Ace had always believed that.
A rider might forget the exact cost of a repair.
He might forget the date he bought a motorcycle.
But he rarely forgot the person who made a machine trustworthy when it mattered most.
And Henry Brooks had done that for him.
Emma studied his expression.
The warmth of the earlier conversation began to feel uncertain.
Ace looked almost ashamed.
He hadn’t said anything unkind about her grandfather.
He’d spoken about the motorcycle with genuine affection.
He’d seemed happy to discover who she was.
Now his face carried an emotion she couldn’t identify.
Ace moved one hand across his jaw.
He looked toward the damaged connector lying on the workbench, then toward the embroidered name on Emma’s shirt.
The resemblance between the old mechanic’s way of thinking and the girl’s patient diagnosis seemed almost cruelly fitting.
Henry had once helped Ace experience the joy of owning his first Harley.
Years later, Henry’s granddaughter had just helped him understand why another Harley refused to run.
The connection should have been a happy one.
Instead, it was pulling at something unresolved.
Emma looked up.
Ace returned his attention to her.
His eyes no longer held the easy warmth they’d shown a moment earlier.
He spoke quietly.
“And he disappeared before I could pay him for it.”
Emma’s smile vanished.
The word disappeared seemed to hang in the air.
Not passed away.
Not even moved away.
She stared at Ace.
He had spoken the word naturally, as though describing something he had personally experienced.
Something that had never been explained.
Emma’s thoughts turned immediately toward everything she’d heard about her grandfather.
The family history.
The explanations repeated whenever Henry’s name came up.