Chapter 6
Chapter Six
What Came After
Easton
The night clung to me the next morning, a reminder of every place her hands had been, or almost been.
Dawn barely washed the street in pale watercolor light, making Lovelace look softer than it was in the daylight.
The world sat quiet in that still-before-Sunday-wakes-up kind of way, giving me time to think.
As I pulled up to her house, Emma slid off the bike gently, uncertainty etched on her face like she wasn’t sure if she could trust her legs yet.
I steadied her without thinking—my hand resting lightly on her waist, the other braced on her forearm.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t rush inside.
She just stood there, cheeks flushed from the wind or last night… maybe both.
“Thanks for the ride,” she whispered, her voice soft and warm, real in a way that shifted something in my chest. She blew a strand of hair out of her face, then met my eyes briefly before glancing at her front door, uncertainty flickering in her expression.
I wasn’t sure what to say either. “Get some sleep,” I said, my thumb brushing her cheek before I forced my hand back. “Today’s gonna hit hard.”
A tiny smile curved her lips. “You too.”
She walked inside, giving me one last look—shy, sweet, almost hopeful—before closing the door.
I lingered longer than I should have, staring at the spot where she’d been.
Then I kicked the bike into gear and rode off before I could do something stupid.
Or something smart. Hard to tell the difference lately.
The Lovelace Diner buzzed with activity when I pulled in. Sunday morning meant the club met for breakfast before heading out to whatever backroad bar sounded appealing that week. Bikes lined the front like chrome soldiers, all gleaming tanks and sun-catching handlebars.
I parked deliberately at the far end—not because I didn’t want to be seen, but because I wasn’t ready for questions. Still, the moment I stepped inside, a chorus rose up.
“Maddow!”
“There he is!”
“Thought you turned into a ghost, man.”
“You ride out to your favorite spot with someone last night?” one guy called, grinning beneath his beard.
I shot him a look that shut him up. Mostly.
Inside, the diner smelled like bacon and burnt coffee—the signature scent of half the town. The tables buzzed with the usual jokes, someone complaining about their back, another bragging about last night’s poker win. The world kept spinning the way it always had.
Except something felt different. Or maybe I did.
I slid into a booth by myself, hoping the crew would stay clustered around their corner table.
No luck.
Bruce plopped into the seat across from me, a mischievous grin already spreading across his face. “Heard you were at Ropers late last night.”
I grunted. “Heard wrong.”
“Mm-hmm.” His smirk deepened. “The whole damn town says otherwise.”
“Town doesn’t have anything better to talk about?”
“Sure doesn’t.” He glanced around for emphasis. “You being one of Lovelace’s favorite millionaires makes any story travel fast.”
I winced at that word. Millionaire. Sure, it was technically true—the Powerball, smart investments, a garage full of bikes I didn’t need—but it didn’t fit me. Not like it fit the suits who came to our county to buy ranch land and treat it like a novelty.
“Town exaggerates,” I muttered.
Bruce grinned. “Not about your bank account.”
Before I could answer, Camden Holt appeared beside the booth. Fire Chief. Emma’s board member. The guy I absolutely did not want discussing me with anyone—especially after last night.
His wife slid into a neighboring booth and greeted a few locals. Camden stayed behind, leaning one hand casually on the booth’s divider.
“Morning, Easton.”
“Chief.”
He nodded, then offered a knowing half-smile. “Nice to see you at Ropers last night.”
Bruce let out a quiet, evil laugh into his coffee.
I kept my expression neutral. “Lots of people were there.”
“Sure,” Camden said easily. “But only one of them was talking to Emma Matthews.”
My spine went stiff. “And?”
“And she looked… happy.” He shrugged, making it seem casual. “I was just heading out when she waved us over. She asked about the celebration funding—again.” He chuckled. “You know Emma. Once she locks onto something…”
“Yeah,” I muttered, softer than I meant. “I know.”
Camden lowered his voice. “She didn’t ask you?”
“No.”
“Huh.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, anyone helping with the Golden Anniversary would be appreciated. Donations are tax-deductible. And Emma's working herself into the ground trying to secure that grant. If you had anything connected to the town’s early years—old tools, documents, photos—it might help her exhibit.”
Something clicked in my brain.
“My grandfather might’ve had something stored in the barn after he passed.”
Camden brightened. “Exactly what I’m talking about. Could be valuable. Historically speaking, anyway.”
I didn’t answer, but my mind had already drifted away.
Emma.
She was excited when she talked about her work—her shoulders relaxed for the first time when she’d opened up by the lake. The way she’d said “I want this” felt like it wasn’t just about the night—but maybe something more.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll look. See what I can find.”
Camden clapped my shoulder once. “Good man. And Easton?”
“Yeah?”
His smile was subtle but there. “I think she trusts you.”
He walked off before I could respond.
Bruce whistled low. “Damn. Chief Holt giving you the green light?”
I grabbed my coffee and gulped it. “Shut up.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “You coming on the ride?”
“Nope.”
He blinked. “No?”
I stood and tossed a few bills on the table. “Got something to check out.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, connecting dots I didn’t want connected. “I’ll tell the guys you said bye.”
I didn’t answer. I pushed through the diner door into the morning sunlight, breathing deeply like I’d been underwater for too long.
I needed to find something—not just because Camden asked.
Because Emma mattered, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Grandpa’s old crates inside the barn smelled like dry hay, dust, and memories. Sunlight cut through the cracks between boards, striping the floor in soft gold. I hadn’t been in here for anything other than storage in a long time.
My grandfather’s old crates sat stacked in the corner, exactly where I’d left them after clearing out his house years ago—before my folks moved to San Diego. Tools, faded tarps, a few rusted metal tins.
I pried open the first crate.
Old courthouse photos. Black-and-white prints of Lovelace’s early days. A sepia shot of the post building before it became a courthouse. People in hats, standing proud in front of a wooden arch.
My breath caught.
This was the kind of thing Emma would light up over.
The second crate yielded even more: a map of the early town layout, with pencil marks and a date in my grandfather’s sharp handwriting. A photo, carefully wrapped in cloth, the edges curling. A mail rider on horseback in front of a rough wooden lean-to labeled “US Mail Lovelace Station.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. This had been his hobby—collecting memorabilia of the Wild West. His memories. And now… mine to give.
To her. To Emma.
I gathered them carefully, stacking them into a box lined with an old towel. Then I stared at the box for almost a full minute before pulling out my phone. Her contact glowed on the screen. I hesitated. I hated hesitating. But I called anyway.
She answered on the second ring, breathless. “Easton?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out rough. “I found something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Historical. I think it’s the stuff that might help you.”
A tiny gasp. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
A pause. “Do you… want to bring it over? I can make lunch.”
I didn’t even pretend to think it over. “I’ll be there around noon if that’s okay.”
“It’s perfect,” she said.
Emma’s house smelled like rosemary chicken and warm bread when she opened the door. Her hair was still damp from a shower, pulled loosely over one shoulder. She wore jeans and a soft green T-shirt that hugged her curves, making reason and self-control feel like optional skills.
“Hi,” she said, her voice light and inviting.
“Hi,” I echoed, suddenly feeling stupidly fourteen, like I’d shown up for my first real date.
She stepped aside, and I followed her in.
The house was quiet—peaceful in that way spaces feel when someone lives in them instead of just passing through.
A candle flickered faintly on the counter, something clean and citrusy.
A tea towel embroidered with tiny pine trees hung from the oven handle.
A stack of library books sat by the microwave, dog-eared and well-loved.
Everything about the place felt like her—soft edges, warm light, a little old-fashioned, but in a way that made you want to stay.
“I made it fresh this morning,” she said, lifting a pot lid to check the chicken. “And I made enough for two.”
Enough for two. That did something to me—a small twist of hope in my chest.
We ate at her small kitchen table, elbows almost touching, feet brushing once under the wood. It was the most domestic thing I’d done in years. Maybe ever.
I caught myself watching the way she moved—how she sprinkled salt with her fingers, how her hair kept slipping forward until she huffed and brushed it over her shoulders, how she smiled when I told her the chicken was good, like she didn’t hear praise often enough.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” she said gently.
So I did—just a little. His stubborn streak. The barn. His stories about being a mailman when Lovelace was barely a dot on the map. She listened as if what I said mattered—no interruptions, no rushing. Just… present.
In return, she told me about the Historical Society exhibit she was trying to build—how she’d been working every day scribbling ideas, how the grant money hinged on proving the town’s history still mattered. Her eyes lit when she talked about it. Hell, she lit the whole damn room.
After lunch, she carried the stack of photos into the living room, motioning for me to follow. We sat on the couch, closer this time. Her hand brushed mine when she leaned forward to study a picture of the original Lovelace post building.
“Look at the hat on this guy,” she laughed.
I tried to mimic the stiff posture and serious glare of the 1800s men, and she snorted, shoving my shoulder lightly before realizing I wasn’t offended.
Her fingers grazed mine when she reached for the next photo. A spark ran straight through me. The tension built slowly, sweetly—like a warm tide rising, like the night at the lake still echoed between us even in daylight.
She leaned in. I leaned in.
We were inches away—her breath warm against my cheek, her hand drifting toward my jaw, my pulse thundering like it was trying to break free—
The front door opened.
“Em?”
Her mother’s voice.
Emma jerked back so fast she nearly toppled off the couch. I straightened as if someone had fired a warning shot. Marla stepped inside, tote bag in hand, Hank behind her with a box of quilts.
“Oh!” Marla froze mid-step. “Well. Hello.”
Hank blinked at me, then grinned like he’d just discovered Christmas. “Easton! Haven’t seen you in ages.”
I pushed up to my feet, awkward as hell. “Hey, Hank. Lovelace isn’t the same since you left.”
Emma looked like she wanted to evaporate into thin air.
Marla gave me a pleasantly dangerous smile—the mom kind that said she’d seen everything and judged nothing, but definitely had opinions. “You’re welcome to stay for coffee.”
“That’s… kind.” I cleared my throat. “But I should go.”
Emma followed me out to the porch, her cheeks blooming pink. “Easton—”
“It’s fine,” I said softly. “Your mom seems great.”
“She is.” She bit her lip. “This wasn’t how I wanted today to end.”
I grinned. “I’ll see you soon.”
Her breath caught.
I touched her hand—brief, soft, promising—before stepping off the porch.
When I started the bike, I glanced back. She stood in the doorway, sunlight behind her like a halo, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt like she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
I wanted more.
And damned if that wasn’t the part that scared me.