Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Between the Lines
Emma
Iwas already halfway into Easton’s closet when I heard him behind me.
“You planning to take up residence in there,” he drawled, “or just rob me blind before breakfast?”
“I’m looking for the Historical Society’s camera I brought here when I moved in,” I muttered, stretching for the box. The closet smelled of leather, dust, and that clean soap scent that distracted me more than it should at dawn.
My fingers brushed cardboard, then hit something else. Easton’s tan Stetson teetered, wobbled, and swan-dived straight toward my face.
“Whoa—”
He caught it midair, his other hand bracing the small of my back. His low laugh rumbled warm against my shoulder. “Easy, trouble. That hat cost more than my first truck.”
“Your first truck probably came with a hand crank,” I said, steadying myself on the shelf while my heart raced at his proximity. “You’re the one who hid the camera on the top shelf.”
“Didn’t want your historical people accusing me of breaking it.” He hooked the hat on a lower peg and leaned against the doorjamb—bare feet, gray T-shirt, bed-rumpled hair. Too much for one morning.
I finally closed my fingers around the camera box—almost knocking over a pair of battered boots shoved into the corner. Mud-caked, cracked, laces done for.
“These yours?” I asked, glancing over at him.
He hesitated for a breath, a flicker of something passing across his face. “Yeah. Should’ve thrown them out years ago.”
“They look like they’ve got stories to tell,” I said, my voice softening as I glanced at the boots.
A faint smirk crossed his lips. “No one seemed interested until now.”
I hugged the camera to my chest, the weight of last night’s realization settling heavily. “About that map… there’s more. I need to show you something.”
He straightened, the playful atmosphere fading as focus settled over him. “All right. Show me.”
I pulled up the screenshot on my phone, my pulse quickening as I revealed the markings. “These dots and dashes along the ridge? I thought they were logging notations.”
“You’re thinking differently now,” he said, studying the screen, his expression sharpening.
“Yes.” I could feel the excitement bubbling up, the thrill of discovery coursing through me. “They match early express-route symbols—courier markings, not logging. The kind courier scouts used. Same rhythm. Same spacing.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my skin. “But the Pony Express never officially came through Montana.”
“Exactly.” I swallowed, feeling the weight of my words. “So this wasn’t Pony Express. But it was someone like them. After the Express folded, courier lines expanded north. Some weren’t officially recorded.”
Easton met my eyes, steady, grounding, and for a moment, everything else faded away. “You think we found one of those?”
“I think that dotted spur is indeed a forgotten courier route. Something that shouldn’t exist.” I drew in a breath, the excitement mingling with a hint of anxiety. “And if that’s true, we need real documentation.”
He nodded once—ready, decisive. “Then let’s document it.”
Relief washed over me, unexpected and powerful. “That’s why I need the camera. Photos. Notes. Soil patterns. Everything."
“I’ll grab the dirt bike,” he said, already turning—
“No.” I stepped toward him before he could move farther. “If this trail is historical, we can’t tear it up. And I can’t take accurate photos flying over ruts.”
He paused, considering. “Horses, then.”
“Yes. Horses.”
“And for the record,” he added lightly, “you’ve never exactly hidden your hatred for motorbikes.”
“I can tolerate them,” I said. “Just not when history’s involved.”
We finished a quick breakfast and headed out to saddle up. As he tightened a strap on the saddle, I asked, “Earlier, you mentioned your grandfather talking about a cabin. What did he say?”
Easton’s expression turned thoughtful, as if he were sifting through memories.
“Most of his stories sounded stitched together from three different decades, but… he always mentioned a place high up where riders changed out. Said the air got thin, and you could hear a waterfall before you ever saw it.”
A shiver ran through me. It didn’t need to be related to the Pony Express to matter. It just needed to be real. “That matches the map markings.”
“Maybe it wasn’t just a story,” he said quietly, his eyes searching mine.
We exchanged a look—his steady, mine buzzing with possibility—then mounted up and turned toward the trail.
Today, we weren’t just following a hunch; we were riding straight into a piece of lost history.