Epilogue
VIRGIL
One Year Later
" L uke!"
"I'm helping!"
"That's what you said last time!"
I grin despite myself as the familiar argument echoes across the yard.
Some things never change.
The late-November sun hangs low above Deadfall Ridge, painting the aspens gold and setting the mountains ablaze.
The smell of roasting turkey drifts from the cabin.
Home. Funny word. Never thought much about it before. Not until I got my first taste of it.
A football sails through the air. I catch it one-handed.
Luke groans dramatically. "That's not fair."
"It is when you're throwing like a squirrel."
"I don't throw like a squirrel."
"You absolutely throw like a squirrel."
The boy scowls. Then laughs.
He's taller now. Still too skinny. Still reckless. Still entirely too brave.
Helen emerges from the cabin carrying a bowl twice the size of her head.
"Mom says if either of you break something before dinner, she's feeding you outside."
Luke immediately points at me. "Vir-gull started it."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
The screen door slams behind her. A moment later, Clara steps onto the porch. Everything inside me still goes quiet when I see her.
One year. One entire year. And somehow that hasn't changed.
The mountain breeze catches loose curls around her face. She's laughing already. Probably at us. Probably justified.
A gold wedding band glints on her left hand. Not Bryson's. Mine. The sight still humbles me. Still surprises me. Still feels like the best thing that's ever happened to me.
"Turkey's almost ready," she calls.
Luke cheers. Naturally. The boy treats every meal like a national holiday.
"Wash up first," Clara adds.
The cheering dies immediately.
I bark out a laugh. "Thought so."
Groans follow us toward the cabin. The familiar warmth hits the moment we step inside. Stuffing. Sweet potatoes. Pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving.
The table's bigger now. Needed to be. Too many people. Roscoe and Ginger are already here. Abe too. More neighbors drift in every year. The mountain taking care of its own.
I pause beside the mantle. Just for a second.
The photograph still sits there. Bryson. Grinning. Arms around Clara. Kids half their size. A life frozen in time.
I touch the frame lightly. The gesture is automatic now. Borne of habit and respect and memory.
None of those things fade. Not the important ones.
Behind me, Clara's hand slips into mine. I squeeze gently.
She doesn't say anything. Neither do I. We don't need to.
The kids race past us—two houses on fire.
“Walking feet,” she scolds.
“That ever work?” I ask, arching my eyebrow and meeting her gaze.
She laughs and shrugs when Ginger has to repeat the same thing. Only this time, they listen. Maybe it’s the school teacher thing.
Luke skids to a stop. “Papa Vir-gull?"
The nickname still hits me square in the chest.
Every time.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Pass the marshmallows."
I look toward the sweet potato casserole. Toward the giant bag waiting beside it. Then back at him. "Thought you'd never ask."
The cabin erupts into laughter.
Outside, the mountains stand watch beneath a sky streaked gold and crimson.
Inside, life goes on. Not the life we planned. Or the one we expected. But a good one all the same.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.
She came to the Sierra Nevada searching for adventure. Instead, she found me.
For seven days, I was supposed to protect Brynn Lovelace from the shadows. Watch her. Follow her. Keep her alive.
Nobody warned me she'd become my obsession. Or that some hunters eventually stop following the rules.