Page 37 of Dirty Mechanic
“Don’t worry about me. The land was left in my birth name—Skylar Bishop.”
“And we’re selling it to my friend, Grace, under a corporate name,” Emma adds, sliding into the conversation with quiet resolve.
I turn to Misty who’s still gripping my hand. “We’ll spread the word. Keep your name off everyone’s lips. It’s just us who know—the family, Caroline.”
“You’re not alone,” Emma says.
Caroline nods. “What can I do to help?
“Can I talk to you about...” My throat catches. “Legal steps against Mike?”
I quickly add, “But it’s complicated.”
Her nod is immediate. “We’ll chart everything and I’ll walk you through each step.” She presses her hand over mine, firm and steady.
Tears prick my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“You told Derek?” Misty asks gently.
I look away. “Not yet. It’s…complicated.”
Misty tilts my chin. “Then make it simple. He needs to know.”
“I know.
Misty stands, stretching her arms over her head. She’s radiant—like sunlight and steel. How does she do it? How does she survive three kidnappings, a deranged father, and twin brothers who would destroy her if they ever found out who she is?
She grins. “You’re braver than ever. And trust me, that’s saying something since you used to sneak into the back of that RV with Derek Fields.”
I nearly sputter tea.
“Are you two…engaged yet?” she teases.
I smile, letting the warmth spread. “If it happens, I want it to be a surprise.”
Emma chuckles. “I’m voting for a ring by May Day.”
Mom steps out with a fresh tray of a bubbling peach cobbler and a jug of lemonade. Sweet steam rises in the sun. Citrus and cinnamon float through the air.
I should feel overwhelmed, but instead, I feel anchored, surrounded by women who refuse to let me fall apart. Laughter drifts from inside, tangled with the soft hum of conversation. For the first time in a long while, I close my eyes and let belonging settle into my bones.
A while later, I gather my things, tucking the warmth of the afternoon deep inside me like armor. Emma squeezes my hand. Misty wraps me in a one-armed hug, her other hand still cradling her lemonade. Even Caroline kisses my cheek and murmurs, “You’ve got this.”
Eric appears at the porch steps, keys jingling.
“Want a lift?” he asks.
His cowboy hat’s tilted back, smile easy, like he already knows I’ll say no.
“Thanks,” I say, “but I think I need the walk.”
He nods once, no questions asked.
As I turn toward the road, the voices behind me blend with the fading scent of cinnamon and lemon, and I let them go. I need space to think—to plan. Every step I take is a quiet strategy. I’ve outrun Mike once, but this time I won’t run.
This time, I’m staying. And I’m going to outsmart him.
