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.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
EMMETT
