Epilogue
FAITH
If there’s a checklist for a perfect wedding day, mine is… slightly different from how it used to be.
Yes, there are flowers. Yes, there’s a dress. Yes, there are people everywhere asking if I’ve eaten and whether my lipstick is too much—it’s not, Charlotte, and I will die on this hill.
But the biggest box on my list?
Breathing.
I’m breathing like I’m allowed to.
Which is a weird thing to notice on your wedding day, but then again, I’ve had a wedding day before.
The first one came with chandeliers bright enough to interrogate you and a schedule tight enough to cut off your circulation.
This one comes with sunlight and wood and laughter and a faint smell of hay that somehow makes everything feel more real.
I’m standing in the little bridal room at Buckhorn’s community hall, because apparently, this is what happens when you marry a cowboy. You don’t rent a ballroom, you borrow the town, and it shows up with folding chairs and casseroles and opinions.
The room is warm. The window is open a crack. I can hear people outside. Boots on gravel, voices calling, the low hum of music someone’s testing. There’s a breeze that stirs the edge of my veil and makes my stomach flip.
In the mirror, I look like myself.
Not a magazine cover. Not a brand. Not a pretty proposal someone else wrote.
Me.
My dress is simple in the way things are simple when they’re honest. Lace at the sleeves, soft skirt, nothing too stiff.
No corset trying to convince my lungs they’re optional.
My grandmother’s locket rests against my collarbone, warm from my skin.
My hands are steady when I touch it, and that alone feels like a miracle.
Behind me, Charlotte makes a sound like she’s either about to cry or about to start a riot.
“Okay,” she says, pointing a mascara wand at my reflection like a weapon. “If anyone tries to tell you to stop smiling today, I will physically remove them from the premises.”
Jet, perched on the edge of the old couch with her hair pinned in soft curls, snorts. “Premises. Listen to you. Very official.”
Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I’m practicing. I’m the Maid of Honor. I have duties.”
“You have threats,” Rose murmurs from the corner, adjusting the small bouquet of wildflowers she’s holding like she’s handling something sacred. Her eyes are already shiny. “Mostly threats.”
“I’m versatile,” Charlotte says, then softens when she meets my gaze in the mirror. Her voice goes a little quieter. “You look… happy. Like, actually happy.”
My chest loosens at that. Because a year ago, Charlotte would’ve said it like a dare. Like she was waiting for the other shoe. For the world to yank happiness away the moment I reached for it.
Now she says it like she believes I’m allowed.
“I am,” I whisper.
Rose presses a hand to her own chest and inhales like the words hit her physically. “Thank God.”
Jet’s mouth curves, all softness under the sarcasm. “Okay, stop. If all of you cry, I’m going to cry, and then my eyeliner will look like I lost a bar fight.”
Charlotte tosses a bobby pin at her. “It’s fine. You’d still win.”
Jet catches it mid-air without looking. “Facts.”
On the other side of the room, Lila and Ellie are… not being flower girls so much as being tiny agents of chaos in tulle.
Ellie is spinning in circles with a basket on her arm, tossing petals onto the carpet like she’s blessing the room with glitter.
Lila is watching her with the serious concentration of a kid who has been assigned a job she intends to do correctly.
“Ellie,” Lila says firmly. “Those are for the aisle.”
Ellie stops spinning long enough to blink at her. “But this is a floor.”
“Yes,” Lila says, as if Ellie is missing the entire point on purpose. “But not the floor.”
Ellie considers that, then lowers her voice dramatically. “What if we do extra petals so it’s more romantic?”
Lila’s gaze flicks to me, like she’s silently asking if she’s allowed to confiscate Ellie’s basket.
I hold in a laugh.
This is my life now. Two little girls in matching dresses arguing about romance logistics.
It’s warm. It’s imperfect. It’s real.
It’s everything I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
A knock taps softly at the door.
Rose glances up. “Come in!”
The door opens, and Maggie McCoy steps inside like she belongs here, because she does. She’s in a blue dress with a pearl necklace and that steady look she gets when she’s holding a whole family up with her spine.
Behind her, my mom follows, holding a garment bag as if it contains something fragile and holy.
My throat tightens.
I can’t move.
Because there was a time when I couldn’t picture my mother at my wedding. Not because she didn’t love me, but because love was never the question. The question was always whether my father would allow her to exist in the same room without trying to control the air.
Today, he isn’t here.
Today, he doesn’t get to take anything.
My mom’s eyes meet mine, and her mouth trembles.
“Oh, honey,” she whispers.
Charlotte makes a strangled sound. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Not crying. Not starting that.”
Too late.
My mom crosses the room in two steps and cups my face in her hands the way she used to when I was little. Her palms are warm.
She presses her forehead to mine for a beat, then pulls back and wipes under her eyes with the side of her thumb like she’s annoyed tears exist.
“You look so beautiful,” she says. “And not… not ‘perfect’ beautiful. You look… like you.”
The words hit deeper than any compliment I’ve ever gotten in my life.
I swallow hard. “That’s the goal.”
Maggie steps in, hands folded in front of her like she’s approaching a skittish animal, except her eyes are smiling.
“You ready, sweetheart?” she asks.
I nod, even though my stomach is fluttering so hard it feels like it might take off.
“Good,” Maggie says. “Because my son’s pacing outside like he’s about to go wrestle a bear.”
Jet perks up instantly. “He is, isn’t he?”
Rose laughs through her tears. “He’s probably giving himself a pep talk.”
Charlotte’s eyes go soft. “He’s going to cry.”
“Dallas McCoy?” Jet says. “Dallas ‘I’m Fine’ McCoy?”
Maggie’s smile widens like she’s enjoying this. “He’s already emotional. Boone caught him staring at the arch like it personally offended him.”
I snort.
It comes out unexpectedly, a sharp little laugh that loosens the knot in my chest.
“Okay,” I say, wiping under my eyes. “Okay. I’m fine.”
Charlotte points at me. “Liar.”
“Fair,” I admit.
Ellie bounces up to Maggie, petals in hand. “Are we going now? Because my legs have energy.”
Lila rolls her eyes like a tiny adult. “We wait until the music, Ellie.”
Ellie gasps. “There’s music?”
Rose leans down, smoothing Ellie’s hair. “Yes, sweetheart. And you have one job.”
Ellie nods solemnly. “Throw flowers.”
“On the aisle,” Lila adds quickly.
Ellie whispers dramatically, “On the floor.”
My heart squeezes so hard it aches.
I lean down and kiss the top of Lila’s head.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Thank you for doing this with me.”
Lila looks up at me, eyes big and serious. “I’m gonna do it perfect.”
“You don’t have to do it perfect,” I tell her softly.
She pauses, thinking about it. Then she nods once. “Okay. I’m gonna do it… with my whole heart.”
I blink fast because that might be the most McCoy thing anyone has ever said in a bridal room.
Outside, the music starts.
Soft guitar. Something simple. It feels like Buckhorn.
The room stills.
Rose inhales shakily. Jet straightens. Charlotte checks my veil like she’s inspecting armor.
My mom takes my hands, fingers trembling.
“Ready?” she whispers.
I take one deep breath, and the air actually reaches my lungs.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We line up in the small hallway. The hum of voices outside shifts as people realize it’s happening. My stomach flips.
Through the crack in the door, I catch glimpses: Mason jars of wildflowers. Strings of lights hung across the rafters. Cowboys in clean shirts pretending they aren’t emotional. Kids swinging their legs under chairs.
I spot Boone first. Standing tall, shoulders broad, tie slightly crooked like someone wrestled him into it. Nash is next, grinning too wide, eyes bright. He winks at me like this is all a prank, and he’s proud of us for pulling it off.
And then Clay.
He stands with Dallas, a little apart, hands clasped in front of him, dark hair neatly combed like he’s trying to behave. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed forward.
I know that look now.
It’s the look of a man holding something down so it doesn’t spill.
Clay is leaving.
Not today, but soon. The bull riding circuit doesn’t wait for anyone’s feelings. He’s been packing quietly all week, pretending it’s no big deal, while the whole ranch pretends not to notice how often Dallas goes quiet when Clay’s name comes up.
Because this is what the McCoys do.
They love hard.
They lose hard.
They keep going anyway.
My chest pinches with it, sharp and sweet.
I swallow hard.
Then the doors open fully.
The room stands.
And I see him.
Dallas is at the front beneath an arch made of pine boughs and wildflowers, the kind of arch that smells like the woods and looks like someone built it with love and stubbornness.
He’s in a suit that fits him, but he’s uncomfortable with how good he looks, and his hands are clasped in front of him like he’s afraid they’ll shake if he lets them go.
Then his eyes meet mine.
And his face changes.
It’s subtle, like everything with Dallas, but it hits me like a wave anyway. His shoulders ease. His mouth softens. His eyes go bright.
Like he’s been holding his breath and I’m the exhale.
My knees wobble.
My mom squeezes my hand.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers.
I nod, because I can’t speak.
Ellie goes first, petals flying in a chaotic spray that would make a florist faint. She looks delighted. Lila follows, careful and precise, scattering petals in a neat line like she’s laying down a path on purpose.
Charlotte, Jet, and Rose walk ahead of me, bridesmaids in mismatched dresses that somehow look perfect together. Charlotte is crying already and making furious eye contact with anyone who notices. Jet is trying to smile through tears and failing. Rose is glowing like she’s holding joy in her hands.
And then it’s my turn.
I step forward.
The aisle is short. The room is warm. The air smells like pine and barbecue smoke and baked cinnamon rolls.
My dress brushes petals.
My locket warms against my skin.
Dallas doesn’t take his eyes off me for one second.
I feel like I’m walking home.
I take another step.
Dallas’s hands flex at his sides, like he’s trying not to reach for me too early.
By the time I get to him, I’m shaking with the sheer weight of love.
Dallas takes my hands, and his thumbs brush over my knuckles like he’s grounding me.
“Hi,” he whispers.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, wet and shaky. “Hi.”
His eyes shine. “You’re… unreal.”
I tilt my head. “Says the man who cleaned up for this.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Don’t distract me.”
“Me?” I whisper. “You’re the one standing there looking like… like a whole romance novel.”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking over my face like he’s memorizing it. “I’m gonna cry.”
“Good,” I whisper back. “I already did.”
His mouth trembles.
He leans closer, forehead almost touching mine, and murmurs so only I can hear it.
“You’re safe,” he says.
My chest caves and fills all at once.
“I know,” I whisper.
The officiant begins speaking words about love and commitment and seasons turning. Fitting for a ranch family. I hear them, sort of, but my brain keeps snagging on details instead.
The way Dallas’s hands are warm.
The way Lila is standing by the front row, clutching her basket handle like it’s a lifeline.
The way Boone keeps clearing his throat like he’s fighting emotion.
The way Clay’s gaze stays fixed forward, but his shoulders look braced.
The way my mom keeps pressing her hand to her chest like she’s making sure her heart is still there.
When it’s time for vows, Dallas looks at me like he’s about to step off a cliff.
His voice shakes on the first word. Then he steadies.
He talks about choosing. About staying. About building something honest. About loving me the way I deserve. Quiet, constant, without conditions.
Halfway through, I’m crying again.
Charlotte makes a sound behind me like she’s trying not to sob out loud.
When it’s my turn, my hands tremble around his.
I take a breath.
And I speak the truth.
I promise him I will keep choosing myself. I promise him I will let him love me without flinching away. I promise I will love Lila like she’s mine too, because she is. I promise I will build a life here. Messy, loud, warm, real.
Dallas’s eyes glisten. He nods like he can’t speak.
When the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride,” Dallas doesn’t hesitate.
He kisses me like the world isn’t watching.
Like it never has.
The room erupts. Cheers, whistles, someone shouting something obscene that Maggie immediately shushes.
Dallas pulls back, forehead resting against mine.
“We’re married,” he whispers, clearly wrecked.
I laugh through tears. “We’re married.”
And somewhere behind us, I hear Clay let out a slow breath, like he’s taking this moment and tucking it into his pocket for the road.
Joy and ache, braided together.
Just like life.
Just like love.
Just like Buckhorn.
The end.