Epilogue
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CADE
I’m not one for ceremonies. Today I brush the dust off my boots and roll into Valor Springs under a sky as clear and blue as a polished blade.
The twin office blocks on Main Street rise like a dare, all glass and swagger.
I wedge my truck—still caked in cow shit—between a Porsche and a Prius in the Lone Star Security lot.
Let the parking enforcers come if they want.
At the entrance, the new receptionist clocks me immediately. “Mr Walker, right? Grayson said you’d be by.” Her voice is so chirpy, she probably touts it on her résumé.
“Just Cade,” I say, fishing out my ID anyway. “He in?”
She nods, buzzes, and I’m inside the nerve center of our town’s only world-class security outfit. I left this place almost a year ago, thinking I’d rather dig post holes than deal with anyone’s bullshit, but the truth is, it feels good to be remembered. Even by ghosts.
Grayson’s at his desk, every bit as spartan as I left it. He half-smiles when he sees me, then clears a space across from him like we’re pretending this is a quarterly review instead of a therapy session in disguise.
“Walker. You look like hell. Ranch life treating you okay?”
I lower myself into the chair; the old leather groans under my weight. “You know how it is. Fences only break when you’re out of barbed wire. The weather swings from bone-dry to swampy. I’ve forgotten what sleep feels like.”
He pours us both a shot—though it’s barely past noon—and lifts it like a toast. “Here’s to honest work. And here’s the real reason you’re in my office today.”
I snort. “You’re the one who told the receptionist I was coming.”
He grins, every line on his face earned in this chair. “I know you, Cade. You wouldn’t haul into town for a social call. So, I’ll get to it. I’ve got a client—old money, old secrets—needs a hand. A couple of weeks, discreet.”
I already know my answer, but he’s been good to me, so I go through the motions. “I’m retired. Remember?”
“That’s what everyone says until the tractor breaks or the bank calls.” He waves his glass at me. “Or until a certain redhead drags you all the way to hell and back.” He eyes me, hunting for a reaction. “Speaking of Delilah—whatever came of that stalker?”
I lean back, take a breath. “Total setup. Munro’s biggest rival in the county commission race hired some creep to tail her—figured if she looked scared, she’d drop out. The only thing it did was make her bulletproof. She ran stronger.”
He whistles low. “Of course it backfired. You two still good?”
“Better than ever.” I shrug. “She’s a handful—barn from dawn to dusk. She razzes me about the nightly news. They’re training her for national riding competitions. Horse show in Dallas next month.”
“Good for her. And for you.” He leans back, laces his fingers behind his head. “You staying out there for good? Thought you’d get bored without a war to fight.”
I shrug. “There’s always a war. I just pick the ones I can win.”
Silence falls, heavy and expectant. Finally, he says, “You never told me how the Munro job slipped through your fingers.”
“Did it?” I say, quieter than I meant.
He smiles. “You, Walker. The hard case who never drops cover. I figured if anyone could guard a senator’s daughter without catching feelings, it’d be you.”
I shake my head, half pissed, half ashamed. “I should never have taken that gig.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “That girl’s been running in circles her whole life. No one ever out-stubborned her before.” He pours us another round but doesn’t drink. “You happy?”
I try to answer, but there’s no single word for the pride, shame, and terror that seasons my days. So I say, “Happier than I deserve.”
“That’s the best kind,” Grayson says, and this time he raises the glass to his lips.
He slides a manila envelope across the desk. “Then you can turn this down, too. But if Munro’s people call, I want to know.”
“They’re done,” I say, meaning it. “She cut the cord.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small velvet-blue envelope. Placing it on the desk, I slide it toward him with two fingers. Grayson raises an eyebrow, pauses, then reaches out and picks it up like it might be rigged to explode.
“What’s this?” he says, thumb under the seal.
“For once, not a threat,” I say. He opens it. Inside is an invitation—white script, heavy as a ledger—announcing that Delilah Munro and Cade Walker are to be married next month at their home in Valor Springs. His eyes widen just enough to notice.
“You’re inviting me to your wedding.” He almost sounds unsure.
“Bring someone,” I tell him. “We need witnesses.”
Funny thing: I’ve dodged bullets on every continent, just to prove I was impossible to kill. But watching him hold that invite terrifies me more than open combat. It’s too small, too gentle. Too… true.
“Never figured you for the marrying type,” Grayson says, voice softer now.
“Me neither,” I admit. But I think of Delilah’s hair spread on my pillow, the way she talks about the future like it’s a bridle path you can ride straight into. I think maybe I’m the only one who could keep pace without breaking my neck.
I fold the invite, stand, and shake his hand. “If you need a reference, I’ll vouch for you.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” he replies, that look in his eye telling me next time I sit in this chair, I’ll have a ring on my hand and problems he can’t fix.
I walk out into the heat—real and stinging—and head home. By the time I cross the county line, the town’s dust is blown away.
Out back, Delilah’s barefoot, teaching a rescue pup to heel. She waves as I pull up. Her hair’s streaked with duck-egg blue paint—a victim of a DIY project. There’s a mosquito bite at her collarbone, bright as a badge.
She eyes the envelope in my hand and grins. “What did he say?”
I hand it over. “Grayson RSVPed for two.” She opens it and reads in a theatrical drawl:
“Cade Walker and Delilah Munro request the honor of your presence at their wedding—Saturday, October 3rd. RSVP required.”
“You ready for that?” I ask, though I already know. Her grin spreads all the way to her eyes.
“Born ready. Just don’t trip walking down the aisle.”
“I’ll wear my best boots.”
She tackles me into the grass, the pup yapping and spinning around us. Sunlight slants through live oaks. All the ghosts—war, loss, fear—scuttle off into the shade. What’s left is this: two idiots in love, knee-deep in mud, sending out our wedding invitation to the county.
Weeks blur by. When her father calls next, he’s almost cordial. Delilah hangs up and says, “He wants to pay for the honeymoon.”
“Tell him we’re not leaving the county,” I reply, but she’s already planning routes and lodging on her phone.
Wedding day arrives hot enough to shimmer off the barn roof.
Ranch hands in pressed shirts, neighbors in Stetsons—even my old drill sergeant from Basic bawls into his beer as Delilah walks the aisle in a simple couture gown her mother insisted on buying.
The family judge reads our vows like a verdict.
When I say "I do," my voice is steadier than I expected.
Afterwards, she hauls me onto the dance floor, won’t let go even when the band flips from Johnny Cash to Beyoncé. She just smirks, arms behind my neck, pulling me into her orbit.
“You happy?” she asks, eyes bright and feral.
“For once,” I say, “yeah. Happy as hell.”
Grayson stands and makes a toast. He talks about loyalty, about how our work teaches you to expect the worst and feign indifference.
“But if you’re lucky,” he says, “someone gets under your skin.” He clears his throat, voice catching slightly.
“So here’s to Cade and Delilah—may they always be stubborn, and may their good fights last a lifetime. ”
Later, after most have drifted off or passed out on hay bales, I find Delilah by the fence, staring at the moon-silver fields. She’s barefoot, hair wild—a picture of reckless perfection.
“You coming in?” I ask.
She turns, hesitates a heartbeat. “You know what I’m scared of?”
“What’s that?”
“That someday you’ll remember you’re supposed to be the strong, silent type—and forget you ever wanted me here.”
I step close, brush a strand of hair from her face. “That’s backwards. I spent my life pretending I didn’t want anything. You’re the only thing that ever stuck.”
She nods, solemn as dawn, then leans into me. We stand in the moonlight like a couple in a country song.
Inside, she pulls me onto the bed, and there’s nothing gentle about the way she tears my shirt off or nips my jaw. We leave the lights on, windows open, and let the world listen in.
“I love you,” she says, no flinch.
“Right back at you,” I say, pulling her close.
From then on, it’s sunrises over hayfields, dog hair in the truck, and fights that burn all night but make up by dawn.
We build a life out of stubbornness and second chances.
Every day is a little sweeter for having nearly lost it.
I’m not the man I was—and I don’t want to be.
I used to think love would break me. Turns out, it’s the only thing that ever mended me.
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