Epilogue
Sebastian
Montana looks different when you're coming home rather than running away.
The vast sky stretches above us like a promise as I navigate the familiar dirt road leading to Walker Ranch.
Beside me, Mia hums along to some pop song on the radio, her fingers tapping out the rhythm on her thigh.
Six months since the first time I brought here broken and grieving, and now she's returning whole, and mine.
The thought still hits me like a physical force sometimes, that this brilliant, fierce woman chose me, is building a life with me.
"You're thinking too loud again," she says, turning the music down a notch. Her wild curls are partially contained in a messy bun, but rebellious strands frame her face.
"Just appreciating the view," I tell her, reaching across the console to take her hand.
"The mountains or me?" She grins, that full-wattage smile that still makes my chest tighten.
"Both," I admit. "But mostly you."
Her cheeks flush at delicate pink I can never get enough of. Six months together, and I can still make her blush. It's a power I wield carefully, treasuring each time her skin colors under my gaze or words.
The car rounds the final bend in the road, and Walker Ranch unfolds before us. The farmhouse stands just as it always has—weathered wood and deep porches, the paint faded by decades of Montana sun. Chickens scatter in the yard as we pull up, and I can see the barn door standing open.
"Home sweet home," Mia murmurs, and something in my chest cracks open at hearing her call it home so easily.
I barely put the car in park when the front door swings open. My father emerges, leaning on his cane but moving with surprising speed. Behind him, Ruthie bustles out, already calling instructions over her shoulder to someone inside.
"There they are!" Dad's voice carries across the yard as I kill the engine. "About damn time you showed up. Dinner's almost ready."
Climbing out of the car, I circle around to meet Mia. My hand finds the small of her back automatically. The gesture is possessive, I know, but I can't seem to help myself around my family. As if I need to constantly stake my claim, remind them all that this incredible woman chose me.
"Sebastian." Dad reaches us first, his free arm already opening for an embrace.
I step into his hug, surprised as always by how solid he still feels despite the weight he's lost. "Hey, Dad."
He holds me tight for a moment longer than usual, and I swallow against the unexpected emotion that rises in my throat. When he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Good to see you, son."
Before I can respond, he turns to Mia. "And Mia. You're looking beautiful as always."
She laughs, that bright, uninhibited sound that never fails to make me smile. "You’re too good for my ego, Mr. Walker."
Dad surprises me by pulling her into a hug that lifts her slightly off her feet. "You're family now," he says gruffly. "Bradford or Dad works just fine."
Over Mia's shoulder, his eyes meet mine with a knowing look that makes heat crawl up my neck. He's never said it outright, but the way he looks at us, I know he sees what I'm planning.
Ruthie reaches us next, arms already open wide. "Get over here, both of you." She engulfs Mia in a hug that threatens to crush ribs, then turns to me with narrowed eyes. "You're too skinny. City living is clearly not providing adequate nutrition."
"We eat, Ruthie," I protest, submitting to her embrace. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, exactly the same as when I was eight and scraping my knees running from Bradley.
"Coffee and takeout isn't eating," she scolds, patting my cheek affectionately. "I've got a pot roast that'll put some meat on those bones."
"Pot roast?" Mia perks up beside me. "With those potatoes that absorb all the gravy?"
Ruthie beams, linking arms with her. "Someone appreciates my cooking. Sebastian, get the bags. Your girl and I have recipes to discuss."
I watch them head toward the house, Mia's head bent close to Ruthie's as they talk, matching each other step for step. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder.
"She fits," he says simply.
Two words that somehow encompass everything I've been thinking. Mia doesn't just visit Walker Ranch; she belongs here in a way I never thought possible for someone who didn't grow up with dirt under their fingernails and horse hair on their clothes.
In a way I never thought I did.
"Yeah," I agree, throat suddenly tight. "She does."
Dad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well? You going to get those bags or stand there looking lovesick all day?"
I snort but move to the back of the and haul out our suitcases. This time, we've packed for two weeks—the longest vacation either of us has taken in years. Henderson wasn't thrilled, but after the diagnostic department's record-breaking quarter, he could hardly say no.
"Need a hand?" Dad asks, though we both know his help would be more symbolic than practical.
"I've got it," I tell him, balancing Mia's overstuffed duffel on top of my more sensible rolling suitcase.
Inside, the house smells like home—wood smoke, fresh bread, and the rich aroma of Ruthie's famous pot roast. Voices and laughter spill from the kitchen, a familiar chorus that now includes Mia's distinctive laugh. I deposit our bags at the foot of the stairs and pause to absorb the moment.
Six months ago, I brought Mia here shattered and grieving. I watched her cry, held her while she broke apart. And now she's here laughing in my family's kitchen like she was born to it.
"You coming or what?" Bradley's voice carries from the dining room. "Some of us are starving."
I follow the sound to find the long oak table already set, mismatched plates and well-worn silverware laid out with Ruthie's precise care.
Bradley sits at his usual place, Hailey beside him looking more relaxed than I've ever seen her.
Sawyer lounges in a chair across from them, boots propped on another seat until Ruthie swats them down with a dish towel.
"Feet off the furniture, you animal," she scolds without heat. "We have guests."
"Mia's not a guest," Sawyer protests, winking at her as she enters from the kitchen carrying a basket of rolls. "She's practically a Walker already."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his casual acceptance. Mia sets the bread on the table and slides into the empty chair beside mine.
"Not officially," she replies with a small smile. "Yet."
The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with promise. I take her hand under the table and squeeze it gently.
"Alright, enough chatter," Ruthie announces, placing the pot roast at the center of the table with a flourish. "Dig in before it gets cold."
Dinner at Walker Ranch has always been controlled chaos—too many people talking at once, dishes passed in every direction, the scrape of chairs and clink of glasses creating a soundtrack I didn't realize I'd missed until now.
But something about having Mia beside me makes it all feel richer, more vibrant somehow.
"So, Bradley," Mia says, accepting the mashed potatoes from Hailey, "how's that deck coming along?"
Bradley groans, and Hailey snorts beside him. "Don't get him started," she warns.
"It's fine," Bradley insists, spearing a piece of carrot with unnecessary force. "Structurally sound, which is what matters."
"The railing is crooked," Hailey stage-whispers to Mia. "And there's a mysterious slope that makes marbles roll to one corner."
"It adds character," Bradley argues, but his lips twitch at the corners, betraying his amusement.
Mia's hand finds my thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze that somehow manages to be both comforting and slightly inappropriate given our company. Heat crawls up my neck and across the table, Hailey clears her throat loudly.
"So, Mia," she says with pointed emphasis, "how's the hospital these days? Any exciting cases?"
Mia launches into a story about a patient with mysterious symptoms that turned out to be caused by her pet parrot. Everyone listens, they're not just humoring her; they're invested in her life, her work, her stories.
As she talks, I watch her hands move animatedly, describing test results and differential diagnoses with the same passion she brings to everything.
She uses the shorthand names for hospital departments and colleagues without explaining, knowing everyone at the table has heard enough of her stories to follow along.
"And then Laney—you remember, my friend from the ER?—she walks in with the parrot's test results just as Henderson is telling us we're wasting resources," she continues, pausing to accept more pot roast from Ruthie, who's already filling her plate for the second time.
"I'm still eating, Ruthie," she protests weakly.
"You're too skinny," Ruthie insists. "Growing doctors need protein."
"I think I'm done growing," Mia laughs but obediently takes a bite of the fresh serving.
"The vertical kind, maybe," Ruthie says with a wink that makes me choke on my water. "Other kinds of growing are still on the table."
Dad coughs into his napkin, clearly hiding a smile. "The parrot test results?" he prompts, saving us all from wherever Ruthie was heading with that comment.
"Right!" Mia dives back into her story, her free hand gesturing wildly while the other remains firmly entwined with mine beneath the tablecloth.
I watch the others more than listening to the story I already know.
The way Bradley nods at the medical details, how Hailey leans forward, elbows on the table despite Ruthie's rules about proper posture.
Sawyer's occasional questions that show he's been paying attention to Mia's previous stories about the hospital.