold onto.
“Oh, it’s nothing, honey.” She exhales too quickly. “Now that Dad’s less mobile, we’re switching his mattress to something more comfortable.”
Lies.
Her voice wobbles at the edges, like she’s barely keeping it together.
“What do you mean, less mobile ?” My grip tightens on the phone. “When I left, he was taking walks outside.”
“It’s just the time of year. It’s raining here, the sun barely comes out. The cold months aren’t good for his bones.”
I swallow hard, my throat burning. “It’s warm and sunny here, Mom. You’d love it. It’s so quiet and peaceful. You and Dad should come visit.”
“Maybe when Dad’s immune system is stronger.” Her voice softens. “How’s Eric?”
Of course. Of course, she asks about Eric.
My mom has been my number-one love-life cheerleader since I was old enough to have a crush.
I lower my voice, sinking into my seat. “I think we’re making progress. We have this pretend engagement so I can file with corporate for my partnership. Now that we’re engaged —well, fake engaged—I can.”
“And Eric agreed to this fake engagement?”
“It was his idea,” I admit, twirling a napkin between my fingers. “Now, I just need to make him realize we should make it real, but I’m worried about Dad?—”
“—Is that Emma calling?” Tristan’s voice cuts in.
A second later, he’s on the line. “Hey, Emma. How are things going over there?”
I close my eyes, exhaling. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but it’s nice to get away.”
“Good, that’s good to hear.”
I frown. That’s it? Something is off.
“How’s Dad?” I press. “Be honest.”
The pause feels eternal.
“Dad’s okay.” His voice is careful. “Is Eric treating you right?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t he?”
“So you like it there?”
I force a smile, even though he can’t see it. “I fit in Lords Valley like a pea in a pod.”
“Can’t wait to hear all about it.” His tone shifts, lighter. Too light. “Listen, I gotta help with the mattress. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
I expect my mom to take the phone back, but all I hear is a click, then silence. I stare at my phone, gripping it tightly.
I tell him I feel like a pea in a pod and his response is can’t wait to hear all about it? Tristan is never this dismissive.
Something’s wrong.
Across the bakery, Misty collects our order just as the front door swings open. A man steps inside, his presence commanding without effort. Muscular arms covered in tattoos, his tanned skin stretched over a frame built from years of hard work. His friendly smile is the warmest I’ve seen in this town, putting me instantly at ease.
“Hey, Misty.” His voice is deep, and familiar. Then, his gaze shifts to me.
His smile widens.
“And you must be Emma. Eric told me all about you.”
He has?
He extends a hand.
“Derek Fields. Blake’s dad.”
I grip his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fields.”
He chuckles. “Derek’s fine. Mr. Fields makes me sound like an old man.”
Misty hands me my coffee, her expression unreadable. I take a sip, letting the hot liquid ground me.
“Saw the Sheriff on the way. Said you're looking into Huntz.” His thick eyebrows knit together.
“I am,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Derek leans in, his hands bracing against the worn countertop. “I was a teenager when I knew the bastard. He always found a way to ruin your day. Nobody liked him. One spring, Blake and I dragged a bag from the river. Huntz had trapped five kittens inside.” His jaw clenches. “And on Halloween, he handed out matches.”
My stomach twists.
“So you’re saying I should be careful?”
“No, Emma.” His voice drops to a near whisper, his eyes sharp with warning. “I’m saying you should leave it alone.”
The bakery door swings open with a gust of wind, rattling the Harvest Fest flyers in the window.
I swallow hard. “Thanks. I appreciate the warning.”
Derek doesn’t move. He lingers, lowering his voice even further. “After Annabelle and Eric were found, his old house burned down.” His gaze locks onto mine. “If you ask me, that place is haunted.”
A chill slides down my spine. Haunted or not, Huntz’s name alone feels like a storm cloud rolling in, dark and heavy with unspoken threats.
Derek finally pulls back, grabbing the coffees waiting for him. “Have a great day, ladies.”
Misty picks up our remaining order as he heads out, then turns back to me with a smirk.
“I promise, Blake isn’t as crazy.”
I let out a short laugh. “He drove us from the train station. Eric’s helping him with the foal.”
“Cool. I love baby animals.”
She on her heel and leads the way outside.
I follow her down the road, the dirt kicking up behind us until I spot a shiny pair of cowboy boots with a sunflower design in a thrift store window.
“Hey, do you mind if I try these on? I didn’t get a chance to pack my boots.”
“Sure.”
Minutes later, I have a pair of new boots and a wide smile stretching on my face.
“You like shopping?” Misty asks, guiding me toward the river.
“I like shopping for necessities.”
“And the boots are a necessity?”
“When you’re engaged to a cowboy, they certainly are.”
She chuckles, and we settle onto a wooden bench by the river. She sets her coffee down in the grass and hands me a warm, flaky croissant. The buttery texture melts instantly on my tongue, rich and decadent.
Misty reaches into her bag, pulling out a beige folder and sets it on my lap.
“What do you want to know about Huntz?”
I sit up straighter.
“For starters, where did he live?”
She exhales. “The house north of Eric’s property. Huntz used to be Joanne and Ethan’s neighbor.”
I pause mid-sip of my coffee. “They were neighbors ?”
Misty nods. “Joanne, Ethan, and John went to school together.”
I flip open the folder, skimming through brittle newspaper clippings and yellowed documents.
“They must have known each other pretty well, then,” I say, glancing at her sideways.
Her lips press into a thin line.
“It’s a sad story,” she murmurs. “Back when they were young, Joanne and John were dating—though, if you ask me, that’s his story. He got her pregnant. Then, at one Harvest Fest, there was a fire. John disappeared, and Joanne started seeing Ethan.”
My grip on the folder tightens. “And then?”
Misty sighs. “Joanne moved in with Ethan. They got married.”
I lean in. “And the baby?”
“The baby girl was born before Eric. Ethan promised to raise her as his own, but when Joanne gave birth, the baby was stolen from the hospital.”
My breath catches.
“Their baby was stolen ?”
Misty nods solemnly.
“In the official report, the hospital said the baby was stillborn.” She taps the folder. “But it was a lie. Check the third clipping.”
I flip through until I find an article from the time of the disappearance. A nurse’s name stands out in bold print.
“The nurse said the baby was alive.”
“Exactly.”
“Was there an investigation?”
Misty’s mouth twists bitterly. “If there was, there’s no paper trail. I checked.”
I shake my head, flipping faster through the documents. This town operates in whispers and shadows, hiding its secrets beneath polite smiles and fresh-baked bread.
“Is that why there’s so little evidence in Lords Valley?” I ask. “Because it all disappears?”
Misty shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee.
Then I see the picture of the Huntz house burning to the ground. I read the column below.
“It was arson?” I ask.
“Keep reading.”
My stomach turns as I skim further.
Mr. and Mrs. Huntz died in the fire.
I slap my hand over my mouth, my eyes snapping up to Misty’s.
“You think John set the fire?”
“It’s possible. I heard him blame Eric and Annabelle for the fire, but who know?”
“And you’ve seen him? Recently? ”
Misty shifts. “He picked up his mail this morning.”
I bolt upright. “ This morning ? And you didn’t think to lead with that?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t know it was important.”
I gape at her.
“Everyone’s seen him,” she says, unconcerned. “They just avoid him. He owns the property north of Eric’s house. He’ll be back when he’s ready to collect the money once he sells his land.”
She pops the last bite of croissant into her mouth and checks her watch. “I should get back to work. You know your way home?”
“Yes,” I say, my mind spinning. “Can I keep the file?”
“Sure. It’s not like there’s much in there. Just don’t tell the Sheriff.”
I tuck the folder under my arm, giving her a quick hug before heading back to my bike.
The twenty-minute ride home is a blur. My thoughts tangle with each push of the pedals, my mind circling the same question over and over.
Who else knows the truth about John Huntz?
As I near Eric’s house, my pulse spikes. An unfamiliar, mud-spattered bicycle leans against the porch and a chill prickles at the base of my neck. I hurry through the door, kicking off Annabelle’s sneakers, tossing Misty’s folder onto the front bench.
I step into the family room?—
And freeze.
Eric is sprawled on the couch, snoring.
Wearing nothing but a towel. He is all muscle, and tan with a glistening ladder of abs.
“Oh my God.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Eric jerks awake, and his eyes snap open as the towel drops to the floor.