8. Epilogue
Sawyer
Two years later
She's glowing.
Barefoot in my kitchen— our kitchen—belly round and full with our baby, hair twisted up in one of those messy knots she throws together without thinking. Humming something under her breath while she stirs whatever's simmering on the stove.
And she's still the most beautiful damn thing I've ever seen.
"You're staring again," Scarlett says without turning around, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
"Hard not to," I mutter, setting down the wood I've been carrying.
She turns then, cheeks flushed from the heat of cooking, lips curved in that smile that still stops my heart every time. Her free hand rests on the curve of her belly—our daughter, according to the ultrasound tucked to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a pine tree.
"Well, maybe take a break and set the table," she says. "This'll be ready in a few minutes."
I do as I'm told, not because I'm whipped—though I probably am—but because I like taking care of her. Always have. Always will.
The cabin has changed since she moved in. It looks lived-in now. Loved-in.
Like a home instead of just a place to exist.
I light the candle she insists on having at dinner—says it makes everything feel more special—and arrange the mismatched plates she's collected from various antique shops in town.
She's turned our weekly supply runs into treasure hunts, coming home with vintage quilts and Mason jars and cast-iron pans.
She's made this place ours without erasing what it was. Made it better.
Scarlett joins me at the table, easing into her chair with a soft sigh. I step behind her automatically, hands finding her shoulders, working out the knots that pregnancy and too many hours hunched over photo editing have put there.
"How's our girl today?" I ask, letting one hand drift to her belly.
"She's been practicing soccer," Scarlett says with a laugh. "I think she's going to be as restless as her daddy."
"God help us both."
Her hand covers mine, and we sit like that for a moment, feeling our daughter move beneath our joined palms. I still can't quite believe this is real. That I get to have this—love, family, a future I never thought I wanted.
We eat dinner as the sun sets behind the mountains, talking about her latest photography commission, the nursery progress, whether I should chop another cord of wood before the first snow. Normal things. Domestic things.
After dinner, we settle on the porch swing I built last spring, wrapped in one of my grandmother's quilts. The air is crisp with the promise of autumn, and somewhere in the distance, an owl calls to its mate.
"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I hadn't gotten lost that day?" she asks, settling against my side.
I consider this, stroking her hair. "You wouldn't have gotten lost. The mountain wanted you here."
She tilts her head to look at me, eyes bright in the fading light. "You really believe that?"
"I believe in us," I say. "However it happened."
She smiles, that soft, content expression she gets when she's perfectly happy.
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the first stars appear over the ridge. Down in the valley, lights twinkle from the few scattered houses—families settling in for the night, same as us.
"Colt stopped by while you were in town," I mention.
"Oh? How's he doing?"
I shrug. "Same as always. Quiet. Keeps to himself up at the lookout."
"Maybe the mountain will send someone for him too," she says with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Maybe. He'd probably run screaming if it did."
She laughs, the sound carrying across the still air. "That's what you did. Metaphorically speaking."
"I did not run screaming."
"You scowled a lot. Same thing."
I grunt, which makes her laugh harder. Some things never change.
"I love you," she says suddenly, seriously. "I love this life we've built. I love that our daughter is going to grow up here, with all this space and beauty and quiet."
"Not so quiet anymore," I point out. "You talk enough for three people."
"Someone has to balance out all your grunting and brooding."
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and skin.
"I love you too, Scarlett," I say against her hair.
Her hand finds mine again, fingers intertwining like they always do. Like they always will.
The mountain rises around us, dark and protective, holding us in its embrace. And I send up another silent thank you to whatever force brought her to my door that stormy night.
Because I was supposed to stay alone.
Until the mountain sent me her.
And now I can't imagine it any other way.