Epilogue - Dean
SIX MONTHS LATER
Fifteen years of walking into rooms and counting exits, and now I wake up and count my anchors instead.
There’s Kaylee's hair fanned across my chest. The smell of coffee already brewing since she remembered to set the timer last night. The sound of Jamie's voice carrying across the yard from Connor’s place, already full of vim and vigor.
It's a Saturday in October, and the aspens on the ridge have gone full gold. The air has that clean, wood-smoke bite that means fall has settled in for real, and the camp is buzzing because we're hosting the biggest group weekend of the season. Seventy-five guests.
We’ve got a corporate retreat from Seattle, a family reunion from Billings, and a group of eight women who booked the "Lumbersnack Experience" package that Sky created, which Graham still hates, but will go along with since it sells out every single time.
It’s early, so I let Kaylee sleep. She’s not due to the lodge until nine.
I’m at the Wilderness Skills pavilion by seven, checking equipment.
My pavilion.
My program.
It started small—basic wilderness navigation, fire-building workshops, and safety protocols for the backcountry trails Connor's been expanding.
But it grew. Fast. Guests kept asking for more, and Connor kept saying yes, and somewhere in the middle of designing a winter survival curriculum and a junior ranger track for kids, I looked up and realized I'd built something amazing.
People would come back for this, season after season.
My uncle would've gotten a kick out of it.
"Archer!" Rourke's voice booms across the yard, and I look up to see him strolling toward me with two mugs. "You look like a man who woke up much too early. Take another coffee."
"Was up at five-fifteen."
"Pathetic." He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. "In my day, we slept till six like civilized men."
"Your day? You’re barely four years older than me."
“And it shows.” He grins—all charm.
“I like being the first to see the sun.”
“You’re as wacky as my wife,” he grumbles. “I barely have my eyes open and Opal’s already sketched a new living area with specs.”
Opal’s an architect, and Teagan’s sister. Meaning Rourke is Connor’s brother-in-law. God help him.
"Big weekend," he says, leaning against the pavilion post. "You ready?"
"You bet I am."
Graham appears from the direction of the axe range, broad as a barn door, carrying a splitting maul over one shoulder.
Sky's beside him, phone in hand, filming something for her channel.
She's narrating in that bright, effortless way of hers: "—and here we have Graham D'Amico, world's grumpiest lumberjack, looking like he wants to murder the camera. Say hi, babe."
"No," Graham says.
"Perfect content. Love you." She blows him a kiss and he pretends not to smile. But fails.
"Dean!" Sky pivots to me. "Can I get a quick clip of the pavilion setup for the weekend preview reel?"
"Only if you don't call me a Lumbersnack Daddy."
"I make no promises." She chuckles.
Graham sets the maul down and gives me a nod.
We don't talk about feelings. But last month, when a guest's husband got belligerent during a demo, Graham stepped in front of me before I could react.
Not because he didn't trust me. But because he understood the consequences if I was the one who had to handle it.
He never mentioned it. Neither did I. We look out for each other. That's how this crew works.
Ewan and his wife, Hazel, arrive together, his arm slung around her shoulders, her nose in a spreadsheet she printed out for some reason nobody can fathom since the woman has three tablets.
"Morning, lad!" Ewan calls. "Ready for the onslaught?"
"You keep using that word. We’re hosting guests, not the Battle of Stirling Bridge."
"Every big group is a battle, Dean. The trick is having fun during the fight." He winks. Hazel rolls her eyes but leans into him, and there's a softness in her smile that still surprises people who only know her as the numbers genius.
Brady walks out of the dining hall. Kaylee and I had dinner with him and Imogen last week in town. I had a blast enjoying a hearty meal with good friends. He catches my eye across the yard and lifts his chin. I lift mine back.
"Dean!" Jamie comes rocketing around the corner of the office building, legs pumping, a toy dinosaur in one hand and half a muffin in the other. Blue Truck has apparently been retired in favor of Rex, who is, according to Jamie, "way faster and can eat bad guys."
He crashes into my legs like a small, sticky cannonball.
"Hey, buddy." I crouch down. "Rex looks fierce today."
"He ate a WHOLE MOUNTAIN," Jamie informs me.
"That's a lot of mountain."
"It was a small mountain. But still." He holds up the muffin. "Want some? Mama made them. There's blueberries, but I picked out the squishy ones." He grimaces.
I chuckle. "I'm good, thanks."
He studies me with that intense, little kid assessment, then pats my knee with the muffin hand, leaving a blueberry print on my jeans. "You're coming to my birthday party, right? Mama said next Saturday. There's gonna be cake and Rourke said he'll play the dinosaur song on his guitar."
"There's a dinosaur song?"
"Rourke's making one. For me. Because I asked." He says this with the righteous authority of a child who has never once been told no by the Irishman with a guitar.
"Wouldn't miss it, buddy."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He grins—gap-toothed, trusting, and completely certain I'll show up since I always make good on my promises. Then he's gone, tearing across the yard toward Brady, who scoops him up and tosses him over his shoulder while Jamie shrieks with delight.
I stay crouched for a second, watching him go.
I think I might want one of those someday.
Connor finds me mid-morning, between my first and second workshop groups. He's got his tablet and his coffee and that easy-going energy that makes you feel like whatever crisis is happening, someone competent is in charge.
"Numbers are in for Q3," he says, leaning against the railing. "Wilderness Skills had the highest guest satisfaction rating of any program on camp."
"You're kidding."
"Ninety-six percent. Graham's at ninety-two and he's been doing this since we opened."
I scratch my jaw. "Oh man, don't tell Graham that."
"I already told him. He grunted and walked away, which I'm sure means he’s proud of his newest colleague."
I laugh and Connor smiles knowingly. He doesn't say I told you so. That's not Connor. He stands there and lets you see the truth on his face, and it means more than any words.
"Thank you," I say. I've said it before. I'll probably say it a hundred more times, and it still won't be enough for what this man did for me.
He claps my shoulder. "You did the work, Dean. All I did was open the door."
After he leaves, I stand in the pavilion and look out at the camp—the cabins tucked along the tree line, the demonstration areas busy with guests, the fire pit where we'll all gather tonight. And the mountains behind all of it, solid and constant, the aspens blazing.
My name is on the program board in the registration cabin.
WILDERNESS SKILLS & SAFETY - DEAN ARCHER, COORDINATOR.
Sky made me pose for a photo next to it my first week, and I looked uncomfortable as hell, and Kaylee framed a print, putting it on the nightstand in our cabin.
Yeah, our cabin. She moved in two months ago, bringing with her four hundred throw pillows and a suspicious amount of scented candles.
Later that day, I head into the registration cabin to see Kaylee closing out the weekend's check-ins. A few bits of her ponytail have come loose, which tends to happen when she’s working hard, and today, there’s a pen tucked behind her ear that I can tell she's forgotten about.
She's smiling at something on her screen—probably a guest review, since she reads every single one as if they're love letters.
I lean in the doorway and just watch her for a second.
She looks up and catches me, and there's that dimple. “Kinda creepy.”
"What? The hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on works here?"
"I keep forgetting how charming you can be," she says, grinning. "How'd the afternoon group go?"
"Good. Only lost two guests in the woods," I joke.
"Only two. Progress." She stands, stretches, and that pen falls from behind her ear.
I pick it up, and tuck it back in place. My fingers brush her cheek on the way down.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey."
"I love you."
It's not the first time I've said it. But every time still feels like something I'm getting away with.
She must see that hitch in my expression, because her hand comes up to my chest and grabs a fistful of my shirt. "I love you too, Dean Archer." She always uses my full name when she wants to remind me of who I am and what I’ve become.
"Come on," she says, taking my hand. "Heritage Night. Ewan's already tuning up and Rourke bet Graham he could get a man to sing along to an Irish ballad within five minutes."
"Hmm. If it was a woman, I’d say piece of cake."
"My money is still on Rourke. He can be one persuasive bastard."
“True,” I reply, huffing out a laugh.
She tugs my hand. "Let's go."
We walk out together into the evening light. The fire pit is already glowing, and I can hear Rourke's guitar and Ewan's laugh rolling through the trees.
I can’t help but look forward to a lifetime of nights under the stars with these people.
My people.