EPILOGUE
Tucker
Six Months Later…
The sound of her laughter drifted up from the porch, and I paused mid-swing with the axe, listening.
Emily was on the phone with her brother, probably giving Jesse hell about something. She did that a lot—the worrying, the checking in, making sure he was eating right and studying for his finals. Some habits died hard.
But she laughed more now. Smiled more. The worry lines between her brows had eased, and she’d stopped looking at me like I might disappear if she blinked.
It had taken a while to get there, though.
Those first few weeks after we’d gotten together—really together—had been rough.
She’d spent half the time waiting for me to change my mind, and I’d spent the other half trying to prove I wouldn’t.
We’d had fights. Real ones. About her assuming I didn’t want her around.
About me shutting down when the pain got bad instead of letting her help.
But we’d figured it out. Slowly. Messily. Like two broken people learning how to be whole together.
I set another log on the chopping block and brought the axe down hard, splitting it clean. The pile of firewood was growing—more than I’d need for myself, but Emily liked the cabin warm. She was always cold, always stealing my flannel shirts and curling up under blankets like a cat seeking sun.
Our cabin now. Not just mine.
She’d moved in three months ago, though half her stuff had already been here before that.
It had happened gradually—a toothbrush, then clothes, then her books started appearing on my shelves.
One day I’d opened the closet, and her scrubs were hanging next to my flannels, and it had felt right. Like they belonged there.
Like she belonged here.
With me.
Dr. Parker had helped, setting up her schedule so she worked four ten-hour shifts instead of five eights. That gave her three days a week up here with me, away from town and the noise and the people who still looked at us like we were some kind of curiosity.
The hermit and the nurse.
I didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them stare. Emily was mine, and that was all that mattered.
The migraines were better too. Not gone—probably never would be—but manageable. Emily had learned my tells, could spot one coming before I could. She’d dim the lights, get the medication, press ice to my temples and just... be there. Not hovering. Not pitying. Just present.
It made all the difference.
I heard footsteps on the path and looked up. Emily was walking toward me, phone still pressed to her ear, wearing my flannel over a pair of jeans that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was loose today, falling in waves around her shoulders, catching the afternoon light.
Beautiful. Every damn time I looked at her, the word hit me fresh.
“—yes, Jesse, I’m sure Tucker can help you fix your car,” she was saying, rolling her eyes at me. “He’s very handy.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, and she grinned.
Jesse had worked at the local grocery store for the past six months, saving his money to buy a car. The boy was trying to make it easier for his sister and mother to not have to bother taking him to and from football and basketball practice every day.
I’d spoken to Joe to keep his eye out for a dependable car that wouldn’t make a teenaged boy cringe driving it. Emily had refused to let me buy her brother a car. So, I’d done the only thing I could—made Joe sell at a discounted price. And not tell Emily that I’d made up the difference.
“Okay, I’ll tell him. Love you too. Study for that exam.” She hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket. “My brother says hi. Also, his car is making a weird noise, and he wants to know if you can look at it this weekend.”
“I can do that.”
“You don’t have to. I can tell him to take it to Joe’s.”
“Emily.” I set the axe down and pulled her close, feeling her melt against me. “He’s your brother. Which means he’s family. I’ll look at the car.”
She looked up at me, those big eyes soft. “You’re too good to us.”
“No. I’m exactly as good as you deserve.” I kissed her forehead. “Which is pretty damn good.”
She laughed and swatted my chest, but she was smiling. That smile that still made my chest tight. That made me grateful I’d opened the door that first day instead of ignoring her knock.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Pot roast.”
“You made pot roast?” I’d mentioned once—once—that I used to love my mom’s pot roast before everything went to shit. And now Emily made it at least twice a month.
“Don’t look so surprised. I do know how to cook, mountain man.”
“Never said you didn’t.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you’re going to burn it if you don’t go check on it.”
She gasped in mock outrage and ran back toward the cabin, and I watched her go, shaking my head.
This was my life now. Laughter and pot roast and a woman who loved me despite all my sharp edges. A woman who’d climbed my mountain and decided to stay.
I picked up the axe and got back to work, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
Yeah. This was my life.
And it was pretty damn perfect.