Epilogue
A Visit from Lady Luck
Easton
Three Months Later
Sturgis was still clinging to me—the dust, the noise, the thrum of a hundred engines fading behind as I rolled out of the campground and pointed the Harley toward home.
The spring air cut clean through my jacket, sharp enough to clear my head.
I gunned the throttle, letting the familiar vibration work its way through me, settling in my chest. Normally, leaving a rally like that gave me a sense of satisfaction.
Brotherhood. Noise and grit, and no one asking questions.
But this time, something about it hit differently.
Before I took off, I looked around the lot—chrome glinting, tents half-collapsed, laughter still rolling from the beer tent.
Nearly every guy I’d ridden with had someone climbing onto the back of his bike.
Some brunette was hanging on tight, a blonde was tossing her hair, and someone’s wife was snapping a photo before they peeled out.
And then there were the three of us. Lone riders. No one waiting, no one waving.
Didn’t used to bother me. But lately… well, maybe it did.
I shook it off, swung my leg over the bike, and kicked it into gear. Wind always had a way of clearing the cobwebs faster than whiskey or therapy ever could.
Still, as the miles rolled by, I couldn’t help picturing the life I was riding toward.
Lilly and Sawyer renewing their vows that afternoon at the cabin—half of Lovelace invited, probably the other half showing up anyway.
I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not just because Sawyer, Rhett, and Colt were like brothers, but because somehow, seeing them with their wives and families gave me a weird kind of peace.
Like maybe not all of us were meant to go it alone.
By the time I hit the outskirts of town, the sun was hanging high, the clouds peeled back into a soft Montana blue. The road up to the cabin wound through the hills, the air thick with the smell of fresh-cut hay and pine.
When I crested the last ridge and saw the place, I had to grin.
The cabin didn’t even look like the same place anymore.
Lilly and Sawyer had transformed it—fresh paint, new timber trim, flower boxes overflowing with spring color, a white tent stretched across the back field where tables and chairs waited for the reception.
Cars were lined up all the way down the drive, kids chasing each other through the grass, music playing low from somewhere near the lake.
Half the town was here, sure enough.
I parked the Harley along the fence line, the rumble drawing a few heads my way. The smell of barbecue and lilacs hit me at once, and damn if it didn’t feel like the whole world had come alive again after a long winter.
And then I saw her.
Emma.
She stood near the arbor with Lilly, cradling Hope against her shoulder, her dark hair catching the light, that silky dress floating around her legs like it belonged to the wind. The neckline dipped low enough to make a man forget his manners, and the skirt swirled every time she moved.
I ran a hand through my hair and told myself to quit staring, but hell, I’d been trying that for months and it still wasn’t working.
I started toward her, but before I could open my mouth, she turned and gave me a quick once-over.
“Easton,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grinned. “You look—uh—busy.”
“Sharp observation,” she said dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lilly needs a hand with the baby. Can’t you see that?”
Ouch. Direct hit.
“Sure can,” I said easily, masking the sting with a grin. “Wouldn’t want to get between a mama and her reinforcements.”
She arched a brow, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the bustle.
Well, hell. That didn’t go as expected.
I headed toward the refreshment table instead. Sawyer and Lilly were posing under the arbor, all dressed up—he in a dark vest and clean boots, she in a cream wedding dress with a veil that fluttered in the breeze. Hope was in Sawyer’s arms, wearing a tiny flower crown that matched Lilly’s bouquet.
It was so damn perfect it could’ve been a magazine spread. Which, of course, was the point. Cameras clicked, the videographer called out prompts, and all around them, Lovelace leaned in to watch.
That’s when I noticed the woman beside me.
Older, but with the kind of face that didn’t belong to any age. Tattoos winding up her arms, a calmness in her eyes that cut through the noise. She held a glass of sweet tea and smiled when she caught me looking.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, still watching Sawyer dip his head to kiss Lilly’s temple. “Guess it’s proof that miracles happen.”
“Miracles happen,” she echoed, that knowing lilt in her voice. “Though sometimes they just need a little nudge.”
It took me a second, but then it clicked. “You’re Monique, aren’t you? The counselor Sawyer and Lilly used to see?”
“That’s right.” She extended her hand, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, steady. “You must be Easton. I’ve heard plenty about you.”
“All good, I hope.”
She smiled. “Depends who you ask.”
That earned a laugh out of me. “Let me guess. Sawyer said I was an asshole.”
“He said you were unique. That’s rarer than people think.”
I glanced at her, curious. “You’re a hard one to read, you know that?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Still counseling?”
“Always,” she said with a small shrug. “These days, I call it life coaching. People like it better when you make it sound like a partnership.”
That made sense. But there was something about her tone—something more than clinical, as if she saw through people, maybe even into them.
The ceremony wrapped up with applause, laughter, and the clink of champagne glasses. The crowd started to loosen, music drifting up from a small band near the deck. I turned to Monique.
“Guess that’s my cue to grab a beer,” I said. “Can I get you one?”
“Sure,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But only if you promise to tell me why you keep looking over there.”
I froze mid-step. “Looking where?”
She tilted her head toward Emma, who was laughing with Lilly near the baby stroller. “There.”
I groaned. “You really don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Not when it’s that obvious.”
I chuckled and handed her a cold bottle. “Alright, Coach. Since you’re so observant, tell me how to get her to stop pretending I don’t exist.”
“Easy,” she said, taking a sip. “Make her notice you again.”
“Pretty sure that ship sailed after I got my bike.”
“Then surprise her.”
“Like what? Juggle fire? Ride a bull through the buffet?”
She laughed, low and melodic. “No. Something simpler. The band’s about to play. Ask me to dance.”
I blinked. “You?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been told I lead well.”
I grinned. “You’ve also been told you’re insane, right?”
“Frequently. But it usually works out in my favor.”
When the music started—something old and bluesy, the kind you feel more than hear—I took her hand. Her grip was light, confident. The crowd parted just enough for us to move to the center of the lawn.
Monique danced like she’d been doing it her whole life. Smooth, unhurried. She talked while we moved, her words floating just under the music.
“You want her to see you, Easton,” she said. “But first, you need to decide if you’re ready to be seen.”
I laughed softly. “That’s supposed to be therapy talk?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.”
I twirled her once, catching the faintest smile at the corner of her lips. When I looked up again, Emma was standing near the food tables, watching us. She tried to look casual, but her fingers tightened on the edge of her glass.
Monique noticed too. “There it is,” she murmured. “See what happens when you take a risk?”
“You call this a risk?”
She tilted her head. “You’ve been hiding behind your bike long enough. Maybe it’s time to let someone climb on.”
Before I could answer, the song ended. Applause rippled, laughter rose, and Monique stepped back, giving me that patient look that said now or never.
So I went for it.
I walked straight up to Emma.
“Dance with me?” I asked.
She hesitated just long enough to make me sweat, then set her glass down and took my hand.
Her skin was warm, and her grip was soft but sure. “Who was that woman?” she asked as we started to sway.
“Monique,” I said. “Sawyer’s counselor.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never met her before, but Lilly thinks the world of her.”
I looked around, scanning the crowd, but Monique was nowhere in sight.
“Well,” I said slowly, “maybe she just showed up to make sure the last cowboy didn’t get left behind.”
Emma smiled at that—a real smile, small and secretive.
“Lady Luck, huh?” she teased.
“Something like that.”
The band slid into a slower tune, and we moved together like we’d done this a thousand times. Her laughter brushed against my throat, soft as breath, and I didn’t feel like the odd man out for the first time today.
Emma fit against me perfectly—too perfectly. Every slow sway of her hips dragged heat through me, a steady ache I hadn’t felt in far too long. Her perfume was all summer and sweetness, the kind of scent that messed with a man’s self-control.
“Relax,” she murmured, her voice teasing. “You’re holding me like I might bolt.”
“Maybe I should,” I said low against her ear. “You could get me into a lot of—ah, trouble.”
“Funny,” she said, looking up with a grin that wrecked me. “You look like you think you can handle it.”
“Guess we’re both gamblers,” I said, my thumb brushing along the bare edge of her back. Her skin was warm, and it did dangerous things to my pulse.
“Don’t get cocky, cowboy.”
“Too late,” I murmured.
The song stretched out longer than I expected—thank God—and by the time it faded, I was half-drunk on her laughter and the feel of her body moving with mine.
When the music stopped, I didn’t let go right away. Neither did she.
I cleared my throat. “You doing anything after this?”
She arched a brow. “Define ‘anything.’”
“I was thinking of a ride. It’s been a while since my bike had a co-pilot.”
She glanced down at her silk dress. “And you think this is proper motorcycle attire?”
I grinned. “I’ve seen worse.”
She laughed, that low, easy sound that always made my chest feel too tight. “Alright,” she said. “But if the wind ruins my hair, you’re buying dinner.”
“Deal.”
Later, as the sky blushed pink over the hills, we rolled down the drive, her arms snug around my waist, her laughter caught in the wind.
The music from the cabin faded behind us, replaced by the engine’s roar and the rhythm of the open road.
For a second, I glanced in the mirror.
And there she was—Monique—standing under the oak at the edge of the yard, her hand lifted in a slow wave. The breeze caught the edge of her shawl, turning it into a shimmer of color before she disappeared behind the tree line.
I blinked, leaned forward, and the reflection was empty. Just the sunset and the dust curling behind us.
Emma squeezed my waist. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, the corner of my mouth lifting. “Just thinking maybe Lady Luck showed up in Lovelace again.”
“Then let’s hope she sticks around,” she said against my back.
“Yeah,” I murmured, opening up the throttle. “Me too.”
The wind roared, and the road stretched out before us.
Every cowboy gets his turn. Maybe mine was just getting started.