30. Epilogue
ALLIE
Six Months Later
I stood at my easel by the window in the pottery barn, listening to the steady sound of Hail’s wheel turning nearby.
That sound had become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
I held my brush over the canvas, watching afternoon light shine on the clay as it rose under Hail’s hands.
The room smelled like wet earth and sharp acrylic paint.
My nose had become so accustomed to these scents that I only noticed them when I first walked in each morning.
“Your brushwork is getting stronger,” Hail said without looking up from his clay. I could hear him smiling. “Something about how you handle light now reminds me of your father’s paintings.”
I stopped and studied my valley landscape.
He was right. My painting had changed into something more serious over the past month.
Dad’s techniques from our Saturday morning lessons years ago had finally clicked.
I remembered how he would guide my small hand with his larger one, showing me how to mix colors on the palette until they matched exactly what we saw outside the window.
I put down my brush and stepped back to look at my work with fresh eyes. The morning mist rising from the meadow in my painting did look like the foggy quality in Dad’s lighthouse piece. I could almost feel the dampness of the morning air just looking at it. “I love it.”
“It’s as beautiful as you.” He stopped working the clay and looked up at me with that expression that still made my heart skip. “He’d be proud of what you’re creating.”
His words eased the familiar ache I felt when thinking about my father. The pain hadn’t gone away, but it had softened into a sad gratitude for our time together and what he’d left behind. Understanding why he’d pushed me away in his final years had lifted a weight I’d carried too long.
I touched my belly, wondering if my recent queasiness was more than just leftover stress, though I didn’t feel any changes.
The thought of carrying a child, of protecting someone the way Dad protected me, made me both scared and determined.
I promised myself I’d make different choices.
My child would always know they were loved, even if I needed to protect them from danger.
I imagined tiny hands learning to work clay beside Hail, and holding a paintbrush for the first time under my guidance.
“The afternoon class should be here soon,” I said, glancing at the clock. “Are you ready for the Martinez family?”
“As ready as anyone can be for twin eight-year-olds with unlimited access to cl-cl-clay.” Hail grinned, his whole face brightening. “At least their grandmother promised to-to help contain them.”
I laughed, remembering last week when the twins covered themselves and half the barn in clay slip.
It had taken hours to clean up, and my knees were sore from scrubbing the floor, but the memory made me smile.
Their joy had been infectious, and watching Hail guide their small hands through making their first pinch pots had filled my heart with feelings I couldn’t quite name.
The pottery barn had become exactly what we’d planned, a place where locals and tourists could create beautiful things with their hands, where humans and orcs worked side by side, focusing on art rather than differences. A merging of our two worlds just like Lonesome Creek was for our orc cowboys.
Our class waiting list was now three weeks long, and we’d started talking about hiring a teacher. The shelves emptied of pottery almost as fast as we could fill them.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, wiping paint from my hands with a rag. “Maybe we could add a small gallery space. Show some student work alongside yours, and maybe…” I pointed toward my easel. “Some of my paintings too.”
Hail stood and came to look at my work more closely.
Clay was still stuck to his fingers, leaving smudges on his jeans as he walked.
“Your paintings de-deserve to be seen, Allie. This piece captures something about our v-v-valley that I’ve never seen anyone else manage. We should definitely display your art.”
Pride filled my chest at his words. Dad would have said something similar.
He always encouraged my art, even when I was too young and impatient to appreciate his teaching.
Now I finally understood what he tried to show me about seeing light, about capturing a moment’s essence rather than just its surface.
I could almost hear his voice explaining how to observe the way light changed colors when it filtered through mist.
Tressa raised her head from her spot in the corner, her ears perking up at the sound of a car approaching.
She’d made herself our official greeter, and her tail wagged as the Martinez family’s car pulled into the alley behind Main Street.
Through the window, the twins bounced in their seats with excitement, their eager faces pressed against the car windows, their noses squished flat against the glass.
“It’s time.” Hail washed his hands at the sink while I covered my painting with a cloth. The familiar routine of preparing for class felt good, another sign of how completely this life had become ours.
I hurried to arrange the tools at each station.
Two hours later, we waved goodbye to the Martinez family.
Their hands were still stained with clay despite a thorough washing, and their faces glowed with pride over their lopsided bowls.
Clay clung to their clothes and hair. The twins talked about firing their pieces, while their grandmother promised to bring them back for an advanced class next month.
Their chatter faded as they walked to their car.
“I love watching their faces when they realize they’ve made something lovely,” I said, beginning our end-of-day cleanup. I swept clay scraps into a bin for recycling, the broom bristles making a rhythmic sound against the wooden floor. “We’re seeing magic happen.”
“It’s the same expression you get when you’re painting.” Hail sealed clay in storage containers with firm presses of his thumbs. “Complete absorption, like nothing else ex-ex-exists.”
He was right. Whether at my easel or helping students shape their first clay animals, I lost track of time completely.
The anxiety that had haunted me for years had faded into something manageable, replaced by deep satisfaction in meaningful work.
My chest no longer tightened with random panic, and I slept through most nights without startling awake.
After we’d locked up the pottery barn, we walked through town, the brisk evening air carrying the smell of wood smoke and a hint of winter.
It would snow soon, and I couldn’t wait.
Dry leaves crunched under our boots on the boardwalk, and I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets to keep them warm.
Almost time to drag out my mittens and hats.
Tressa trotted beside us, her white fur rustling in the stiff breeze as she sniffed everything that interested her along the way.
“Dinner at the saloon?” Hail asked, though he already knew my answer.
Friday nights had become a tradition. All the brothers and their mates gathered to share meals and stories, celebrating another week of building the life we’d created for our community.
The new orc chef, Lavon, would be cooking tonight.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” My stomach growled at the thought of food, reminding me I’d worked through lunch without noticing.
I slid my hand into his, his fingers immediately closing around mine, warm and paint-stained and exactly right. “I think Holly said something about a new bread recipe.”
The saloon windows glowed with warm yellow light as we approached, and voices and laughter spilled out into the evening air. The wooden steps creaked under our weight as we reached the front door, but raised voices from inside made us pause.
“—absolutely ridiculous to use sorhoxes when horses would work fine,” a woman said in a high-pitched voice. “The handling characteristics are completely different, but if you’re serious about establishing a legitimate rodeo circuit?—”
“I’ve been working with sorhoxes for a very long time,” Becken snarled. “Sorhoxes have been the foundation of orc rodeo sports for longer than you can?—”
“Traditional doesn’t mean optimal,” the stranger said. “I’ve reviewed your setup, and frankly, the safety protocols you’re using are not going to work.”
Hail and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Through the window, we saw a woman wearing worn jeans, dusty boots, and a weathered cowboy hat, gesturing at Becken, who sat in front of her with his arms crossed on his chest and a tight jaw showing barely contained patience.
“New arrival?” I asked.
“Looks like it,” Hail said, amusement warming his voice. “Becken has-has been waiting for the ro-rodeo consultant to arrive. Sounds like he got one with an attitude.”
“And another thing,” the woman said, pulling a tablet from her bag, waving between them. “Your livestock handling procedures need a complete overhaul. I’ve never worked with sorhoxes before, but any competent rodeo professional should be able to adapt?—”
“ Should be able to.” Becken’s voice came out dangerously quiet. “With complete respect, though I’m not exactly sure why I’m bothering, you can’t adapt to something you’ve never seen without observing it first.”
The stranger bristled. “I’ve worked with every major rodeo circuit from Calgary to Cheyenne. I think I can handle a few oversized beasts.”
Becken rose to his feet, towering over her. “They’re their own species, with their own behaviors and handling needs. Like orcs, I’ll kindly point out.”
“This is exactly why we should stick with horses for the competitive events,” she shot back. “Standardization is key to developing a legitimate?—”
Hail caught my eye and nodded toward an empty table in the far corner. We slipped inside quietly. Tressa padded between us, her nails clicking on the wooden floor. We settled into chairs where we could watch the ongoing battle.
Lavon appeared at our table, carrying steaming bowls of stew and a basket of Holly’s fresh bread. The aroma made my mouth water.
“Those two have been at it for twenty minutes,” he said with a sparkle in his dark eyes. About Aunt Inla’s age, he hadn’t been on the surface for long, but he was an amazing cook. I couldn’t wait to taste his stew. “I believe Becken is about ready to feed her to the sorhoxes.”
“What’s her background?” I asked, tearing off a piece of bread still warm from the oven. The crust crackled between my fingers, and the inside was soft and yeasty-smelling. Steam rose as I slathered it with sorhox butter.
“Carla has professional rodeo circuit management, apparently. Impressive resume, according to Greel. But she walked in here acting like she already knew everything about our operation. I believe Becken is about to show her she’s made a mistake.”
I glanced at the ongoing debate, where Carla was checking her tablet while Becken maintained the patience of someone dealing with a stubborn student. She appeared about my age, while I knew Becken was eight years older than Hail.
There was something fascinating about watching two experts clash over their knowledge. I took a bite of my stew, the rich flavor of meat and herbs filling my mouth. The broth was perfectly seasoned.
“—standardized safety equipment that meets International Rodeo Association specifications,” Carla was saying, scrolling through her screen.
Everyone else in the room watched them just as intently.
“I’ll point out those specifications were written for horses, little lady,” Becken said with more patience than I’d ever have. “Sorhoxes have different bone density, different muscle structure, and different responses to pressure. You can’t apply horse protocols to sorhoxes and expect?—”
“I’ve been managing rodeos for almost ten years.” Carla dropped her tablet on a nearby table with a thud. “I’ve never encountered a situation that couldn’t be managed with proper adherence to established protocols.”
Becken’s brow ridge rose. “ Managed . Have you ever ridden in a rodeo?”
Carla lifted her chin. “Managing is nearly the same thing.”
“You’re saying no.” His voice came out deadly.
Color rose into her pretty cheeks. Did Becken notice? From the sharp way he watched her, I suspected he did.
It was going to be interesting to see what happened if they touched. I could almost taste romance in the air, though those two might not agree—yet.
The silence that followed his words felt loaded.
Hail’s brothers’ mates exchanged knowing glances.
Someone was about to learn an expensive lesson about the difference between book knowledge and real experience.
I recognized those looks, having seen them often enough when tourists underestimated chumbles or mountain weather.
Hail leaned closer to me. “Want to bet on how long before Becken suggests a practical demonstration?”
I smiled, settling against his shoulder as I ate another spoonful of the stew.
The argument at the other table would work itself out.
Becken’s quiet competence always won over even stubborn skeptics, and something told me that under Carla’s professional attitude was someone who truly cared about doing things right.
They’d figure it out eventually. I could already imagine Becken’s patient explanation as he introduced Carla to a sorhox, the inevitable moment of surprise when the consultant realized these weren’t just oversized horses but unique, special animals.
For now, I was happy sitting with Hail beside me, surrounded by people who were family, in the place that had become everything I never knew I needed.
The future stretched ahead of us, bright with hope and love.
With warm food in my stomach, the murmur of familiar voices around me, and Hail by my side, there was no place I’d rather be.
I hope you enjoyed Hail and Allie’s story!
All through high school, I had a huge crush on a guy who stuttered. I’d hang out wherever he was, hoping he’d notice me.
He never did, sadly, but I found my own hero in my husband.
But I still occasionally think of that high school crush…
And now I’ve given a stuttering orc his own story.
Next and last in this series is Giddy Up Orc Cowboy,