Epilogue - Teagan
THREE MONTHS LATER
The bronze ceremonial shovel in my hand is shimmering in the sun, its handle wrapped in forest-green ribbon. Three months of permits, pine resin, and panty-melting distractions with a certain reformed lumberjack have led here—groundbreaking day at the Timber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp.
Rourke whoops as he unfurls a banner reading *“Sustainability Meets Sawdust!”* across the freshly built cedar welcome arch. Brady, the tree climber, adjusts his safety goggles, double-checking the solar panel array we installed last week. Even Graham’s here, axe-thrower and wood splitting master, cursing the compost toilet prototype, grumbling about “kids these days and their damn Wi-Fi trees.”
My chest swells. Our chaos. Our dream.
“You’re doing that thing again.” Connor’s beard tickles my ear as he slips an arm around my waist. His flannel smells like sawdust and the peppermint soap I bought him—a concession after I threatened to burn his “vintage” (read: moldy) hunting gear.
“What thing?” I lean into him, humming when his thumb brushes the sensitive skin of my hips he rediscovered last night.
“The glowing.” He turns me to face him, blue eyes crinkling. “Makes me want to drag you into the tool shed.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Don’t. Ewan’s already side-eyeing us.”
The Scotsman winks from across the clearing, raising a flask. “Get a bothà !” That’s Gaelic for “room.”
Connor’s laugh rumbles through me. “Too late. He’s Team Teagan now.”
Before I can retort, a horn blares. A mint-green VW van skids into the lot, trailing dust and ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” My sister, Opal, tumbles out, all neon overalls and bedhead, her British Architecture Review cap askew.
“Sorry I’m late!” She brandishes a Tupperware container. “Had to pick up vegan haggis!”
Ewan blanches. “You’ve doomed us all.”
I squeeze Connor’s bicep—my new stress-relief habit—as Opal bear-hugs Graham, then fist-bumps Rourke. She’s been video-calling weekly, demanding updates on the “lumberjack baby timeline.”
“You didn’t tell me she was coming,” I whisper.
Connor’s throat bobs. “Surprise?”
Something’s off. He’s been jittery all morning—tripping over stump removals, burning the coffee—but now sweat beads his temples despite the crisp mountain air.
I poke his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Stage fright,” he lies, kissing my knuckles. “Go be brilliant, Smokey.”
The crew gathers around the first foundation trench. Brady films on his phone as I step onto the makeshift podium—a tree stump carved with lichen patterns. Connor hovers at the edge, arms crossed like he’s bracing for impact.
“This camp isn’t just about preserving history,” I begin, voice echoing through the pines. “It’s about honoring how traditions evolve. How axe swings and soil samples can tell the same story.”
Opal sniffs loudly. Graham mutters, “Fuckin’ pollen.”
Connor’s gaze anchors me, steady as old growth. “We built this through compromise. Through listening.” My throat tightens. “And maybe through some… heated debates over renewable energy credits.”
Rourke’s cackle cuts the tension. “He means sex! They solved erosion issues by boning ? — ”
“Moving on!” My cheeks ache from grinning. “This shovel…” I hoist it with both hands. “Represents the first step in a legacy that—Connor, where are you going?”
He’s knee-deep in the foundation trench, patting his pockets frantically. “Dropped my…uh…nail gun!”
Ewan facepalms. Brady mumbles, “Finally.”
My heartbeat drowns out the laughter as Connor drops to one knee. Mud stains his jeans, the morning light catching the little black box in his palm.
“Teagan Alison Kent.” His voice cracks. “You bulldozed into my life like a goddamn wildfire. Burned up all my lonely nights and dead-end roads.” The box creaks open. A ring winks—twisted silver branches cradling an emerald. “Marry me. Build this crazy life with me. Let me love you till my last stubborn breath.”
The shovel clangs to the dirt. Opal shrieks. Rourke howls, “ SAY YES OR I WILL! ”
But all I see is Connor—open, humble, and mine —offering forever without a single backup plan.
I leap into the trench, wrapping muddy legs around his waist. “Yes. Yes, you over-prepared nerd ? —”
He swallows the rest with a kiss that tastes like my future. The crew’s cheers shake the pines.
Later, when the moonshine flows and Ewan’s fiddle rendition of “Timber!” crescendos, Connor leads me to our half-built treehouse office. Research papers flutter in the breeze, tangled with blueprints.
He takes my hands in his, slightly trembling. “Had to make it epic.”
“You forgot the shovel speech.” I press closer, drunk on everything about him.
“Nah, Smokey.” His forehead rests against mine. “You’re my shovel speech. Digging me out of the dark.”
Opal bangs on the wall below. “THE MICROPHONE WORKS!”
We break apart, laughing. Down in the clearing, our future blazes—Rourke teaching Brady TikTok dances, Graham grumbling over Ewan’s haggis experiments, Opal DJing from the compost toilet throne.
Connor nuzzles my pulse point. “Still want that PhD?”
“Only if you’re my fieldwork.” I nip his lips. “Full-time benefits.”
His grin rivals the rising moon. “Best damn job I’ll ever have.”
As the crew’s off-key anthem echoes through Timber Run, I realize forests aren’t the only things that grow.
Some hearts, once split by doubt, fuse stronger at the seams—ready to shelter every wild, wonderful season ahead.