Epilogue
Five Months Later
Madison
The Wylde Mountain Fall Festival is everything I dreamed it would be.
Crimson and gold leaves carpet the town square, crunching underfoot as families wander between booths selling apple cider, handmade candles, and pumpkin-spiced everything.
Children chase each other around hay bales while a bluegrass band plays on the gazebo stage.
The air smells like woodsmoke and caramel apples and the particular crispness that only October in Montana can deliver.
And right in the middle of it all, my food truck gleams like a vintage jewel. The bakery opened three months ago. The truck still hits the road twice a month. And somehow we’ve figured out how to build both a home and a horizon.
"Three apple cider donuts, two pumpkin spice lattes, and a maple pecan sticky bun," I call out, sliding the order across the counter to a woman in a hand-knitted sweater. "Enjoy the festival!"
She beams at me. "Madison, these donuts are incredible. I've been telling everyone."
"You're my favorite customer, Mrs. Patterson."
She laughs and disappears into the crowd, and I take a moment to survey my domain.
The menu has expanded significantly since spring.
Fall demanded an entirely new lineup of seasonal offerings, and I've been testing recipes for weeks.
The maple pecan sticky buns are the current bestseller, but the apple cider donuts are gaining ground fast.
Jake appears at my elbow, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You're in your element."
"I really am." I lean into him for a moment, savoring the solid warmth of his presence. "Have I mentioned lately that I love this town?"
"Only about fifteen times today."
"Make it sixteen. I love this town."
He grins, the expression softening the sharp angles of his face. Five months together, and I still get butterflies when he smiles at me like that. I'm starting to suspect I always will.
"I need to steal you for a minute," he says. "If you can spare the time."
I glance at the line, and at Jenna King, the college student I hired last month to help with festival rushes. She gives me a thumbs up.
"Go," she says. "I've got this."
I untie my apron and duck out of the truck, taking Jake's hand as we weave through the crowd.
The festival sprawls across three blocks of Main Street, and every business in town seems to have set up some kind of booth or activity.
The hardware store is running a pumpkin-carving contest. Harper's bookshop has a "spooky reads" tent right next to Emma's coffee booth, the two best friends running a joint operation that's been doing brisk business all day.
Even the real estate office has a presence with a tasteful table topped with listings and branded hot chocolate.
"So what's the occasion?" I ask.
"Remember that client I mentioned? The one Dave recommended?"
Dave Lennox, one of Jake's former Silicon Valley colleagues, has sent several wealthy tech refugees Jake's way over the past few months. The luxury ranch market is apparently booming among people who made their fortunes in cryptocurrency and want to spend it on Montana wilderness.
"The guy looking for the big property?"
"That's the one. He's here. Wanted to meet in person before I show him the Morrison ranch tomorrow."
The Morrison ranch. I whistle low. That property is enormous. Nearly two thousand acres of pristine mountain wilderness, with a river running through it and views that could make a grown man weep. Jake's been trying to sell it for over a year.
"That's a big commission."
"Very big." He squeezes my hand. "Come meet him with me? He mentioned wanting to try the famous cinnamon rolls."
"They're sticky buns today, but I think I can manage."
We find him near the gazebo, watching the bluegrass band with what appears to be genuine interest. He's tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair silvered at the temples and the kind of bone structure that probably makes him annoyingly photogenic.
His clothes are expensive but understated: a charcoal wool coat, dark jeans, boots that have actually seen some use.
He's also, objectively speaking, extremely attractive.
Not that I'm looking. I have Jake. But I'm not blind.
"Trent," Jake calls out. "Glad you could make it."
Trent Davenport turns, and his smile is warm without being excessive. "Jake. Good to finally meet in person." They shake hands, and then Trent's attention shifts to me. "And you must be the pastry genius I've heard so much about."
"Madison Tate." I shake his hand. "The sticky buns are still warm, if you want one."
"I absolutely do."
We make small talk while I flag down Jenna to bring over a sticky bun.
Trent is charming in that effortless way some people have: asking questions and actually listening to the answers, making observations about the festival that suggest he's genuinely paying attention rather than just waiting for his turn to speak.
"This town is something special," he says, accepting the sticky bun with appropriate reverence. "I've been looking at properties all over Montana, Colorado, Wyoming. Nothing has felt right until now."
"Wylde Mountain has that effect on people," I say. "Trust me, I know. I was just passing through six months ago."
"And now?"
"And now I'm never leaving."
Jake's arm slides around my waist, and I lean into him. Trent watches us with something that might be wistfulness, though it's gone too quickly to be sure.
"Dave mentioned you were in tech," Jake says. "Before."
"Before." Trent takes a bite of the sticky bun and closes his eyes briefly.
"This is extraordinary, by the way. Yes, I was in tech.
Sold my company last year." He shrugs, a gesture that somehow conveys both pride and exhaustion.
"Spent twelve years building something, and now I'm trying to figure out what comes next. "
"The Morrison ranch would be a good place to figure that out," Jake offers.
"That's what I'm hoping." Trent finishes the sticky bun and carefully wipes his fingers on a napkin. "I'd love to see it tomorrow, if that works for your schedule. I know you said it's fairly remote."
"About an hour outside town, yeah. The access road can be tricky this time of year, but I know it well. We could head out in the morning, make a day of it."
"I'm looking forward to—"
He stops mid-sentence.
I follow his gaze and see Emma approaching, carrying a tray of sample cups from her coffee booth. She's wearing a rust-colored sweater that brings out the gold in her hair, her cheeks pink from the cold, looking like she stepped out of an autumn catalog.
"Jake! Madison!" she calls. "Harper made me bring over samples of the new cold brew, and I need honest opinions because she thinks it's too strong but I think it's perfect and—"
She stops too.
For a moment, they just look at each other.
"Oh," Emma says. "Hello."
"Hello," Trent replies.
It's subtle—so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't watching. A slight shift in Emma's posture. The way Trent's smile changes from polite to something more genuine. The half-second too long before either of them looks away.
"Emma, this is Trent Davenport," Jake says. "He's looking at the Morrison property. Trent, my sister Emma. She owns the coffee shop next to Harper's bookstore."
"Best coffee in Wylde Mountain," I add.
Emma extends her hand. "That's debatable, but I appreciate the endorsement." Her voice is perfectly steady, perfectly friendly. "Nice to meet you, Trent."
"Likewise." He shakes her hand, and I notice he holds it longer than necessary.
"Trent is looking at the Morrison property," Jake offers.
"Photos don't do it justice," Emma says. "Sarah Morrison was my best friend growing up. I spent half my childhood on that ranch. The north ridge at sunrise is one of the most beautiful places on earth."
Trent's interest visibly sharpens. "You know the property well?"
"Every inch of it. Sarah and I used to ride horses up to the high pastures in summer.
There's a swimming hole fed by a natural spring that doesn't show up on any of the surveys.
And the old barn—" She catches herself, laughing.
"Sorry. I could talk about that place for hours.
Sarah's family moved away a few years ago, but I still miss it. "
"I'd love to hear more," Trent says. "About the property. The history."
I glance at Jake. He's frowning slightly, the way he does when he's working out a complex problem.
"So, Trent," I say, "you mentioned wanting to see the property tomorrow?"
"That's the plan." He drags his attention away from Emma. "Jake was going to show me around, make a day of it."
"Actually," I say, an idea forming, "don't we have that thing tomorrow?"
Jake stares at me. "What thing?"
I kick him under the guise of shifting my weight, then angle my eyes meaningfully toward Emma and back.
"You know," I say. "The thing. That we committed to."
Jake follows my gaze. Looks at his sister. Looks at Trent. Something clicks behind his eyes.
"Oh. Right. The thing."
"Exactly." I turn to Trent with my brightest smile. "I'm so sorry, we completely forgot about this prior commitment. But Emma could show you the property. She knows it better than anyone, even Jake."
"What?!" Emma's voice comes out sharp with surprise. "Madison, I’m not an agent, I don’t have a license. And the shop—"
"Harper can cover for one day. She owes you after you covered for her during the summer reading festival."
"That's not—"
"And you just said you know every inch of that ranch. You know things about it that aren't on any survey. Wouldn't that be more valuable to a potential buyer than Jake reading off a spec sheet?"
Emma opens her mouth. Closes it.
Trent is watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement. "I wouldn't want to impose on your time," he says to Emma. "But I have to admit, a tour from someone who actually grew up exploring the property sounds invaluable."
"See?" I beam at Emma. "Invaluable."