Epilogue Annabelle
G olden light spills across the porch as I slide my hand into Derek’s—his rough calluses grounding me like roots in soil.
We watch the last of the Honeycrisp apples come down in lazy arcs, the orchard alive with laughter and clangs from the distant cider press.
Crates stack high along the fence, children dart between rows with sticky fingers and leaf-crowns, and somewhere out there, someone starts a round of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” on a banjo.
It’s Harvest Fest in Lords Valley.
The air smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon and fresh pie crusts—the kind that flake on your lips and melt into memories.
In the field below, workers in flannel shirts and rolled-up sleeves lift baskets of red-and-green apples onto wagons bound for the cider mill.
Our orchard, once a whispered promise of second chances, now stretches in neat rows—roots deep, trunks sturdy, leaves lit like fire.
This morning, Derek fuelled up his Mustang for one last time—racing not for glory, but in Blake’s name. Though Blake still sleeps in a rehabilitation unit two towns over, his presence is felt everywhere—on Derek’s chest, in the banner at the starting line: For Blake—Run Free.
Derek crossed the finish line first.
But he didn’t celebrate. He walked off the track, kissed me breathless, and said, “One dream at a time.” Then he handed over the deed to Blake’s pig herd to a neighbour—sold, paused, set aside. Waiting. Because that life belongs to Blake when he’s ready to claim it again.
Misty’s been in New York for months now—keeping her distance, healing, hiding from Rick in plain sight. We don’t ask for details. She sends postcards instead of explanations.
Caroline just secured a settlement from Huntz’s frozen assets and insurance to cover Blake’s long-term care.
And true to form, after the race, she arrives at the orchard wielding her infamous half-sugar apple pizza like Exhibit A, balanced in one arm—her six-month-old son tucked into the other.
He’s swaddled in flannel and already scowling, like he’s preparing to file his first injunction.
“Figured we earned a treat,” she says, grinning. “No calories today. I wrote it into the bylaws.”
We laugh—because how could we not? Caroline is the kind of woman who brings a lawsuit and a pie to a knife fight and wins both.
After the race, we return to the orchard, where friends and family surround the apple tree we grafted with our own hands. The initials D + A glisten on the small wooden marker at its roots. Beneath a canopy of blooming branches, sunlight pours like honey over every face I love.
Guests mingle beneath the blooming apple trees, sunlight pouring through the branches like honey.
A framed photo sits at the edge of the altar—Blake, boots caked in mud and grinning wide, holding a squirming piglet from the herd he loved more than sleep.
Beside it, someone’s placed his racing helmet, polished and still scratched from the last time he beat Derek in the rain.
He’s not here. Not really. But he’s felt.
As Caroline lifts her son onto her hip and opens the ceremony, I glance out at the crowd. Neighbors, friends, family.
I know every face.
Still, my gaze lingers a second too long on a tall man near the treeline.
Not Rick. Just someone with the same build, the same dark jacket.
My pulse quiets when he waves to someone in the second row. But it takes a full breath before my ribs stop tightening.
Not over. Not yet.
But today, we stand in the sun. And that has to be enough.
Caroline officiates our wedding—again—and this time, there are no loopholes, no handcuffs, no legal red tape or forged pages. Just us, the sunlight, and a ring that shines like it remembers every storm we weathered to get here.
As Derek and I share our first kiss as husband and wife—again—the crowd erupts into cheers and cider-fueled applause. But before we can step down from under the blooming apple tree, Marty Boone clears his throat from the front row and raises his hand like a man about to ask a very bold question.
“While we’ve got the judge here,” he calls out, eyes twinkling, “and everyone we love in one place…”
Caroline stiffens beside the altar, blinking. “Marty?—”
He steps forward, pulls a silver band from his vest pocket, and drops to one knee—not a bit winded. “Caroline Gnatz, you’ve been my North Star, my legal shark, and the mother of our maybe-someday bull rider. I know you agreed to marry me, but will you marry me today? Right here. Right now?”
Caroline stares at him—jaw slack, eyes shining—then barks out a laugh that makes half the crowd jump.
“Yes, dammit! But only because I’m too sleep-deprived to run and too proud to say no in front of baby Justice.”
That’s right. Caroline named her son, Justice.
Justice Thor Boone.
She adjusts the apple blossom crown someone stuck on her son’s head. He scowls deeper, like a tiny judge preparing his first objection.
“Let’s make it official,” she adds. “Before our future bull rider starts chewing legal briefs.”
Marty grins, and someone thrusts a bouquet of apple blossoms into Caroline’s hand. Sheriff Simon volunteers to officiate this time, and ten minutes later, the orchard cheers again.
A few days ago, Caroline updated us that Rick’s burner phone pinged near the Nevada border and Cash is pushing for a federal warrant.
It’s not over. Not yet.
But the net’s tightening.
And for now, Misty’s already out of reach.
I carry that knowledge the way I carry everything now—carefully, but not alone.
The wind ripples through the orchard. Beside me, Dere wraps his hand over mine, steady and sure. Across the field, friends gather. Family. And just beyond the rows of trees, the past lies buried in ash.
But the future? It’s standing right here, in the sun, holding on to me.
Tears prick my eyes, but they’re not the kind I used to swallow. These are clean. Joyful. Healing. Our annulment was finalized five months ago. The paperwork cleared and Derek’s name is inked beside mine for real.
Derek slips the wedding band onto my finger, nestling it against the apple blossom engagement ring, the diamonds glistening together. The tables in the orchard are stacked with pies, cider jugs, and bouquets wrapped in newspaper—offerings of a town that never forgot how to give.
Emma and Eric are sitting under an apple tree with baby Frederick—Fred for short—who hiccups like a metronome while little Albert naps on Eric’s chest.
I lean into Derek’s shoulder as laughter and cinnamon wrap around us. The orchard glows in the dusk behind him like a promise.
“We’ve come so far,” I murmur.
“And it’s just the beginning,” he says, kissing the crown of my head.
I pause, heart fluttering. I hadn’t meant to say it tonight—not here, not surrounded by pie and petals and people we love—but maybe there’s no better time. No better place.
“Derek?” I whisper.
He looks down, eyes soft. “Yeah?”
I take his hand, press it gently to my belly. “We’re not just starting over. We’re growing something new.”
He stills. Blinks. Then breaks into a grin that swallows the sunset. “You mean?—?”
I nod. “A spring baby. Apple blossom season.”
He lets out a low, choked laugh, pulling me close. “Home,” he says again—but this time, I feel it echo from the roots up.
Blake’s recovery is slow. Some days, there’s nothing. Others, he twitches a toe. We take turns visiting. And sometimes… I swear I see him dreaming. His hand curls. His lips part like he’s about to ask for seconds at dinner.
“Maybe next year,” Derek whispers every time we visit, “he’ll be here beside us.”
“Maybe,” I whisper back, slipping my hand into his.
As dusk folds into night, the orchard’s lamplights glow like watchful stars. Around us, the valley pulses with shared stories, second chances, and the promise that—even when storms threaten to swallow us—we will stand rooted, together, and harvest hope anew.
“Home,” I breathe.
He kisses my hair. “Always.”
As the wind stirs through the orchard, I glance at Derek. He’s watching the trees like they’re whispering old secrets. His thumb brushes over my wedding ring, and I know exactly where his thoughts are.
“She’d be happy for you,” I whisper.
He nods, quiet. “I think so too.”
There’s no ghost between us. Just memory. Just gratitude. Just the path we walked to get here.
By firelight, we settle into our farmhouse kitchen. Steam curls from cider mugs; pie crumbs dust our plates. It’s almost normal, until my father turns on the television.
“What the hell?” Derek breathes.
Skylar Bishop, or as we know her, Misty, dressed in white, stands with Cash Wagner beside her, both radiant beneath crystal chandeliers.
The air snags in my throat as the high-profile society wedding rolls across the screen. Derek’s hand tightens around mine so hard, his wine glass slips from his fingers. It hits the floor with a crash, shards glinting like falling stars.