Epilogue
GILLIAN
The Christmas lights still twined around the bar’s rough-hewn posts, catching the late afternoon light that filtered through frosted windows.
January in Huckleberry Creek meant darkness came early, but I’d grown to love the way the saloon glowed against winter evenings—warm and welcoming, like a beacon calling folks in from the cold.
“Getting an early start on next year’s decorations, or just lazy?” Old Pete Garrison settled onto his usual stool, third from the end, same spot he’d claimed every Tuesday through Saturday for the past decade according to Doc.
I pulled his usual draft without being asked, the motion automatic now after six months. “Strategic planning. Why waste energy taking them down when they’ll just go back up in eleven months?”
Behind me, my laptop screen glowed with a custody agreement I’d been reviewing for the Hendersons.
Nothing like the multi-million dollar mergers I used to orchestrate—just two people trying to do right by their kids through a rough patch.
The cursor blinked patiently between paragraphs while I topped off Pete’s glass and slid it across the scarred wood.
“Your granddad used to say the same thing about the Halloween skeleton in the storage room.” Pete took a long pull of his beer. “Think it’s still wearing that Santa hat from three years back.”
The door chimed, and Margaret Wheeler bustled in, shaking snow from her coat. “Lord, it’s getting nasty out there. You got my table ready?”
“Always do.” I’d already set aside the corner booth for her weekly dominoes game. The ladies would trickle in over the next half hour, order white wine and nachos, and proceed to get more competitive than any sports team I’d ever seen.
The laptop dinged softly—an email from the Hendersons’ mediator. I scanned it quickly, fingers flying across the keyboard to confirm tomorrow’s meeting time, then turned back to Margaret.
“How are you liking small-town law?” She unwound a magnificent purple scarf that had to be six feet long. “Smart girl. Though we already knew that.”
I grabbed a wine glass, already reaching for the Pinot Grigio she favored. “Turns out I enjoy helping neighbors sort through problems more than helping corporations devour each other.”
Once I’d decided to move back to Alabama, I’d been able to transfer my UBE from Illinois and knock out the remaining requirements to move my license.
I hadn’t been sure whether I’d do anything with it or not, but I had done the work, so it seemed sensible.
And it had come in handy, as locals had occasionally dropped in to ask questions of a legal nature.
“Imagine that.” Her eyes crinkled with knowing humor.
The door chimed again. Tim Morrison, looking to drown his sorrows after his wife kicked him out for forgetting their anniversary.
Again. The laptop screen dimmed to sleep mode.
I’d finish the Hendersons’ paperwork later, probably around midnight when the bar quieted and Diego sprawled in the corner booth doing his own paperwork—incident reports that never quite captured the chaos of his shifts.
For now, though, Tim needed a beer and someone to listen. The balance would hold.
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the Christmas lights, and Lucy practically floated in, tugging Cord behind her. The grin splitting her face could’ve powered the entire town, and when she thrust her left hand toward me, the diamond caught every light in the place.
“Holy—” I abandoned Tim mid-pour, rounding the bar to grab her hand. The ring was perfect—not too flashy, not too simple. Pure Lucy. “When did this happen?”
“Last night.” Cord’s usual swagger had softened into something almost bashful. “Finally worked up the nerve.”
“Finally?” Lucy smacked his chest. “It’s been a year since we got together.”
“Longest year of my life, waiting for the right moment.” He pulled her against his side, pressing a kiss to her temple that made my chest warm. “I would’ve asked you two weeks in.”
Pete raised his glass from down the bar. “About time, Hollywood. Thought we’d have to stage an intervention.”
“So.” I leaned against the bar, crossing my arms with mock seriousness. “Important question. Will the reception have more whiskey or cake? Because I need to know whether to pace myself.”
Lucy laughed, the sound bright as bell chimes. “Why choose? We’re thinking equal parts both. Maybe whiskey-flavored cake.”
“Now you’re talking.” I grabbed a bottle of champagne I’d been saving—not the cheap stuff, either. “Summer wedding?”
“That’s the plan.” Lucy watched me pop the cork. “Which brings me to my next question. I need a maid of honor who can keep me sane, wrangle my mother, and possibly tackle me if I try to run away in panic.”
“Sounds like a job for someone with legal training.” I poured three glasses, sliding two across to them. “Lucky for you, I know a lawyer.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Hell yes.” We clinked glasses, and I marveled at the lightness in my chest. Six months ago, watching my best friend’s happiness while my own life crumbled would’ve stung. Now, seeing her glow while Cord looked at her like she hung the moon just felt right.
Margaret called from her corner booth where the dominoes ladies had assembled. “Save some of that champagne for us! We need to toast the happy couple properly.”
I grabbed more glasses, catching Lucy’s eye. “Fair warning—if Margaret’s crew gets involved in wedding planning, you’re getting a conga line whether you want one or not.”
“Bring it on.” Lucy’s smile somehow got even brighter. “I want everyone there. The whole town.”
The whole town. Our town. The thought settled warm and solid in my chest.
The door swung open again twenty minutes later, bringing a rush of cold air and Diego.
Fresh from the station, hair still damp from his post-shift shower, wearing that worn gray henley that did criminal things to his shoulders.
The sight of him hit me the same way it had every day for six months—like stepping from shadow into sunlight.
Our eyes met across the crowded room, and everything else faded to background noise.
Lucy was still chattering about wedding colors.
Margaret’s crew had progressed to good-natured arguing over which version of dominoes they were playing tonight, but all I could focus on was the way Diego moved through the space like he belonged there. Like he belonged with me.
He claimed the stool at the end of the bar—his spot, close enough to the register that we could talk between customers, perfect angle to watch me work. The familiarity of it made something loosen in my chest.
“Rough shift?” I pulled a pint glass from the rack.
“Structure fire out on County Road 12. Old barn, fully involved by the time we got there.” He propped his elbows on the bar, and I caught a whiff of his soap—something clean and sharp that cut through the saloon’s usual mix of beer and old wood. “Saved the house, though.”
I tilted the glass under the tap, angling it just right. He watched my hands with that focused intensity that still made my pulse skip, like pouring a beer was some kind of art form only I could master.
“My hero.” The words came out softer than I’d intended, more truth than tease.
“Just doing my job.” But his eyes said something else entirely when I slid the pint across to him. Our fingers brushed as he caught the glass, and he held on a beat longer than necessary, thumb stroking across my knuckles.
That simple touch sparked through me like static electricity. Six months, and I still wasn’t used to having this—having him—whenever I wanted. No more stolen moments or wondering what if. Just Diego at the end of my bar, looking at me like I was everything good in his world.
“Get a room!” Cord called out, and I realized we’d been staring at each other like love-struck teenagers.
“I own the whole building,” I shot back, not looking away from Diego. “All the rooms are mine.”
His grin turned wicked. “Good to know.”
Margaret’s cackle carried across the bar. “Lord help us, the pheromones in here could choke a horse.”
I glanced down the bar where Doc worked the taps, his movements deliberate but steady.
Six months since the TIA, and he’d kept his promise to the doctors—mostly.
Three nights a week instead of six, no more sixteen-hour days, and absolutely no arguing with me about it.
Though watching him chat with customers, with that familiar sparkle in his eyes, you’d never know anything had changed.
“Hey Doc,” Old Pete called out, already three beers deep and feeling chatty. “Saw you leaving Martha Woodley’s place mighty early this morning. Your truck was there all night.”
The bar went quiet except for the jukebox crooning some old Willie Nelson tune. Every head swiveled toward my grandfather. Even the dominoes ladies paused mid-game.
Doc’s weathered face split into a grin that made him look twenty years younger. “Well, since you’re all so interested in an old man’s business—Martha asked me to move in with her.”
The eruption was immediate. Whistles, cheers, Pete slapping the bar hard enough to rattle glasses. Margaret’s crew burst into applause that could probably be heard three blocks away.
“And I said yes,” Doc added, his voice carrying over the noise.
“About damn time!” someone shouted from the back.
I stood frozen, bar towel dangling from my hand. Martha Woodley—the woman who’d been bringing him dinner, checking his blood pressure, bullying him into taking his medications. The one I’d suspected might be something more but hadn’t dared ask about.
Doc made his way down the bar toward me, that grin still lighting up his face. Diego’s hand found my lower back, steadying me though I hadn’t realized I was swaying.
“Which means,” Doc announced, “the house is yours now, kiddo.” His eyes flicked meaningfully between Diego and me. “You know, in case you wanted to invite in a roommate or something.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. Behind me, Diego choked on his beer.
“Doc!”
“What? It’s a big house for one person. Four bedrooms, that wraparound porch. Be a shame to waste all that space.”
Cord’s laughter boomed across the bar. “Smooth, Doc. Real smooth.”
“I’m seventy-five years old,” Doc shot back. “I don’t have time for subtle.”
The dominoes ladies were practically vibrating with glee. Margaret stage-whispered loud enough for Tennessee to hear, “Twenty bucks says there’s a spring wedding.”
“Which one?” her friend Eleanor asked. “We've got two couples now.”
My grandfather pulled me into a hug, and I breathed in his familiar scent of aftershave and peppermints. “You happy?” I whispered.
“Happier than I’ve been in years.” He pulled back, eyes suspiciously bright. “How about you?”
I looked from Doc to Diego, then back again. My grandfather, finding love at seventy-five. My best friend, planning her wedding. The whole bar watching like this was better than cable TV. And Diego—patient, steady Diego—waiting to see which way I’d jump.
The words hit warm and solid in my chest. Not pressure, just possibility. Another step forward in this life we’d been building since I’d chosen to stay. Since I’d chosen him.
I found Diego watching me with that look that had become his tell over these months—steady and sure, like he already knew my answer but would wait forever for me to say it.
The same look he’d given me the day I showed up at the station to tell him I was staying.
The one that said he knew exactly where he stood with me, and it was enough.
“So...” I turned to face him fully, aware of our audience but not caring. “You want to move in with me?”
That slow grin spread across his face, the one that still made my knees weak. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The bar erupted again. Pete ordered another round on his tab—a miracle in itself. Margaret’s crew started taking bets on everything from paint colors to how long before we had kids. Doc just looked satisfied, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.
Diego came around the bar, moving through the chaos with that easy grace. His lips found my temple, warm and familiar, while I was still laughing at something Lucy shouted about double weddings. His arm settled around my waist, and I leaned into him, into the solid certainty of us.
The sound of the place wrapped around me—the chatter and jokes, the clink of glasses, the ancient fans humming overhead, Willie Nelson giving way to Patsy Cline on the jukebox.
Six months ago, these sounds had been nostalgic, pulling me backward into who I used to be.
Now it was just Tuesday night. My life. Our life.
“Hey,” Diego murmured against my ear, quiet enough that only I could hear. “You sure about this? Me invading your space?”
I turned in his arms, reaching up to frame his face with my hands. “Our space.”
“Our space,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t chasing anything—not success, not approval, not some imagined future that would finally make me happy. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I hope you enjoyed this latest trip to Huckleberry Creek!