Page 38 of Until Easton

"Oh, it wasn't your grandfather who paid for it. Instead, I got a call from a man representing…" Mr. Dixon pauses then taps on the keyboard to his computer. "Here it is. It was paid off by Mr. Evans."

Stunned, I ask, "Did you say, Evans? Easton Evans?"

Mr. Dixon nods. "Yes, that was his name. Is there a problem, Miss Connelly?"

In a trance, I unglue myself from the chair. "Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Dixon, but I have to go."

"Yes, of course, Miss Connelly. Anytime."

On the drive home, I go from being shocked to angry. How dare he insert himself into my financial business? I mean, the last thing I need is to be accused of being a gold digger. And I specifically said I wasn't interested in his money. Then, he turns around and pulls this stunt. So I will not be attached to that label. And to prove my point, I fully intend to pay Easton back. It might take me a few years, because one hundred and seventy thousand dollars is a lot of money, but I'll make it work.

A ringing drags me from my thoughts, and I reach into my purse to retrieve my phone. Carter's name lights up the screen. "Hey," I answer.

"Becca, shit. Is everything alright? I just got a call from my mom. She told me what happened."

"Yeah, Carter, everything is fine. Unfortunately, we lost the barn but were able to save the horses."

"Damn. Is there anything I can do?"

I smile. "No, I'm figuring it out. Thanks for asking, though. What about you? You make it back home?"

Carter left two weeks ago, but we talk at least twice a week. Easton is not crazy about it, but he deals.

"Yeah, training starts next week. I'm still holding you to your word that you'll come to one of my games."

I laugh. "I promised I would."

Carter's following words are drowned out by a loud popping noise coming from under the truck's hood, followed by a jerking movement before the engine goes dead. "Shit." I maneuver the vehicle to the side of the road.

"What happened?" Carter asks, his voice filled with concern.

"Oh, nothing. Just my truck decided to die on me." I sigh. "I'm going to let you go so I can see what's up. I might have to call someone to come get me."

"Yeah, yeah. You do what you got to do and be careful."

"I will. I'll talk to you later."

"Definitely. Later, Becca."

"Bye, Carter." I hang up with Carter, then hop out of the truck and round the front end. When I pop the hood, a billow of black smoke pours out. "Damnit." Throwing my hand in the air, I look up at the sky. "Really? You couldn't cut me some slack for even one day!" With a frustrated growl, I pull my phone from my back pocket, intending to call either Easton or my grandfather, when a beige sedan slows and pulls off to the side of the road right behind my truck. Lifting my hand, I shield my eyes from the blinding sun to see a figure step out of the car and make its way toward me.

"Car trouble?" a somewhat familiar voice calls out.

"Yeah, the darn thing just gave out on me. Thanks for…" My words die on my tongue when the figure stops in front of me, blocking out the sun, and I get a good look at who it is. "What are you doing here?"

My question goes unanswered because something hard comes down on the side of my head in the next second, and everything goes dark.

13

EASTON

I'm stretched out on the bed, with a notebook lying beside me and the guitar on my lap. I've been staring at a blank page and haven't strummed a single chord in over an hour. All I can do is look at the phone. I sigh. Setting the guitar on the bed, I stand and walk across the room with the phone in my hand and stare out the window. Once again, I dial Becca's number. It rings several times then goes to voicemail. "I don't like this." I hang up. Something isn't right. My girl is a creature of habit. You can set your clock by her routine, and she is never late getting home from work.

My phone rings and I think finally, but it's not Becca calling, only my sister. "Hey, Em." I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"I've had this nagging feeling to call you for the past couple of hours. Is everything okay?" Emerson asks.

I look up at the ceiling. "Becca's late."