Epilogue 1
Sadie
Three months later
Montana in April has two settings:
Warm enough to make you believe winter finally surrendered, and
Cold enough to punish you for optimism.
Today? The sun is winning—barely.
I’m at our kitchen table surrounded by textbooks, lecture notes, and three empty mugs.
I worked with my old program to transfer to a partner vet school here in Montana. I’m continuing my third year remotely, with Dr. Blake, the Havenridge vet who treated Maisie, as my clinical mentor.
Healing, learning, and rebuilding a life all at once. Some days I keep up. Some days, the past tries to nip at my heels.
But I’m back in.
Now I split my time between lectures, hands-on work with Dr. Blake, and trying not to overthink the future.
But for the first time, that future feels like something I get to shape on my own terms.
Maisie’s ears prick, and she lifts her head from the rug. A truck rumbles up the drive. Boots crunch. The porch creaks.
Before the door even opens, my chest warms. My body knows the sound of him.
Wyatt steps inside like the cabin shrank while he was gone—broad shoulders, wind-ruffled hair, cheeks pink from the cold. He pulls off his gloves, sets them on the counter, then gives me that slow, devastating smile.
“Hey, wife.”
My heart still skitters like it hasn’t learned he says that every day. “Hey, husband.”
We didn’t wait to get married. Not after everything.
When love shows up steady and real, you don’t put it on hold. You say yes. You build the life while you’re living it.
Wyatt leans down and kisses me. Slow. Warm. Annoyingly distracting from bovine hoof anatomy.
He glances at my notes. “You eat lunch?”
I lift an empty mug. “Does tea count?”
Wyatt snorts, then turns to the stove, reheating the soup he insisted on making this morning. He does this without commenting. He’s good at taking care of me in ways that don’t make me feel fragile.
“How’s it going?” he asks over the simmer.
“Good. My radiology professor called me ‘enthusiastically inquisitive,’ which I have decided is not code for annoying.”
Wyatt carries my bowl over. “Dove, that man wishes all his students were like you.”
I try not to blush like a teenager. Fail spectacularly.
He notices the building plans on the counter—our future house behind the barn. “Tom came by,” he says. “If the weather holds, we break ground next week.”
My breath catches. “For the house or the clinic?”
“Both.” He sits across from me, elbows braced on the table. “You’ll need a clinic once you’re licensed.”
I toss him a grin. “You just don’t want goats in our kitchen anymore.”
“Damn right.” He points at Maisie. “This one’s fine. The gremlin herd? No.”
Maisie wags, smug.
I reach for my tea and accidentally rub the shoulder Clarissa’s man grazed months ago. Wyatt notices instantly—he always notices—and his whole body tilts toward me. Not tense. Just aware. Ready.
“Shoulder hurting?” he asks quietly.
“A little. Cold makes it cranky.”
He presses a warm thumb to the muscle and kneads gently. “Better?”
I melt like butter on a stove. “Yeah. Thank you.”
My nerves were like tripwires after the kidnapping.
The first few nights, I woke gasping, and he pulled me into his chest without a word, palm steady on my spine until the world stopped spinning.
Now the nightmares come less often… but he still reaches for me in his sleep, like his body keeps watch even when his mind rests.
We step outside with fresh mugs. The sun glints off the snow, promising a spring it hasn’t entirely delivered. Wind whistles through the trees. Somewhere across the field, the goats scream like tiny demons.
Wyatt slides an arm around my waist. “Shay texted. Max said ‘Sadie’ this morning.”
I grin. “He likes me.”
“He likes anyone who feeds him biscuits.”
I elbow him. He grunts. I smirk. He bends to kiss my temple—that quiet, grounding touch he still gives me when shadows flicker behind my ribs.
After a moment, he asks, “You doing okay today?”
He means:
Any panic? Any nightmares? Is Clarissa’s trial next week making you spiral?
Instead of asking all that, he just gives me space to choose.
“I’m okay,” I say honestly. “Nervous, but… good. The statements are done. Harry—Agent Hawk—said the evidence is solid, and Clarissa won’t see daylight for a long time.”
Wyatt exhales slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. “Good.”
“Tex still texting you photos of drones?” I ask.
Wyatt huffs. “He’s trying to convince me to install a perimeter system around the new house.”
“Are you going to?”
He shrugs. “Probably. Tank volunteered to dig trenches for the wiring.”
I laugh. “He just wants an excuse to use the backhoe.”
A long silence settles, comfortable and sun-warmed. The kind that didn’t exist in my life before him.
“We made it,” Wyatt murmurs. “Three months ago, we weren’t sure we would.”
“But we did.” I squeeze his hand. “And now we get to live. How long do you think till the house is done?”
“That depends on how often you distract me during construction,” he teases.
I raise an eyebrow. “Can’t help it if my husband is the hottest thing in jeans and flannel.”
He sets his mug down and turns fully toward me, crowding me gently against the porch rail. “And my wife is the hottest thing, period.”
I wrap my arms around his neck as he kisses me slow and deep.
When he pulls back, his breath brushes my lips. “You talking about distractions?”
I slide my hand down his chest to where his jeans are getting decidedly not empty. “Maybe.”
He growls. Actually growls.
“You keep that up,” he warns, scooping me into his arms, “and we’re never getting this damn house built.”
I kiss his jaw. “We should build memories while we build the foundation.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” His voice drops to a sinful rumble. “You’re the only blueprint I’m following today.”
He carries me toward the bedroom—laughing when I tug his shirt, groaning when I kiss his neck—while outside, the wind whistles through the pines like it’s blessing the life we’ve chosen.
And as he lays me back on the bed and covers my body with his, I know one thing with absolute clarity:
I’m home.
Finally.
Completely.
Home.