Epilogue #2
“Or that.” Davies didn't insult me by denying the possibility. “But you deserve to move on and start living like this is over.” I knew he was right. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were two very different things.
I noticed Emma across the room, her body had gone rigid, her eyes distant.
She'd obviously overheard our conversation about Silas.
Felix noticed too, of course he did, the man seemed hyper-aware of Emma's every movement these days.
Within seconds he was crossing the room toward her, his jaw set with concern.
He stopped a few feet away, close enough to be felt but not touching.
He said something too quiet for me to hear, probably asking if she was okay.
Emma's eyes flicked to him, something vulnerable and scared passing between them.
She shook her head slightly, dismissing his concerns, the lie obvious to anyone watching.
Felix didn't push. Just stayed there, a solid presence, until some of the tension left Emma's shoulders. Then he stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes never quite left her for the rest of the afternoon.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” I said, turning my attention back to Davies. “For everything you've done. For taking my case seriously from the beginning. For not giving up even when it seemed hopeless.”
“Just doing my job, Harper.” But his weathered face showed genuine warmth. “Now, I better get this bracelet home before my wife thinks I forgot her birthday. Again.”
The afternoon continued in a whirlwind of customers, sales, and congratulations. My feet ached, my back throbbed, and I was pretty sure I'd felt at least three dozen kicks from Owen, but I couldn't stop smiling.
I’d rebuilt my boutique from the ashes of trauma. No one had given it to me. No one had made it easy. I'd fought for every inch of this, and now, finally, I was reaping the rewards.
Around three o'clock, the crowd began to thin. Customers left with their purchases in the new shopping bags I'd designed, promising to come back and spread the word about the reopening. Anna and Emma started cleaning up the empty champagne flutes, half-eaten sandwiches, and discarded napkins.
Connor found me sitting on the emerald couch in the seating area, my swollen feet propped up on the coffee table with one hand pressed to my lower back.
“You should go home,” he said, settling beside me with that concerned look. “Harper, you've been on your feet for hours. You're eight months pregnant. You need to rest.”
“I'm fine,” I said automatically. Then another wave of that strange tightness wrapped around my stomach and lower back, making me catch my breath.
Connor's eyes went sharp with concern. “Harper? What's wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” I shifted, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. “Just been a long day. My back is killing me.”
“How long has your back been hurting?”
“I don't know. Since this morning?” I tried to think back through the chaos of the day.
The ache had been there when I woke up, but I'd attributed it to sleeping wrong.
Then it had intensified throughout the day, but I'd been too busy to pay attention.
“Connor, I'm fine. It's just pregnancy stuff.
Owen's probably just sitting on a nerve or something.”
“Harper…” His voice had taken on that firm quality that meant he wasn't going to be argued with. “I'm calling Dr. Nysor.”
“Don't be ridiculous. It's just—” Another tightness, stronger this time. That's when I felt it. The unmistakable gush of warm fluid soaking through my dress and onto the couch beneath me.
Oh no. Oh shit.
“Connor,” I said, my voice remarkably calm considering the panic rising in my chest. “I think my water just broke.”
For a moment, Connor just stared at me like I'd spoken a foreign language. Then he was on his feet, shouting for Anna and Jaxon, pulling out his phone to call Dr. Nysor, and moving with the kind of controlled urgency that came from his years working on the ranch in emergency situations.
“It's too early,” I said, my calm shattering as reality set in. “Connor, I'm only thirty-eight weeks. He's not supposed to come for two more weeks. What if something's wrong? What if—”
“Hey.” Connor knelt in front of me, his hands cupping my face, forcing me to look at him instead of spiraling.
“Harper, breathe. Thirty-eight weeks is full term.
The baby is fine. You're fine. We're just going to get you to the hospital, and Dr. Nysor is going to deliver our son, and everything is going to be perfect.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Connor's thumbs brushed away the tears I hadn’t realized I was crying. “Harper Walsh, you survived being kidnapped and thrown down concrete stairs while pregnant. You can sure as hell survive giving birth two weeks early.”
I laughed despite the doubt and panic. A slightly hysterical laugh, but still.
Anna and Emma appeared, both of them immediately springing into action like they'd been preparing for this moment.
Anna grabbed my purse and phone. Emma ran to get towels to protect Connor's truck seats.
Jaxon pulled up Connor's truck right in front of the boutique door.
Felix stood by the door, his eyes on Emma, making sure she was okay in the midst of the chaos.
Connor scooped me up like I weighed nothing despite my very pregnant state, carrying me out of my boutique and toward his truck.
“The store,” I protested. “Connor, I can't just leave the store unlocked.”
“I've got it,” Anna called. “Harper, go have your baby. I'll lock up and meet you at the hospital.”
The drive to the hospital was a blur of contractions and Connor's steady voice talking me through each one. They were coming fast now, each one stronger than the last, and I realized with a dawning understanding that I'd been in early labor all day without even recognizing it.
The backache, the tightness, and the vague discomfort I'd attributed to being on my feet. Owen had apparently decided today was the day, grand reopening or not. Of course my son would choose the most dramatic entrance possible. He's definitely my kid.
At the hospital, everything moved quickly. Dr. Nysor was already there waiting and they got me into a delivery room, into a hospital gown, checked and monitored and assured that yes, the baby was coming, and no, there wasn't time for an epidural because I was already eight centimeters dilated.
“Eight?!” I stared at Dr. Nysor in disbelief. “How am I already at eight? I just—I was at my boutique reopening an hour ago serving champagne!”
“You have a high pain tolerance, it's very common for people with red hair,” Dr. Nysor said it with a slight smile. “And apparently, you were in labor most of the day without realizing it. The good news is this should go quickly.”
Quickly was an understatement.
Thirty minutes later, at 4:47 PM on December 17th, Owen Connor Whitaker entered the world with a loud, indignant cry that filled the delivery room with life and promise. It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
“It's a boy,” Dr. Nysor announced unnecessarily, laying Owen on my chest with gentle hands. “You have a son.”
He was tiny and perfect, with a shock of brown hair like Connor's and a face scrunched up in outrage at being born. His tiny fists waved, his legs kicked, and his cries echoed off the walls with impressive volume for someone so small.
“Hi, baby boy,” I whispered through tears, my hands cradling his tiny body against my chest. “Hi, sweetheart. We've been waiting for you.”
Connor's hand touched Owen's head with such gentleness, such awe, his voice breaking when he spoke. “He's perfect. Harper, he's absolutely perfect.”
“He is,” I agreed, unable to look away from our son's face. This tiny human we'd made, who'd survived everything with me, who was finally here.
Dr. Nysor finished delivering the placenta and checking me over, announcing that despite the fast labor, everything had gone smoothly. Owen was healthy at seven pounds, four ounces, and clearly blessed with strong lungs.
A nurse came to take Owen for routine tests and measurements. Connor went with him, unwilling to let his son out of his sight even for hospital procedures, leaving me alone for a moment to process everything that had just happened.
I'd done it. I'd rebuilt my boutique, reclaimed my business, and now I'd brought my son into the world.
Seven months ago, I'd been terrified, traumatized, and wondering if I'd survive long enough to meet my baby. Yet here I was.
Anna appeared in the doorway, her eyes red from happy crying. “Can I come in?”
“Please.”
She crossed to my bed and took my hand. “Harper, he's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I just saw him through the nursery window and he's perfect.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed her fingers. “Anna, thank you for everything. For being here, for supporting me, for believing I could do this when I didn't believe in myself.”
“Of course I believed you could do this. You're one of the strongest person I know.” Anna's smile was warm and genuine. “And now you're a mom. Harper, you're going to be an amazing mom.”
“I hope so.” Fear tried to creep in, all the what-ifs and doubts that came with new parenthood. “What if I mess him up? What if I'm not good enough? What if—”
“You'll be perfect,” Anna interrupted. “Because you love him. Because you survived hell to protect him. Because you're you, Harper. That's more than enough.”
Connor returned then, carrying Owen swaddled in a hospital blanket, his face still showing that mixture of awe and terror that new fathers wore.
“Seven pounds, four ounces. Twenty inches long. All his fingers and toes accounted for. Perfect Apgar scores.” He looked at me with shining eyes. “Harper, we made a perfect baby.”
“We did,” I agreed, my arms already reaching for Owen.
Connor carefully transferred our son back to me, and Owen immediately started rooting, his tiny mouth searching for food with single-minded determination.