Epilogue
THANKSGIVING, THREE MONTHS LATER
Dad used to say Montana told you who it really was in November.
Stripped of all the green and the wildflowers and the long golden evenings, it was just the bones of the place—the fence lines and the dirt and the mountains standin' there like they'd been waitin' for you to stop bein' distracted long enough to notice 'em.
I'd always loved that about Montana.
Mom had been cookin' since dawn. Not at her place—at Rhett's.
When the guest list had grown past what her kitchen and table could handle, Rhett had offered the main house without bein' asked.
Bigger kitchen, bigger table, bigger everything.
Mom had protested for about thirty seconds before she'd loaded up her truck with enough food to feed a small army and set up camp in the Calloway kitchen like she owned the place.
Rhett didn't seem to mind. If anything, havin' Colleen Lancaster commandeerin' his kitchen gave the house a warmth it'd been missin' since his mama had stopped comin' home.
Mr. Calloway was notably absent—Vegas, supposedly, though no one asked and no one cared.
The house breathed easier without him in it.
The dining table was stretched to its limit with both leaves in, covered in that cream-colored tablecloth Mom only brought out for holidays.
Candles. The good plates—the ones with the little wheat pattern around the edges that had belonged to my grandmother.
Enough food to bankrupt a man if he stopped to think about the grocery bill, which Mom would never let him do because she'd swat his hand and tell him to sit down and be grateful.
So I sat down and was grateful.
Rhett took one head of the table because it was his house.
Mom took the other because she cooked this damn fine meal and deserved it.
Elena and Chase were to Rhett's left, their baby girl asleep in a portable bassinet tucked behind Elena's chair—one of those fancy ones with the mesh sides that probably cost more than my first truck.
John and Hank anchored the far end, John lookin' better than I'd seen him in months.
Regular trips out to the ranch had done somethin' for the old man that the facility never could—fresh air, purpose, a granddaughter who showed up every Sunday to take him ridin'.
His color was good. His eyes were sharp.
He was givin' Hank shit about his cloudy eye, which was as reliable a sign of health as any doctor could hope for.
Luke sat across from me, quiet as usual, workin' through his plate with methodical focus, avoidin' eye contact like he was afraid I'd start askin' questions.
Calvin was on my right, her knee pressed against mine under the table in the way that had become so natural I barely noticed it anymore. Barely. Still noticed it enough for my dick to have an opinion, which was not appropriate at Thanksgiving dinner with my mother sittin' three feet away.
Somewhere between the turkey and the sweet potatoes, Hank leaned forward and fixed me with that cloudy eye.
"Lancaster."
"Sir."
"Why you still payin' rent on that apartment above my bar?"
Good fuckin' question, Hank.
The truth was, I hadn't slept there in months. My clothes were at the house. My toothbrush was at the house. I had a designated side of the bed. So did Calvin. And Cat slept wherever the fuck she pleased—which was anywhere and everywhere except the damn bed I'd bought her.
But Calvin and I'd never actually talked about movin' in together.
And I wasn't about to presume. The house was mine on paper.
I paid the mortgage, I'd rebuilt half the damn thing with my own hands.
But it was Calvin's home—her space, her rules, her decision whether I was a guest or a permanent fixture.
She'd spent her whole life havin' men decide things for her. I wasn't about to be one more.
So I'd kept payin' rent on an apartment I didn't live in, because it felt safer than askin' a question I wasn't sure I'd survive the answer to.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again. Nothin'.
I looked at Calvin. She was watchin' me over her wine glass with that expression—brow raised, mouth curved, entirely unhelpful.
She held my gaze for a beat.
Then she shrugged one shoulder and turned to Hank. "Looks like he ain't payin' no more."
Just like that.
No fanfare. No discussion. No definin' the relationship over dinner rolls. She went back to her wine, Hank grunted like the matter was settled, and I sat there with the quiet, stunned realization that a woman who couldn't be bothered to make a big thing of it had just moved me in with her.
Mom, to her credit, said nothin'. But I caught the tremble in her lip before she stuffed a forkful of sweet potatoes in her mouth.
The conversation drifted the way it does at big dinners—topics risin' and fallin' like tides, everyone talkin' over each other in that comfortable, familiar way that meant nobody was performin'.
Chase was tellin' Rhett 'bout his job as a ski instructor back in Michigan.
Luke and John had found common ground in their mutual distaste for small talk, which meant they were sittin' in companionable silence while the rest of us carried on around 'em.
Mom was makin' sure every plate stayed full with relentless efficiency because she expressed love primarily through carbohydrates.
It was durin' one of those natural lulls—the kind where everyone's chewin' and the only sound is forks on plates—that Calvin leaned forward and looked past me toward Rhett to ask a question she damn well already knew the answer to.
"Think Sassy'll be home for Christmas?"
Those two talked. Texted, called, probably sent each other those little memes Calvin pretended she was too cool for but absolutely was not. If Sassy was comin' home for Christmas, Calvin knew about it before anyone at this table. Which meant this wasn't a question.
It was a crowbar.
Rhett's fork paused over his plate for exactly one second before resumin' its path. He didn't look up.
"Haven't the faintest clue what that woman will or won't do."
The words were even. Practiced, almost. Like he'd been sayin' some version of 'em to himself for three months until they stopped soundin' like they hurt.
They still sounded like they hurt.
Calvin wasn't done. She never was when she had her teeth in somethin'. Always pokin' the bear. "Huh. That's a shame. Guess we'll just have to—"
Luke cleared his throat. "I bumped into her, actually. Said she'll be home."
The table went quiet enough that I could hear the baby shift in her bassinet.
Every head at the table swiveled toward my brother. Well—most of 'em. Rhett's didn't move, but his shoulders stiffened. A tension fillin' him that he'd deny to his dyin' breath.
I narrowed my eyes at Luke. "Where'd you bump into her? Bozeman?"
His fork stopped. "Oh, uh." He blinked once. "Yeah." He nodded—one too many times, which was a good sign he was tellin' half truths. "Yep."
"And what exactly were you doin' in—"
"Brody, sweetheart, could you help me with the pie?" Mom's voice cut clean through the conversation, the particular tone she used when she was not askin'. She was already halfway to the kitchen, not waitin' for an answer.
I held Luke's gaze across the table.
He held mine right back.
I narrowed my eyes further.
He'd slip up eventually.
They always did.
Mom's pie—pumpkin and apple, because she'd been makin' Calvin's favorite since July and showed no signs of stoppin'—bought the table another forty minutes of easy conversation.
Chase had seconds. John had thirds, and when Hank gave him a look, John told him to mind his own goddamn business, which made Calvin snort into her wine.
After dessert, the table broke apart the way tables do.
Mom started on dishes despite everyone's protests.
Chase and Rhett drifted toward the back porch to look out the sliding glass doors at Montana in all her glory.
Luke helped Mom because he was the good son, a fact he communicated to me with a single raised eyebrow as I sat on my ass doin' nothin'.
I was about to haul myself up and at least pretend to be useful when I noticed Calvin and Elena had drifted to the far end of the living room. They were standin' by the window, wine in hand, talkin' low. Elena's back was to me, but I could see Calvin's face.
She was listenin'. Really listenin'—not with the polite impatience she gave most people, but with the particular stillness she reserved for things that mattered.
Her expression was open in a way I rarely saw directed at anyone who wasn't me or John or Cat.
Whatever Elena was sayin', it had found its way past the armor.
I didn't know the details of what they were talkin' about. Didn't need to. I knew enough about what Elena had survived—Rhett had told me, voice tight and careful, the kind of careful that meant he was holdin' back the urge to put his fist through somethin'. And I knew what Calvin had carried.
At some point, Calvin said somethin' that made Elena laugh—short and surprised, like she hadn't expected to. Calvin's mouth curved into that rare, unguarded smile, and Elena wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand before laughin' again.
When Calvin found me later, she didn't say a word about the conversation. Just squeezed my hand on her way past and kept movin'. Her eyes were a little red. I loved her so much it was hard to stand still.
The baby woke up around the time the coffee came out, and Elena brought her to the table. I'd already held her twice before dinner, and I was not above beggin' for a third. I reached out my arms before Elena had even fully sat down.
"May I?"
Elena laughed and handed her over. The baby was warm and impossibly small and smelled like baby shampoo, and when she wrapped her tiny fist around my finger I damn near short-circuited. I tucked her into the crook of my arm—the one that hadn't been dislocated by a psychopath—and rocked her gently.
Calvin was watchin' me from across the table with her nose scrunched up.
"Oh, come on." I bounced the baby gently, doin' my level best to pretend I knew a damn thing about carin' for a tiny human. "Don't you want a buncha little vipers slitherin' around?"
She took a slow sip of her wine. "Better start poppin' 'em out if we're gonna fill up all those barstools." She tipped her glass vaguely in the direction of town—of our house, with its finished island in its finished kitchen in its finished whole ass house—finally. "I ain't gettin' any younger."
I went very still.
The baby squirmed in my arms and let out a little squeak that I barely registered because my brain was busy bufferin' like a video loadin' with a bad internet connection.
"You serious?"
She tilted her head. Gave me a look over the rim of her glass that was part flirt, part dare, and one hundred percent designed to make me lose my goddamn mind.
I looked at Rhett. He was already shakin' his head.
I looked at my mom. She was clutchin' her napkin to her chest with both hands, eyes wide and shiny.
I looked at Luke, who had stopped mid-sip and was watchin' the whole thing with quiet amusement.
I looked at John. The old man raised his water glass in my direction like a salute.
I looked back at Calvin.
She shrugged. That little half-shrug she did when she was pretendin' somethin' didn't matter when it mattered more than anything.
"Sorry, y'all." I stood, carefully transferrin' the baby to Elena. "We gotta go. Calvin wants me to put a baby in 'er."
"Brody!" Mom's shriek was loud enough to rattle the good plates loaded in the dishwasher.
Calvin was already on her feet, laughin' and backin' toward the door. "I did not say that—"
I scooped her up and tossed her over my shoulder before she could finish the sentence. She let out a sound that was half scream, half cackle, her fists poundin' against my lower back without a shred of real effort behind 'em.
"Put me down, you Neanderthal!"
"Can't hear you. Too busy procreatin'."
Behind us, the table erupted. I coulda sworn I heard John Calvin laugh for the first time since I'd known him.
I made it out the door to the front porch before she wiggled free enough to slide down my front, her boots hittin' the wood planks as her arms settled around my neck. The cold air hit us both, sharp enough to make her gasp, but neither of us moved to go back inside.
The mountains were lit up in that late November light—pink and gold along the snowline, the sky behind 'em fadin' from blue to somethin' deeper. Our breath made little clouds between us.
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"You love it."
"Unfortunately."
I kissed her. Slow, the way I'd learned she liked when she wasn't in charge and wasn't tryin' to be—just soft and steady and unhurried, my hands on her face, thumbs brushin' her cheekbones.
When I pulled back, she was lookin' at me with those eyes. The ones without the armor. The ones that were just hers—green and blue and somethin' in between, and so goddamn beautiful it still knocked the wind outta me every single time.
"I love you," she said.
Quiet.
Simple.
Like it was easy.
It wasn't easy. I knew that.
Knew what those three words cost her when she'd spent the better part of her life runnin' from the possibility of 'em.
But she said 'em like they were nothin', and maybe that was the point.
Maybe love wasn't supposed to be hard. Maybe, when you finally found the right person, it was just supposed to be true.
I pulled her into my chest and held on.
Inside, I could hear the sounds of the people I loved most in this world.
Somewhere in there, Mom's voice cut through all the noise like she was conductin' an orchestra.
Somewhere in there, a baby fussed and was soothed.
Somewhere in there, my brother was keepin' secrets and my best friend was missin' a girl he wouldn't talk about and an old man was eatin' pie on a ranch he'd built with his own hands, like he'd finally come home, too.
And out here, on a porch in Montana with the woman who'd walked into a bar and turned my whole damn world sideways, I finally understood what my dad had.
Not just love. Not just the butterflies-and-bullshit version of it that songs were written about.
The real thing. The kind that made you build a kitchen island big enough for half a dozen babies and buy pink cat bowls with Princess written on the front.
The kind where a woman looked at you like you were the sun.
And you spent every day of your life tryin' to be worthy of it.