Chapter 14
Fourteen
D elaney
Epilogue – 7 Years later
We now own five rocking chairs, and three wild children who think pants are optional and tree bark is a snack.
The baby's crying, the dog is barking, and Jack is shirtless with sawdust in his beard, trying to teach our oldest how to whittle a stick without removing a finger.
That man never wears a shirt if the temperature is over thirty degrees. Not that I’m complaining.
Our son has his father's blue eyes and my stubborn chin—a dangerous combination that ensures he's always in the thick of trouble and charming his way out of consequences.
I watch them from the kitchen window, my hand resting on the gentle swell of my belly—baby number four, another girl according to the ultrasound. Jack insisted on knowing the sex this time, already planning the pink-tinted walnut cradle he'd build.
I sip my coffee, decaf, as Jack insists when I’m pregnant, smirking.
When I was younger, I never imagined this life. Never thought I'd find home in a mountain cabin with a man who looks at me like I hung the moon even after three children and seven years of marriage. Never thought I'd find myself in the rhythm of seasons, in the warmth of family, in the steady beat of a heart bigger than the mountain itself.
There are days when I write for my Rocks are People Too blog, which has done surprisingly well. I teach at the annex as well, my degree displayed proudly above the fireplace.
Jack built me an office in the corner of the house, a small sanctuary where I can pour words onto paper. My first book comes out next month, stories with rocks that have names that go on all sorts of adventures through time, seeing how they were formed and finding their lost families.
Colt stops by occasionally, sheriff's badge gleaming, to drop off toys that are far too loud and treats that stain everything they touch. Cade is being tamed by his own woman, and I’ve discovered a sisterhood that brings a depth to my life I didn’t imagine I could have.
Jack catches my eye through the window.
His hands are full of wood and chaos, but that look—the one he gave me the first time I stepped onto this mountain—burns just the same. Seven years, three children, countless nights wrapped in each other's arms, and still he looks at me like he's starving.
He jerks his chin toward the tree line. No words needed.
I disappear into the trees, heartbeat pounding, sun hot on my skin. My body has changed over the years—softer, marked with the silver streaks of motherhood, but under Jack's gaze, I've never felt more beautiful, more wanted.
And behind me, Jack’s organizing our brood.
"Go watch your brother,” he says to our eldest, Jack, Jr. “Daddy's busy for a while. You know the rules, you’re in charge when Daddy’s away dealing with Mommy."
As I wait for him in our special clearing, I think about that day at the river—how close I came to drowning, how fate wrapped around us both like a rope stronger than the one that nearly ended me. I think about the journey from that first desperate day to this moment of perfect contentment.
Jack appears at the edge of the clearing, moving with purpose, eyes locked on mine. Seven years later, and he still looks at me like I'm the answer to every question he never knew to ask.
"Hey, baby girl," he says, voice rough with need as he closes the distance between us.
"Hey, Daddy," I answer, smiling as his arms encircle me, as his hand cradles the subtle curve of our growing daughter.
And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that this—this love, this family, this man—is everything I was always searching for.
Everything I'll ever need. Jack Boone.
Home.