Bonus Epilogue
JULIETTE
Fourteen months after I climbed into the wrong truck, silk slides over the industrial dress form with a sound like a whispered secret, the kind of secret my father tried to bury under layers of legalese and offshore accounts.
The cream-colored charmeuse is liquid light in the late afternoon sun, catching the dust motes dancing in the air of my workshop.
My workshop. I still can’t say those words without pride tightening my chest.
Cag began restoring this place before he knew me, then finished it, equipped it, and put the deed in my name after I climbed into his truck.
I run my hand down the curve of the mannequin’s hip, the fabric cool and unforgiving.
It’s a far cry from the stiff silk and lace I tore apart while escaping my wedding.
That dress represented a future someone else chose.
Everything I create here begins with my own decision.
The smell of pine and old wax hangs heavy in the rafters, competing with the faint, lingering scent of saddle oil that always follows Cag like a shadow.
He’s out there somewhere, checking the western fences and making sure the restored creek flow is reaching every tank.
The Black Aspen bastards might have been held back by the easement we found, but they aren't gone.
They're just regrouping, like a storm front waiting for the wind to shift.
My jaw tightens. My father hasn’t called since the morning the covenant was filed, and I don’t expect him to.
He wrote Pine Ridge off the way he writes off any position that stops returning.
He’s probably sitting in his mahogany office chasing the next acquisition while I’m here, pinning fabric in a workshop I own on Pine Ridge.
I love it. I love every single second of the uncertainty because it’s mine.
The heavy oak door at the far end of the workshop creaks open.
I don’t have to look up to know who it is.
The air in the room changes, thickening with a sudden, heavy pressure that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
Cag. He doesn’t just enter a room; he claims it.
Even before I turn, I recognize the slow certainty of his steps crossing my floor.
"You’re still at it," he grunts.
His words come out slow and rough behind me. I keep my back to him, focusing on the line of pins in my hand. I have to. If I look at him now, I’ll drop the pins, the fabric, and my dignity.
"Some of us actually have work to finish, Cag. I have a first-timer driving in tomorrow. Out-of-state plates, no appointment, wouldn’t say what she’s bringing.
And I’m not meeting her with a half-pinned bodice on the form.
" I try to keep the sass in my tone, the sharp edge I use to keep from melting into a puddle.
“Not everyone gets to spend the day outdoors while I argue with silk and pins.”
A heavy step sounds on the floorboards. Then another. He’s closer now. I can smell him—sun-warmed skin, the sharp tang of pine, and that deep, musky scent of a man who’s been working under the big sky all day.
"The cows don't stare back as much as you do," he says, his voice right behind my ear.
I shiver. I can’t help it. The heat radiating off him is like a physical weight, pressing against my back. He’s so much bigger than me, a wall of muscle and scars and possessive intent.
"I’m a designer, Cag. I observe. It’s what I do." I turn around, my hip bumping into the dress form, and find myself trapped between the mannequin and the broad expanse of his chest.
He’s still wearing his work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension and dusted with dark hair. His beard is grown out rough from a week of not caring, and those eyes, those dark, soul-searing eyes, are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
He doesn't look at the dress. He doesn't look at the workshop. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters, and also like he’s five seconds away from throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me back up to the cabin we finished in the spring.
“You’ve been here six hours.” Each word lands slowly. “The sun’s going down, you haven’t eaten, and you haven’t stepped outside.”
"I had a granola bar," I counter, lifting my chin. "And the light in here is perfect. Why are you hovering? Don't you have a fence to fix or a brother to grumble at?"
His hand moves, lightning fast, gripping my waist. His fingers are calloused and rough, digging into the soft skin just above my hips.
He looks down at where his hand has landed, and his grip tightens like he doesn't mean to let go.
The contact sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through my nervous system.
“I have a woman who’s worked six hours without a real meal. The dress can wait long enough for you to take care of yourself.”
"I belong wherever I want to be, Cag Kramer," I snap, though the fire in my belly is quickly turning slow and heavy and undeniable. "And right now, I want to finish this bodice. My father spent twenty-seven years telling me where I belonged. You don't get to do it too."
The mention of my father causes his eyes to darken, a flash of raw protectiveness crossing his features. He hates that man. He hates the shadow Conrad Marchand casts over us.
"I’m not him," Cag says, his voice harsh. “I’m not choosing for you. I’m reminding you that you don’t have to destroy yourself to prove this business is yours.”
“You sure about that?” I challenge. “Because you look like you’re about to put me in a cage right now.”
"Only if the cage is my arms," he says, and then he’s moving.
He doesn't give me time to argue. He doesn't give me time to breathe. He scoops me up, my feet leaving the floor, and tosses me onto the large, smooth surface of my cutting table. The fabric I was working on bunches under me, the silk cool against my thighs, but all I can feel is Cag.
He steps between my legs, his heavy denim-clad thighs pressing against mine, forcing them apart. He leans over me, his hands pinning my wrists to the table on either side of my head. The dominance in his posture is absolute. He looks down at me with a hunger so raw it’s terrifying.
"You’re mine, Juliette," he rasps. "Every inch. Every breath. This workshop is yours because I wanted you to have a place where you could be yourself. But don’t think for one second that you don’t belong with me."
"I’m not a piece of land, Cag," I whisper, my defiance flickering like a candle in a gale. "You can’t just claim me."
"I already did," he says, his face inches from mine. “The moment you climbed into my truck, I knew I wanted you. But you’re here because you chose to stay.”
He kisses me then, and it’s not a gentle request. It’s a demand.
The kiss is rough, but beneath the hunger is the certainty that neither of us is walking away.
His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and determination, and I find myself arching off the table, my hands breaking free of his grip to tangle in his hair.
I want this. I want the weight of him, the heat of him, the absolute certainty of his possession.
He pulls back, his breathing ragged, and holds my gaze. The hunger in his face mirrors my own. He already knows the answer.
"Tell me," he commands.
"Tell you what?" I pant, my skin humming.
"Whose are you?"
I should be annoyed. I should have some witty comeback about my independence and my feminist ideals. But looking into his eyes, seeing the raw, bleeding vulnerability hidden behind all that possessive rage, I can’t.
"Yours," I whisper, the word a confession and a vow. "I’m yours, Cag."
His reaction is instantaneous. He growls, a low, animal sound, and his hands go to the hem of my skirt. He bunches the fabric up, exposing my legs to the cool air of the workshop, but the heat of his gaze is enough to burn me.
“Good. Because Conrad doesn’t get another piece of you, and neither does any client who makes you forget to eat.”
He reaches for his belt, the buckle clinking in the silence of the room. My eyes track his movements, the sight of his thick, scarred fingers working the leather making my throat go dry.
This is the man who saved me. Not from a dragon or a tower, but from a life of gilded boredom and emotional starvation. He’s rough, stubborn, and carrying scars that no longer decide what comes next.
"Christie mentioned at the Cozy Cup that the Black Aspen scouts were seen near the north gate again," I say, the words tumbling out as a desperate attempt to ground myself as he shucks his jeans.
Cag freezes for a split second, his jaw tightening. "They won't get past the gate. I’ve got Benjamin and Andy on rotation. They touch one blade of grass on this ranch, and I’ll bury them in the back pasture."
He’s not joking. I know he’s not. There’s a lethality in him when it comes to the people he loves, a feral streak that most people in Pine Valley are smart enough to fear.
"I know you will," I say, reaching out to touch the scar on his jaw. "But I don't want you to go to jail for me, Cag."
"I’d go to hell for you," he says, and then he’s pulling me toward the edge of the table, his hands hooking under my knees.
The physical reality of him hits me all at once. He’s thick and heavy and ready, the thin distance between us already gone. I’ve seen him before, felt him before, but it never gets easier. Every time feels like the first time, like a discovery of something primal and essential.
He doesn't waste time with fumbling or hesitation. He has already learned every reaction I fail to hide from him. His thumb finds the center of me, sliding through the slick heat that’s been building since he walked through the door.
I moan, my head falling back against the cutting table, my eyes fluttering shut.
His free hand catches my wrist, his thumb pressing into the pulse there. He holds it. He doesn’t say a word. He just waits.
I drag my eyes open. He’s watching me, his face a mask of intense concentration. He wants to see the pleasure he’s giving me. He wants to own that, too.
"You’re so wet for me, Juliette," he murmurs, his voice like gravel and honey. “Always ready for me, princess.”
"Shut up and get in here," I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.
A rare grin pulls at his mouth before he moves between my thighs.
He enters me in one long, smooth thrust that makes me cry out, the sensation of being filled by him so overwhelming I can’t breathe. He’s huge, a solid presence that stretches me to the limit, filling my cunt with a ruthless efficiency.
He doesn't move at first. He just stays there, buried deep inside me, his forehead resting against mine. We’re both shaking, the tension in the room so thick it’s a miracle the windows haven't shattered.
"Here," he whispers into the space between us. "This is where you stay."
"Here," I echo, my nails digging into his shoulders. "With you."
And then he starts to move.
It’s not a gentle rhythm. It’s a frantic, desperate grind, his hips slamming against mine with enough force to shake the heavy cutting table. Every thrust is a declaration, a physical manifestation of the obsession that’s been driving him since the day we met.
I’m lost in it. The smell of the workshop, the sound of his ragged breathing, the feeling of him filling me up until there’s no room for anything else. No room for fear. No room for my father’s voice. No room for the looming threat of Black Aspen.
There is only Cag.
He reaches down, his fingers finding my clit, circling it with a relentless pressure that sends me over the edge.
I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, the pleasure so intense it’s almost painful.
He doesn't stop. He keeps going, driving into me with a feral intensity, his own climax visible in the way his muscles lock and his eyes glaze over.
He lets out a low, guttural roar as he spills into me, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapses against me, his weight pinning me to the table, and for a long time, the only sound in the room is the frantic thudding of our hearts.
Eventually, he pulls back, his eyes searching mine. He looks... peaceful. It’s a rare look on him, one that’s usually reserved for when he’s finished a particularly difficult piece of whittling.
“Here,” he murmurs, holding me against him. “Stay with me.”
"Always," I say, and I mean it.
He helps me off the table, his hands lingering on my skin as if he can’t quite bear to let go. He helps me straighten my skirt, his fingers trembling slightly.
"I meant what I said, Juliette," he says, his voice serious. "The cabin’s done. Your father’s done. You’re never going back to that life. Never."
"I know," I say, leaning my head against his chest. "I’m home, Cag. I’m finally home."
We stand there for a moment, two broken people who found a way to be whole together, surrounded by the smell of silk and sawdust and the promise of a future that’s finally ours to build.
Outside, the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting the Pine Ridge Ranch in shades of violet and gold. The shadow of Black Aspen still looms, and my father is still out there, but as I look at Cag, I know we’re ready.
We aren't just surviving anymore. We’re thriving.
With Cag beside me, fear no longer makes my decisions.
The first rig pulls into the workshop drive at nine the next morning.
It’s a dusty silver crossover with out-of-state plates and a faded book-club sticker in the back window.
The woman who climbs out has a sun-creased face and her late mother’s plain gold wedding band hanging from a chain around her neck.
She carries a garment bag folded over both arms like a child.
Inside is the gown her mother wore nearly forty-five years ago: yellowed silk, a brittle bodice, and a tear beneath one arm where the dancing got too good.
Her own wedding is in eight weeks. The dress doesn’t fit, and she doesn’t want a new one.
"Heard you take rebuilds," she says. She doesn’t ask my prices. She doesn’t offer her name. The way she’s holding that bag is enough.
"Always," I say, and I’m already moving for the cutting table, pins between my teeth. "Let’s get her open."
Cag holds the door while we carry her mother’s dress into the clean morning light. It becomes my first restoration commission. As I spread the gown across the table and reach for my pins, I know it won’t be the last.
Right now, I have a cowboy to follow home. And for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I’m going.