Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
EMMETT
“As I live and breathe!” A guy I assume is Denver, shouts from where he leans on a rake at the edge of the neighboring property, which I know is where Atlas lives.
He’s in a pair of overalls, no shirt, and wearing a backward baseball cap. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who’d holler at strangers from across the yard.
Atlas shuts the door to his truck, gives me a look over the hood, and nods for me to follow him.
“Sorry about Denver; he’s a pain in everyone’s ass.”
Denver falls in step beside us as we continue toward the white farmhouse.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Atlas dodges Denver’s hand just before it connects with his stomach.
Denver’s grin stretches wider. He’s exactly who I’d picture matching Briar’s bold personality, if I’d given it any thought. Loud, charismatic, and incapable of minding his own business.
“You owe me twenty dollars.” He wiggles his fingers in front of Atlas when we stop at the steps to the wrap-around porch.
“Such a cocky motherfucker about it too.”
I’ve been dreading this forced socialization ever since Briar ambushed me with the invite last week. If it weren’t for the awkward tension of running into Aspen around her property for the last four days since we almost kissed, I wouldn’t be here.
Being stuck with nowhere to go besides appointments and Aspen’s garage while I second-guess every interaction between us is its own kind of hell. All these years on my own and I’ve never been this lonely.
I guess that’s why I’m here—driven out of my own solitude because Aspen’s been dancing around me since our almost-kiss last week.
Now it’s Monday. Aspen went back to work this morning for a twelve-hour shift, and if she’s feeling even half the tension I am, she’s probably spent the drive home regretting every decision that led to letting me into her life.
Worse yet, I can’t open my nightstand drawer without seeing that flash of red lace and losing my damn mind all over again.
Needless to say, being here is the lesser of two evils.
Atlas yanks his money clip from his pocket, flipping through the bills until he smacks a twenty into Denver’s waiting palm.
“If it makes you feel better, I’d have bet against me, too.”
“If I know my wife, she didn’t really give you a choice.” Denver grins as he slides the twenty into the chest pocket of his overalls.
“You’re not wrong.” His wife might’ve been the instigator, but ever since meeting Aspen, I’ve been making decisions that don’t make a damn bit of sense. Like voluntarily showing up for an evening of hellish small talk.
Gravel crunches behind us and I turn to see an SUV pulling up. The driver’s side door lifts and a platform lowers a man in a wheelchair onto the gravel. Another older guy climbs out beside him.
Atlas and Denver head toward them, and I trail behind, feeling a little like an unwanted accessory.
“James, Jude, this is Emmett Slate.” Atlas gestures toward me. “Briar strong-armed him into horseshoes while he’s recovering in Aspen’s loft.”
James leans forward in his chair, both hands wrapping around mine before I can react.
“You’re the hotshot that saved my daughter.”
His weathered face pulls tight with gratitude that sits heavy in my gut. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am for what you did during the Stillwater Fire.”
“James is Harlowe’s dad,” Atlas says quietly, clearly clocking the panic on my face.
Oh.
“Well.” I carefully pull my hand free and shove it into my pocket. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The words feel painfully inadequate.
Saving Harlowe never felt noble. There wasn’t time to think, weigh risks, or decide whether her life was worth mine. Training and instinct took over before my brain ever caught up.
But this town looks at me like I did something heroic.
Carl was right.
And I’m a fraud.
I saved Harlowe, sure. But I’m also the reason she needed saving in the first place.
Gratitude scrapes against something raw inside me because I don’t know what to do with it—never really have.
“So, you all actually sit around playing horseshoes on Monday nights?” I ask, aiming for light. “This isn’t a cover for something more interesting?”
Denver barks out a laugh. “You’ve met my wife. Would you risk lying to her?”
That’s a hard no. Briar gives off the kind of energy that’d sniff out a lie before you even thought it and wouldn’t hold back on revenge.
“He learned that lesson early on.” Atlas elbows him in the side. “Only takes having all your shit super-glued to your locker once.”
Denver grins wide as he leans against the porch railing.
Jude chimes in one corner of his lip curling. “Even I’ve heard that one.”
“Briar did that to you.” I can’t help but be amused. If I have to be here, at least I’m going to get a laugh out of it.
“Back in high school.” His smirk tells me exactly how he feels about his wife. He’s a fool—head over heels for her, nonsense and all.
“This feels like the kind of small town backstory not even I can pass up.”
“Briar’s always had a jealous streak a mile wide.
She caught me talking to another girl in the hallway.
” He blows a sputtering breath. “It looked bad, so I can’t really blame her for jumping to conclusions.
The girl’s parents had a ranch with a ton of land and the views—” He runs his teeth over his bottom lip.
“Let’s just say they would impress a date, and I was young, dumb and hoping to get lucky.
Unfortunately for both of us, jealousy got the best of my girl before I could explain, and she glued all my stuff to my locker—notebooks, gum, my football bag, all of it.
Explaining to her dad—the principal—why his sweet daughter would do such a thing was a real treat. ”
I blink, trying not to laugh at the absurdity. Denver, Atlas, James, even Jude—who hasn’t said a word—look like they’re enjoying the memory. And I can’t help but notice how . . . human this feels.
Funny, chaotic, messy, and warm.
Not like the life I’ve built—mundane, cold, lonely, uncomplicated.
It’s a stupid, nostalgic story, yet I can’t help noticing how normal it is.
Funny, chaotic, warm.
The opposite of the life I’ve been living.
Like everything else in Timberline Peak it seems to tighten the tether pulling me toward something I stopped letting myself want a long time ago.
“We can continue this journey down memory lane while we play.” Standing, Denver wipes his hands on the front of his overalls. “Emmett, you’re with me. Consider it a rite of passage.”
“Passage to what?” Jude says gruffly. “An early grave when you talk his ear off?”
Beside me, Denver clutches his chest like he’s been stabbed. “I thought we had something special.”
“You know the only reasons I come are the beers in your fridge and to see James clean you out when you decide to play him for cash.”
I trail after them toward the pits, but they don’t leave room for me to hang back long before I’m shoulder to shoulder with them, crossing the property.
The easy ribbing doesn’t stop when Denver ducks into the barn to grab a round of drinks and rubber horseshoes.
“As a horseshoe virgin, you get first pick of drinks. There’s more of everything in the barn fridge,” he says holding out the options for me.
Condensation beads as survey the choices. I give it more thought than I should and eventually pick a local amber as it seems least likely to be someone’s first choice.
Denver’s grin splits. “Excellent choice. One of my favorites.”
Then he hands the rest out without asking. A root beer for James, a cheap domestic for Jude, and a non-alcoholic beer for Atlas.
I glance between them. He doesn’t just know what they all drink, he keeps them on hand.
Monday night horseshoes wasn’t on my bingo card, period, but moments like this make me yearn to . . . belong somewhere.
And not just anywhere, if I’m being honest with myself.
James points to me. “You know how to play?”
“As long as the rules haven’t changed in the last fifteen years.” I turn the horseshoe over in my hand. It’s lighter than the steel ones my grandpa used to keep around—easier to grip too.
“Nope. Horseshoes, gossip, and bad country music—we keep it simple around here,” Atlas says, taking the open spot on the opposite side of the pit.
After a few practice throws, we break up into teams.
By the time we start playing for real, the evening air’s turned crisp—a reminder that fall’s settling into the Wyoming valley.
Four more weeks.
A month ago, I was counting down the days until I could leave. Now, I catch myself watching leaves drift across the grass, wishing time would move a little slower.
The more they joke and trade stories, the looser the knot in my chest gets.
After years spent convincing myself I wasn’t built for staying, Timberline Peak keeps making me wonder if I’m wrong.