Epilogue
Bear crushed the empty soda can in his fist and tossed it into the recycling bin across the room.
Three couples, six lovesick fools with their arms wrapped around each other like they’d never let go.
He should be happy for them—was happy for them—but the sight of so much domestic bliss made his skin itch.
He reached for another soda, wishing for the hundredth time tonight that it was something stronger.
“Need something with more kick?” River sidled up next to him, waggling his eyebrows. “I’ve got a flask.”
“Don’t even joke about that shit.” Bear popped the tab on his Coke, the sweet fizz hitting his nose. “Eight years sober next month.”
“Right, sorry man.” River didn’t look sorry.
Just bored, restless. His gaze swept the main house living room, where Walker and Johanna stood arm-in-arm by the fireplace, Nessie nestled against Jax near the windows, and Anson actually smiling—smiling—as Maggie showed off her ring to a cluster of women from town.
“Feel like we’re crashing someone else’s prom, don’t you? ”
“More like a wedding. Triple wedding.”
“Just missing the cake and garter toss.” River chugged his beer. “Though I bet we could convince the ladies to toss something. Maybe their—”
“Don’t.” Bear cut him off with a glare. “Don’t make me put you through a wall.”
“Easy, big guy.” River held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”
The front door banged open, letting in a blast of night air. Greta Dougherty stood silhouetted in the doorway, her wild strawberry blonde hair escaping its braid, clothes dusty from the trail. Dirt smudged her jawline, and the set of her mouth was tight as she surveyed the room.
“Sorry I’m late.” She didn’t sound sorry. Sounded pissed, actually. “Lost track of time.”
Johanna broke away from Walker to greet her. “We saved you some food. It’s in the kitchen.”
Greta nodded but made no move toward food.
Instead, she pulled a silver flask from her jacket pocket and took a long swallow, her eyes daring anyone to comment.
Bear watched the motion of her throat as she drank, the slight wince as the whiskey hit.
He knew that wince. Knew that burn. Knew he should look away before the phantom taste filled his own mouth.
“Jesus,” River muttered. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Bear grunted and moved toward the kitchen, putting distance between himself and Greta’s flask. He’d learned the hard way to recognize his triggers, to give them a wide berth. And right now, Greta Dougherty—dusty, angry, drinking—was a five-alarm fire of temptation.
King followed at his heels, massive paws padding silently across the hardwood. The big Leonberger sensed his unease, always did. Bear’s hand dropped to scratch behind the dog’s ears, grateful for the anchor.
“You hiding from me, McKenna?”
He turned to find Greta leaning against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed. Her flask peeked from her jacket pocket, and he forced his gaze up to her face.
“Nope.” He opened the refrigerator, pretending to look for something. “Just getting another drink.”
“Sure.” She didn’t buy it. “Because sodas are kept in the produce drawer.”
He shoved the door shut. “What do you want, Greta?”
“Nothing.” She brushed past him to grab a plate from the counter, loading it with cold cuts and cheese. “Just wondering why Montana’s biggest mountain man is hiding in the kitchen at the engagement party of the century.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Right.” She took another swig from her flask, not bothering to hide it. “You’re admiring Jo’s wallpaper.”
He kept his face expressionless, but his fists clenched at his sides. “Rough day on the trails?”
Her eyes narrowed, green as bottle glass and just as sharp. “Could say that.”
“Find anything?”
“You know I didn’t.” She stabbed a piece of cheese with a toothpick. “I never do.”
The unspoken name hung between them. Alice. Greta’s missing twin sister. The ghost that drove her into the wilderness day after day, searching for clues everyone else believed didn’t exist.
“Maybe it’s time to—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. “Don’t tell me it’s time to stop looking. Don’t tell me to accept she’s gone. Just... don’t.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to.”
She studied him, suspicious, then deflated slightly. “Sorry. It’s just—everyone’s so fucking happy. Playing house. Building perfect little lives. And I’m...” She trailed off, shoving food in her mouth to avoid finishing the sentence.
“Just what?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Forget it.”
From the living room came a burst of laughter. Jax’s low chuckle, Nessie’s bright peal, Oliver’s excited squeal. The sounds of family. Of belonging.
“Sounds like the honeymoon phase is in full swing,” Greta said, her voice brittle.
“They deserve to be happy.”
“Sure they do. Everyone does. Get married. Have babies. Build white picket fences.” She took another swig. “Until reality crashes in and wrecks it all.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Bear stepped closer, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry into the living room. “You think because your life got wrecked, everyone else’s will too? That’s bullshit.”
“Did I hit a nerve, Bear?” She tilted her head, eyes glinting with dangerous curiosity. “What, were you playing house once? Before prison? Or is it that you’re jealous you don’t have someone to build a fence with?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.” The words came out as a growl. King pressed against his leg, sensing the shift in his mood.
“I know you’ve been staring at me since I walked in.” She set her plate down, stepping closer. “I know you’re watching my flask like it might bite you. And I know you hate that I can drink when you can’t.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t hate anything about you.”
“Liar.” She was close enough now that he could smell the whiskey on her breath, see the freckles scattered across her nose, the tiny scar at the corner of her left eyebrow. “You hate that I make you uncomfortable. That I don’t fit into this perfect little Valor Ridge family.”
“You think any of us fit? You think we’re perfect? Christ, Greta, we’re ex-cons and broken soldiers. We’ve all got demons.”
“Don’t compare your demons to mine.” Her voice dropped lower, something raw bleeding through her anger. “Mine is still out there. Somewhere. Maybe still alive.”
“And you think getting shitfaced every night helps you find her?” The words were out before he could stop them.
Her palm cracked against his cheek, the slap echoing in the suddenly silent kitchen. “Fuck you.”
He caught her wrist as she pulled back, not hard, just firm enough to stop her retreating. “I deserve that.”
“Damn right you do.” She tried to tug free, but he held on.
“I’m sorry.” He meant it. “That was over the line.”
She stared at him, eyes flashing with anger, confusion, and something else—something that made his pulse kick against his throat. They were standing too close, her wrist still caught in his grip, their breathing synchronized in short, sharp pulls.
“Let me go.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Are you okay to drive?”
“I had two sips, Bear. I’m not drunk.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He released her wrist but didn’t step back. “Are you okay?”
For a moment, the mask slipped, and he saw it—the bone-deep exhaustion, the fear, the desperate hope she couldn’t let go of.
“No.” The word was so soft he almost missed it. “But I don’t need you to fix me.”
“Never thought I could.”
“Good.” She swallowed hard, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth. “Because I’m unfixable.”
He was suddenly aware of how small the kitchen was, how easily he could back her against the counter, how her pulse raced beneath the skin where he’d held her wrist.
“You planning to rip each other’s clothes or faces off?” River asked, heavy with amusement. “Because either way, you should probably get a room. There are children present.”
Greta jerked backward like she’d been burned, nearly tripping over King in her haste to put space between them. “Jesus, River. Wear a bell or something. You’re almost as bad as Ghost.”
“And miss all the sexual tension? Not a chance.” River leaned against the doorframe, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “Seriously, though, you two are putting off enough heat to melt the ice sculpture at Walker and Jo’s wedding.”
“There’s no ice sculpture,” Bear growled.
“Metaphorically speaking.” River wiggled his eyebrows. “So, what’s it gonna be? Clothes or faces?”
“Neither.” Greta snatched her plate from the counter, eyes deliberately avoiding Bear’s. “I was just leaving.”
“Running away, you mean,” River said.
“Call it whatever you want.” She pushed past him, flask abandoned on the counter. “I have an early start tomorrow.”
“Greta—” Bear started after her, but she was already gone, the front door slamming behind her with enough force to rattle the windows.
“Smooth, very smooth.” River slow-clapped. “You have such a way with women, Bear. It’s like watching a grizzly trying to dance ballet. Very entertaining.”
“Fuck off.” Bear stalked past him, King following closely. He needed air, space, something to cool the heat crawling up his neck and the anger pulsing in his veins.
He didn’t make it to the door. Walker intercepted him, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
“Just getting some air.”
Walker studied him. “Everything okay with Greta?”
“Fine.” The lie tasted sour. “She’s just having a rough day.”
“Uh-huh. Well, don’t be long.” Walker clapped him on the shoulder. “Johanna’s about to make a toast.”
Bear nodded and slipped out the back door, grateful for the cool night air against his flushed skin. King bounded ahead, disappearing into the darkness for a moment before circling back, his massive form a shadow among shadows.