Epilogue
Five Months Later
One month. That’s how long it’s been since Bryce left for his last string of appearances—bull riding clinics, brand events, interviews, and rodeos in Texas, Montana, and Nevada.
Thirty-six days, to be exact.
Thirty-six days of video calls and phone sex.
This girl is ready for the real thing.
The fire crackles low in the stone fireplace, throwing golden light across the cabin walls. I pull the red ribbon tighter around my neck and settle back into the couch, trying not to laugh at my own ridiculousness.
The Christmas tree glows in the corner, trimmed with silver ribbon, glass ornaments, and the hand-stitched stars Grandma made for me and my sisters when we were little. The air smells like pine and cinnamon, thanks to the candle burning on the coffee table.
Outside, the wind hums across the hills, brushing snow off the pines’ branches.
Wildhaven is quiet tonight—a deep, content kind of quiet.
The addition is almost finished—Bryce’s pride and joy.
He designed it himself—a new wing at the back of the cabin with a master suite and an extra bedroom.
He expanded and upgraded the kitchen and added a wide porch large enough to hold a hot tub.
He said he wanted space for us to “grow into,” which made my heart do a backflip.
Grandma, Shelby, and Harleigh came over last week to help decorate.
It took two days, one full-on sibling argument, and about seven mugs of hot cocoa to get the tree standing straight.
Harleigh was in charge of lights, Shelby hung the stockings, and Grandma just sat by the fire, shaking her head at us all squabbling.
Now the cabin looks like something out of a postcard—warm, homey, and all ours.
And me? I’ve been pacing this floor all day, waiting.
Bryce texted an hour ago.
Bryce: Passing through Jackson Hole. Be there soon.
Soon.
I let out a long breath and stare at the door. Every time I think about him walking through it, my stomach flips. He’s been gone a month, and even though we’ve talked every day, it’s not the same. The sound of his voice through a phone doesn’t compare to the sound of his boots on these floors.
I miss the way he feels. I miss the way he smells.
I miss him. Plain and simple.
The clock on the mantel ticks toward seven. My heart’s keeping pace.
And then, faintly, I hear it. The crunch of tires on the gravel drive. Headlights flash through the window, slicing across the snow.
Finally.
I lie back on the new extra-wide couch, in nothing but the ribbon around my neck, pretending to be calm.
The door opens, slow and creaky.
Cold air rushes in first. And then … there he is.
Hat dusted with snow, duffel slung over his shoulder, wearing that cocky smile. He steps inside and closes the door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
“Chuck?” he calls, voice low and warm.
“Welcome home, cowboy.”
He freezes. His gaze lands on me—on the couch, the fire, the tree twinkling beside me—and I watch the confusion melt into surprise, then into liquid fire.
“You’re late,” I say.
His gaze drops for a second, perusing my body, then lifts back to mine. “My apologies. I had to sign the paperwork for the condo sale before I left Dallas.”
I grin. “So, it’s official?”
He looks at me again, eyes shining. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Good. I got you a present to celebrate,” I say.
His mouth curves. “I can see that,” he says slowly.
“You like?” I tease, arching a brow.
He shakes his head, snowflakes scattering from his hat brim. “I love.”
He sets his duffel down by the door and steps closer, slow, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. “Fucking beautiful.”
Something inside me loosens—that last lingering fear that he might wake up one day and decide this life’s too small for him. But it’s gone now. He’s here.
I stretch slowly, the ribbon brushing against my collarbone.
He grins.
He takes another step closer, his hand coming up to cradle my jaw. The warmth of his palm against my skin is enough to undo me.
“I missed you,” he says, voice rough.
“Missed you more,” I answer, meaning every word.
He laughs softly, forehead resting against mine. “I doubt that.”
We stay there, quiet for a moment, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the wind outside.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me. “You know,” he says, eyes dancing, “you didn’t have to go all out with the ribbon.”
I shrug, feigning innocence. “Well, I wanted to make sure you felt properly welcomed home.”
“Oh, I do,” he says, smiling slow. “God, you’re perfect.”
He sets his hat on the table, sinking down beside me. The firelight dances across his face, turning his eyes molten. For a minute, neither of us says anything.
He reaches over, threading his fingers around the silky ribbon. His thumb traces lazy circles against my throat.
Tomorrow, there’ll be chores to do, fences to check, and contractors to deal with. But tonight, it’s just us.
Us and the fire.
And as the fire burns low and the lights twinkle on the tree, he takes his time untying and enjoying his first Christmas present in our new home.