Chapter 58
The lights on set are blinding. They aren’t warm and inviting, just hot and relentless.
Even if they were inviting, I wouldn’t want to be here.
I’ve always hated this promo stuff that comes with the business.
The stage manager counts down with her fingers from the wings, and I roll my shoulders, forcing something like confidence into my spine.
Three.
Two.
One.
The applause sign flashes, and the house band hits a bright, brassy riff. I walk out on cue, smiling like I remember how.
The host—polished, charismatic, and with teeth far too white to be real—stands to shake my hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, he’s back. Please welcome Easton Shaw!”
Back. The word echoes through my ears, louder than the applause.
I shake his hand, nod at the crowd, and take a seat. The chair feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe after all those months of ranch work, I just don’t fit in it anymore.
We exchange pleasantries and make the typical late-night television small talk. I answer on autopilot, the version of me that knows how to navigate this world sliding into place like an old jacket. It still fits, until the conversation shifts to my “highly anticipated comeback.”
“So,” the host says, leaning forward with the kind of curiosity that reads friendly but hunts for blood, “your upcoming tour is selling out arenas. The comeback everyone’s been waiting for. How does it feel to be stepping back into that spotlight?”
I smile. Tilt my head slightly. “It’s… surreal,” I say. “But I’m so grateful."
What it feels is loud. Hollow. Like stepping into a house that used to be yours and realizing someone replaced all the furniture.
He nods enthusiastically. “And one of the songs fans are especially excited about is ‘Build This Life With You.’ It’s already climbing the streaming charts. That song registered with a lot of people when it was first released.”
“Yes,” I say carefully, the figurative jacket suddenly a few sizes too small. “It did.”
“You wrote that for your late wife, Rosie, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer, surprised at myself that my voice doesn’t shake. “I did.”
He softens immediately. The audience quiets in that collective way crowds do when grief is brought into the room.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he offers gently.
“Thank you.”
“Where were you in your life when you wrote that song?”
I inhale slowly. “I was in love,” I say.
“And terrified, because I finally knew how much I wanted to keep building a life with her. I wrote the song as a confession. It was my way of saying I was ready. To bring life into our home, to make a family, and to take the love we had and watch it grow into something bigger than either of us. It was my promise, folded into music. We just never got that chance.”
“After Rosie passed, you stepped away from the spotlight. Fans have wondered where you’ve been.” His words sound flat and overly rehearsed.
It’s the question I knew was coming. The one my agent warned me about. I clear my throat. “I needed to… breathe,” I share.
“So where have you been?” he presses gently.
“With Tea—” The syllable forms in my mouth and slides off my tongue before my brain catches up. I cough lightly to cover my slip and adjust the radio mic clipped to my shirt. “Living a different life in Montana.”
The audience hums approvingly at that. Rustic redemption. A man retreating to wide skies and horses to find himself again. They eat that narrative up.
The host smiles. “Montana. That’s a far cry from Nashville.”
“It is.”
“What were you doing out there?”
I think about sunrises over open pastures. The weight of a shovel in my hands. The way Ranger’s hooves drum across the pasture. The sound of Teagan laughing when Knox says something stupid. Which is often. The way she looks up at me, with her head on my chest and her body nuzzled against mine.
“Healing,” I state simply.
The host nods, clearly pleased with that word.
He keeps talking—about the upcoming tour, fan expectations, and how inspiring it is that I’ve “found my way back.” The words are nothing more than muffled background noise, my attention entirely on the wildfire racing through my thoughts on horseback, her blonde mane blowing behind her.
“Easton?” the host prompts lightly. “You’ve said this tour is about honoring your past while stepping into a new chapter. What does that new chapter look like?”
I glance at the audience, a sea of expectant faces. This is the moment. Time for the polished, safe answer the label’s marketing team has been beating into me. “It looks like gratitude,” I start automatically. “Like stepping back into the music with—”
The words die in my throat, because it’s a lie. This isn’t my new chapter. It’s my old one, resurrected. And she isn’t in it.
The host is still smiling, waiting for me to continue.
“I love her,” I say suddenly. The words are out before I can filter them.
The host blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I love her,” I repeat, louder. I don’t even fully register that I’ve reached for the mic clipped to my shirt until it’s in my hand. My heart is hammering so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
“Easton—” the host starts, but I’m already shaking my head to stop him.
“This—” I gesture vaguely around us. “I don’t want it without her.” The audience murmurs as I pull the mic free completely, the wire trailing uselessly from my hand. “I’m sorry,” I blurt, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to.
The host tries to recover. “Is there someone special you’d like to tell us about?”
“No.” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to me. “I have somewhere to be.” I drop the mic on the table between us and walk off stage as chaos ensues behind me.
“What are you doing?” my agent shouts as I pass the curtain. “What the hell was that? You just walked out of a nationally televised interview.”
“I know.” The grin spreading across my face grows unapologetically. I’m not even remotely sorry.
“You’re throwing away a comeback most people would kill for,” he says finally, his brows furrowing with anger.
“Maybe.”
“And for what?”
I don’t hesitate. “For the one thing that makes me feel alive.”
I don’t even bother to go home. With nothing more than the clothes on my back, I head to the airport and buy the first ticket I can: one way in economy.
The flight to Montana lasts an eternity.
I stare out the window at the clouds and think about every word I didn’t say to her.
Every truth I held back because I was afraid it would pull me back into a life I wasn’t ready to face.
Idiot.
I wasn’t protecting her.
I was protecting myself.
When the plane comes to a stop on the tarmac, I race to pick up my rental truck.
My heart pounding, I drive faster than I probably should toward the ranch.
The gates come into view as the sun starts to rise.
I tear down the drive, dust pluming behind me.
I skid to a stop before the main house and jump from behind the driver’s seat without bothering to cut the engine. “Teagan!”
James steps out onto the porch and lets out a huff. “Well, I’ll be,” he mutters. “Took you long enough.”
“Where is she?” I ask.
He studies my face carefully. “She’s not here.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“Rodeo finals,” he says. “Out of state. She left with Knox yesterday.”
The air leaves my lungs slowly.
“Where?”
“Cheyenne.”
It’s not a quick drive. Not something I can fix with a truck and a few hours.
“I need to get to her.”
He folds his arms. “Then get to her.”
I don’t hesitate, hopping back into the truck and racing toward the highway as I call the one person I know will help make this happen for me.
“Mason, I need a favor.”
There is a long pause on the end of the line, followed by a resigned, “How fast?”
“As fast as possible.”
It takes me about thirty minutes to reach Bozeman. My pulse is a constant thrum as I pull into the airport. As promised, a sleek private jet awaits me on the tarmac. I climb the steps without looking back. As the engines roar to life, I close my eyes.
“I’m coming, wildfire,” I murmur to the empty cabin.