Epilogue Daliah
Daliah
Epilogue
The swing hanging from the old oak tree behind our cabin, thick rope braided and sturdy, a wooden seat worn smooth from years of use, is currently creaking and groaning beneath precious cargo.
Wren, all seven years of wild curls and River’s serious eyes, pumps her legs with fierce concentration.
Perched on her lap is a chubby two-year-old, one arm wrapped around his middle, is Leon.
His grip on the worn crocheted bear—Melanie’s handiwork, its yarn matted soft from years of love—never falters, even as they swing higher.
I chuckle from my spot on the porch, watching them try to get higher, all while struggling to beat their normal limit.
Behind me, the screen door creaks open. Warmth soon settles against my back, broad and familiar, and then River’s arms are wrapping around my waist, his chin dropping to my shoulder.
“They get that determination from you,” he murmurs against my ear.
I lean into him, smiling. “Pretty sure that’s all you.”
His laugh is a low rumble I feel everywhere. His lips find my neck, hardly more than a brush, and I tip my head to give him better access. Eight years since that first kiss at the park, and my body still responds to him like it’s discovering him for the first time.
“Gross.” Wren’s voice carries across the yard, and we both glance over to find her covering Leon’s eyes with one small hand while squinting at us in disapproval. “No kissing. Leon can’t see.”
River pulls back just enough to call out, “Leon can’t see what?”
“The kissing.” She says it like it’s a dirty word. Leon, oblivious, continues chewing on his bear’s ear.
I snort, shaking my head. Unwilling to move, he doesn’t budge, either. He tightens his arms around me, and for a moment, we just stand there, enjoying the nice summer heat.
The hives are just barely visible from here, a cluster of white boxes nestled among the wildflowers at the edge of the property to keep the kids from getting stung.
My bees, still mine after all these years, though now they share the space with River’s large, fruity garden, which he spends every morning in.
Noticing me getting lost in the view instead of with him, he reaches out with a goal in mind.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. The look in his eyes, all warm and hungry, makes my stomach flip the way it always does. Like an invitation waiting to be accepted.
His mouth curves at how quickly I become pink, easily amused.
“Daddy!” Wren has apparently decided the kissing moratorium is over. “Push us!”
River makes a humming noise against my hair, presses one more kiss to my temple, and ambles toward the swing. I watch him go, already sighing longingly.
He catches me looking and winks.
I’m still blushing like a teenager when he reaches the swing and gives it a mighty push. Wren shrieks with delight. Leon giggles, his bear dropping to the grass below, forgotten.
We’ll find it later.
River pushes the swing a little higher, and for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be, with the kids laughing, and my husband grinning like there’s nothing more he needs in life.
When he glances back at me, something soft fills his gaze, and it’s enough to wake up the butterflies in my stomach.
I really love this man.
Later, after the kids are asleep, after the mountain goes dark and quiet—later, I’ll have him to myself.
But for now, I have this, and it’s more than enough.