Epilogue
Holiday Pines Farm
One Year Later
The snow started an hour before sunset.
It wasn’t the hard, biting sleet of the previous year. It wasn’t the treacherous glaze of an ice storm. It was the stuff of storybooks—fat, lazy flakes drifting down from a heavy gray sky, dusting the green boughs of the pines in soft white powder.
Wes Dalton stood on the porch of the farmhouse, a mug of coffee in his hand, watching it fall.
“It’s sticking,” a voice said from behind him.
Wes leaned back against Jake, who wrapped his arms around Wes’s waist, resting his chin on Wes’s shoulder. Jake smelled of cedarwood soap and the expensive cologne he still wore, even though his daily commute was now a ten-minute drive to the loft above The Divine Dough.
“It’s the good kind,” Wes said, relaxing into the embrace. “Ground temp is warm enough that the roads will stay wet, but the trees will look pretty.”
“Ever the farmer,” Jake teased, pressing a kiss to the side of Wes’s neck. “Calculating soil temps on Christmas Eve.”
“Someone has to.”
“Everything is ready,” Jake said. “The heaters in the barn are cranking. Chuck just pulled up with the catering van. And I think I saw your dad sneaking a shot of bourbon into his cider.”
Wes laughed. “Let him. If he survives the sweater Barb knitted for him, he deserves a drink.”
Wes turned in Jake’s arms. A year had put a few new lines around Jake’s eyes—good lines, from laughing—and roughened his hands nearly enough to match Wes’s.
He looked happy. Not the frantic, high-octane success of the Atlanta banker, but the deep, settled contentment of a man who was exactly where he belonged.
“You realize,” Jake said, straightening Wes’s collar, “that tonight is a victory lap, right? The Event Barn is booked solid through June. The tree sales were up twenty percent. And nobody died of frostbite.”
“We did okay, didn’t we?” Wes admitted, terrified of jinxing it.
“We did amazing. Now, go put on your jacket. The town is coming.”
The renovation of the old tractor barn had been Jake’s idea, of course.
Further diversification, he’d said in his PowerPoint presentation to Wes and Henry back in February. Agritourism.
Wes had called it “cleaning out fifty years of raccoon poop.”
But looking at it now, Wes had to admit Jake was a genius.
The barn doors were thrown wide open. Inside, the space was transformed.
The rough-hewn beams were wrapped in thousands of warm white twinkle lights.
The dirt floor had been leveled and covered with rustic pavers.
Tables with red linens were scattered throughout, and a dance floor had been cleared in the center.
It was the first annual Holiday Pines Christmas Gala.
Much of the town was there. Tucker and Evan were manning the bar in the corner, Tucker laughing loudly as he poured heavy-handed drinks.
Chuck and Brody were serving brisket sliders and mini-doughnuts.
Diane Crawford was there, looking younger than she had in years, laughing with Miguel and Charlie near the heaters.
Even Henry was there, at a table near the entrance.
He was wearing a bright green sweater with a red-nosed reindeer on it, gesturing with his cane as he spoke with Dex Barker.
Also, near the heaters, Mayor Titus Shepherd was holding court, looking regal in a charcoal wool coat, his arm draped comfortably around his husband, Pedro. They stood close, an anchor of calm in the bustling room.
“Look at this place,” Pedro said as Wes and Jake approached. He gestured with his wineglass, his dark eyes warm. “It’s magical, Wes. Truly. You’ve brought the spirit back to this land.”
“Jake did the heavy lifting on the design,” Wes said.
“Teamwork,” Titus corrected, squeezing Pedro’s shoulder. “That’s how you build a legacy. Isn’t that right, P?”
“Si,” Pedro smiled at Jake. “Sometimes the best roots are the ones transplanted from a distance. They fight harder to grow.”
Jake beamed. “Thanks, Pedro. That means a lot.”
Over at the makeshift bar, Tucker was laughing loudly with Barb and Cassie, while Evan leaned against the back counter, watching him with a look of pure adoration.
Wes and Jake drifted over.
“She’s walking home!” Tucker laughed. “Or Cass is carrying her. One of the two.” He slid a beer to Jake and poured a whiskey for Wes. “To the hosts with the most.”
Evan toasted them. “Seriously, guys. The acoustics in here? Phenomenal. I’m already planning a summer production of Oklahoma! in this very spot.”
“Don’t you dare,” Jake jested. “I’m not cleaning any more hay bales out of the loft.”
“You say that,” Evan smirked. “But you love it here. I told you, didn’t I?”
Jake looked around the room—at the lights, the laughter, the life filling the space that had once been dark and empty. “Yeah, Ev. You were right. Total upgrade.”
Wes scanned the room for the music source. In the corner, Cal Turner was standing behind a table stacked with equipment, wearing a flannel shirt and a Santa hat.
“I need to check on the DJ,” Wes said. “If he plays Mariah Carey, I’m kicking him out.”
“Go,” Jake said. “I’ll help Chuck with the food.”
Wes walked over to the booth. “Hi, Cal. Thanks for bringing the sound system.”
Cal adjusted a knob on his mixer, looking solemn. “It’s a big night, Dalton. You need a good mix.”
“Please tell me you kept it tasteful.”
Cal looked offended. “Have I ever steered you wrong? The playlist is curated. It’s a narrative arc, Wes. All 90s. All vibes.” He tapped his iPad. “I’ve got a special request queued up for later. The closer.”
“Oh God,” Wes groaned. “Is it Closing Time?”
Cal just winked. “Trust.”
An hour later, the party was in full swing.
Jake appeared at Wes’s elbow, holding two flutes of champagne, and giving one to Wes. “Mayor Titus just asked if we do weddings. Apparently, he knows someone looking for a venue.”
“Weddings?” Wes raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with bridezillas.”
“Think of the margins, Wes. The margins.” Jake grinned, clinking his glass with Wes’s. “Besides, we have to test the venue out for ourselves eventually, right?”
Wes froze. He looked at Jake.
Jake’s smile dipped, turning into something softer, more vulnerable.
He reached into his jacket pocket. “I was going to wait until we were alone. Maybe down by the grove. But...” He looked around the barn, at the lights, the people, the love filling the space.
“This is us. This is what we built. It feels right to do it here.”
Jake pulled out a small black velvet box.
The noise of the party seemed to fall away. Wes’s heart hammered a rhythm against his ribs—not panic this time. Pure anticipation.
“Wesley Dalton,” Jake said, his voice steady. “A year ago, I drove through a storm and into a ditch trying to get to you. I love you. I love this farm. I love your stubborn father. I want to build a life here. A long one.”
Jake opened the box. Inside sat a simple band—brushed tungsten with a thin inlay of cherry wood.
“Will you marry me?”
Wes’s throat closed up. He looked at the ring—cherry wood, like the carving he’d made of Jake.
“Yes,” Wes choked out. “Yes, you idiot. Of course, yes.”
Jake laughed, slipping the ring onto Wes’s finger. It fit perfectly.
“I love you,” Wes said, pulling Jake in.
They kissed, barely noticing the applause that had erupted around them.
Suddenly, the music changed. The upbeat Christmas pop faded out. A crackle of static came over the speakers—Cal’s trademark vinyl sound effect.
Then, an acoustic guitar strummed. Bright, hopeful, and unmistakably folksy.
Two female voices harmonized in a melody that every queer kid in the 90s knew by heart. It wasn’t a Christmas song, but as the opening chords of the Indigo Girls’ Power of Two filled the barn, Wes realized it was the perfect choice.
He laughed, wiping a tear from his cheek while looking over at the DJ booth. Cal gave him a thumbs-up and tipped his Santa hat.
“He really is a prophet,” Jake murmured, recognizing the track instantly. “Adding up the total... multiplying life. That’s us, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Wes said, looking at the ring on his finger, the wood inlay dark against the metal. “That’s us. Stronger together.”
“May I have this dance?” Jake asked, holding out his hand.
“Everyone is watching.”
“Let them watch. They’re happy for us, Wes. Let’s give them a show.”
Wes took Jake’s hand. He let Jake pull him onto the dance floor.
And as they swayed under the thousands of tiny lights, surrounded by the people of Spoon, Wes looked past Jake’s shoulder toward the open barn doors.
Outside, the snow was falling harder now. It covered the muddy tracks in the driveway. It covered the scars on the pine trees from the old storms. It covered everything in a blanket of clean, quiet white.
Winter was here. But inside, Wes had never felt warmer.
Want more Southern Comfort? The stories of Tucker & Evan and Titus & Pedro are available now.
"Maybe guardian angels work both ways."
Tucker Shepherd is restless, living in the shadow of his family’s accomplishments. Nightly, he tends bar in the tiny town of Spoon while everyone else seems to be moving on.
Evan Harbuck is on the road to Atlanta to fulfill his dream of acting. Detoured along the way, he questions his passion and the meaning of success.
One stormy night, Tucker finds Evan broke and bleeding in his tavern’s parking lot. Tucker takes him in but soon discovers his nurturing may be reciprocal. With Evan there, Tucker’s little world is suddenly a whole lot brighter—but will it be enough for Evan and his big-city dreams?
Sweet T is a hurt / comfort romance between two men questioning their purpose in life.
It is the first novel in the Southern Comfort series set in the tiny town of Spoon, Georgia.
It features characters from future novels in the series that may enhance your enjoyment but is easily read as a standalone.
It contains mature content and hot summer days and men that play. But mostly it’s about a man, his love, his family, his extended family, predestination, reconciliation, Elizabethan drama, the meaning of success, and a big fat gay Southern wedding.
Get Sweet T on !
“Do you mind me holding your hands like this?”
“No. I think I might even be sad if you let go.”
“Then I won’t.”
Titus Shepherd once had it all. Born into a wealthy southern family, he ruled the high school football field, married the town sweetheart, and fathered a beloved son.
His future as the next mayor seemed certain.
But fate took a cruel turn, and now he's a reclusive widower raising his four-year-old son alone.
Pedro Torres was destined for academic success in Mexico until disaster forced him to abandon his dreams for the sake of his family. Determined to change his circumstances, he migrated to the US as a landscaper, aspiring to gain citizenship and bring his mother to their new home.
Both men sacrificed happiness for their families, and neither believed in love at first sight. However, a chance meeting at the Shepherd country home in the summer of 1995 sparked a passionate affair, as fierce and fated as the humidity, stars, and fireflies on a hot southern night.
But will their love withstand the harsh preconceptions and deep-seated prejudices of small-town Spoon, Georgia?
Big Britches is the second book in the Southern Comfort series and a prequel to the novel Sweet T.
While it features characters from other stories in the series, it stands alone as a heartwarming tale of love and resilience.
It contains mature content, hot summer days, and even hotter nights.
But mostly it’s about two very different men with a lot in common… and the healing power of love.
Get Big Britches on !