Epilogue
WREN
Bigfoot’s Wilderness Survival, Every Saturday at Nine
The ledger sits on a custom-built cedar pedestal near the check-in desk.
I spent an entire Tuesday sanding the wood until my palms were raw, coating it in a matte sealant that smells faintly of beeswax.
It’s open to the page where my great-great-grandmother first recorded her arrangement with the Silent Neighbor.
Every guest who walks through the lobby stops to look at it, their fingers hovering just inches from the ink that bridged two worlds before I was even a thought.
Six months ago, the lodge was a graveyard for my father’s boots and my own failed expectations.
Now, the lobby smells like Marge’s fresh sourdough and the clean, sharp scent of the pine-needle floor cleaner Walt finally stopped complaining about using.
The Cassidy Lodge sign out front is straight.
It’s braced with iron and bolted into stone, standing defiant against the Cascades wind that used to make it groan like a dying thing.
The digital dashboard on my laptop is still a riot of activity, but the red notifications are different now.
They aren’t just panicked pings from the internet void.
They’re trail check-ins, wilderness course bookings, and orders for our mountain-labeled honey.
We aren’t just surviving on a viral hoax anymore.
We’re solvent. The kind of solvent that comes from having a three-month waiting list for our Hive and Harvest weekend packages.
I tap a pen against the desk, watching the newest registration for Bigfoot’s Wilderness Survival pop up.
Rowan hates the name. He told me, quite flatly, that it was undignified.
I told him that dignity doesn’t pay the property tax on fifteen hundred acres of old-growth timber, and he’d conceded the point with a slow, dry blink that has become my favorite part of every morning.
Marge walks through the swinging kitchen doors, her apron dusted with flour.
She’s carrying an enormous ceramic mug—a custom piece I found in a pottery shop in town.
It’s the size of a small bucket, glazed in a deep forest green.
She doesn’t say a word as she sets it on the edge of the counter and starts filling it with a pot of coffee that could probably strip paint.
“He’s coming in from the North Ridge,” she says, her voice as blunt as a hammer. “The SAR boys dropped him at the trailhead ten minutes ago. Said he found that missing hiker from Seattle in under an hour. Found him sitting by a creek like he was waiting for a bus.”
I lean back in my chair, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “He’s getting faster at it. The Search and Rescue team is going to start asking for his DNA if he keeps outperforming their dogs.”
Marge scoffs, wiping a smudge of coffee off the counter. “Let them ask. They’re too terrified of him to actually do it. Man’s a force of nature.” She hands me the mug. “Now, get that coffee to him. He’s probably half-starved and cranky as a bear in a beehive.”
I take the mug from her, the ceramic warm against my skin. I walk toward the mudroom, the weight of the coffee steadying my hands.
The back door opens, and the mountain air rushes in—cold, wet, and smelling of damp cedar.
Rowan steps inside. He’s wearing the HIDE & SEEK WORLD CHAMPION shirt.
It’s tight across his shoulders, the fabric slightly faded from a dozen washes, but he wears it like a uniform.
It’s his favorite joke, a silent victory he carries into every room he enters.
He doesn’t say hello. He just stops in the center of the mudroom and looks at me. His eyes are the color of the forest after a rainstorm, deep and unreadable, until they land on the mug in my hand. He exhales, the long, slow sound one of relief that vibrates through the small space.
“Marge says you found the Seattle hiker,” I say, handing him the coffee. “Third one this month. You’re going to get a medal if you aren’t careful, and then we’ll have to explain why you don’t have a social security number.”
Rowan takes the mug, his broad fingers brushing against mine. The contact is brief, a spark of heat that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He takes a long drink of the coffee, his throat moving as he swallows. It’s the dark, bitter fuel that keeps him tethered to my world.
“He was lost,” Rowan says, his voice a low rumble that settles in the pit of my stomach. “He was trying to find the Monolith Tree from a forum post. People should stay on the paths they are given.”
“People are idiots,” I counter, leaning against the doorframe.
“That’s why we’re rich. Between your survival courses and my ability to convince them that buying a forty-dollar jar of ‘Guardian Gold’ honey makes them part of the forest, we’re actually going to make the final payment on the SAR debt by Friday. ”
Rowan sets the mug down on the bench. He steps closer, closing the distance until I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
He’s too big for this house. He’s too big for most things, but when he’s this close, the lodge feels exactly the right size.
He smells like woodsmoke and the sharp, clean ozone of the high ridges.
“You did that,” he says. “The honey. I only tended the bees. You made the world believe they were worth more than sugar.”
“I’m a marketer, Rowan. I curate mysteries.
I just happened to find one that was worth keeping.
” I reach out, my fingers tracing the hem of his shirt.
“And I’m the only person in the world who knows the Hide and Seek Champion is actually a terrible liar when he’s trying to hide how much he likes Marge’s brownies. ”
He huffs a laugh, a dry, deflating sound that breaks the intensity of the moment.
He reaches down, his hand cupping the side of my face.
His palm is calloused and warm, the skin rough against my jaw.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
The way he looks at me is a confession he’s been making for three hundred years.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper. “The shower is actually running hot for once. Walt fixed the boiler yesterday. He said he did it for me, but I think he just tired of hearing you complain about the ‘weak, tepid water’ of the modern era.”
“It was an insult to the mountain,” Rowan says, but his thumb is tracing the line of my lip, and I can tell he’s not thinking about the plumbing anymore. “The mountain provides heat. The lodge provides... complications.”
“Complications are what make it fun,” I say, pulling him toward the stairs. “Come. Before Marge decides to corner you with a plate of flapjacks.”
We move through the lodge like a secret.
The guests are all out on the lower trails, led by the “Bigfoot Expert” I hired to replace Barnaby.
The new guy is just as wrong, but he’s significantly more polite to the staff.
As we reach the top of the stairs, the sunlight through the hallway window catches the gold of the honey jars lined up on the display shelf. It’s a stable, earned warmth.
Inside my room, the world narrows. The door clicks shut, and the noise of the lodge fades into a dull hum.
Rowan pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, the muscles of his back rippling like the earth itself.
He is beautiful in a way that makes my throat tighten, a combination of ancient power and human vulnerability that I am the only person allowed to see.
I reach for him, my hands finding the hard planes of his chest. He groans, low and urgent, pulling me against him. I can feel his heart racing, a fast, rhythmic pulse that matches my own. This is the milestone we cross every day—the choice to be here, to be visible, to be together.
“I’ve wanted this all day,” I breathe against his skin. “Watching the clock. Waiting for the SAR radio to crackle.”
“I felt you,” he says, his hands sliding down to my waist. “Every mile. Every trail. I was coming back to this.”
He kisses me then, and it’s not the careful, tentative kiss of our first night in the shelter.
It’s certain. It’s a surrender. He tastes like the coffee and the wild, untamed air of the Cascades.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer until there is no air between us, only the heat of his body and the desperate, persistent need to be known.
We undress with an urgency that borders on frantic, shedding the layers of the world.
Rowan’s eyes darken as he looks at me, his gaze tracing the curves of my body with a reverence that makes me feel like more than just a woman.
I am his territory. I am the place where he finally laid down his guard.
His hands are everywhere, cupping my breasts, tracing the curve of my hip, finding the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
I arch into him, my breath hitching as his mouth moves from my throat to my shoulder, down to the peak of one breast. He circles the nipple with his tongue before taking it into his mouth, and a jolt of pure, white heat spirals through my center.
“Rowan,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his hair. “Please.”
He moves lower, his tongue trailing a path of fire down my stomach.
When he kneels before me, his hands parting my legs, I have to grip the edge of the bed to stay upright.
He looks up at me, a silent question in his eyes, and I nod, unable to find the words.
He moves closer, his breath warm against my core, before his mouth finds me.
The sensation is overwhelming, a sharp, focused pleasure that makes the world tilt.
He knows exactly how to touch me, how to use the ancient patience of his species to drive me to the edge of sanity.
I am slick and ready for him, my body aching for the fullness I know is coming.
I pull him up, desperate to feel the weight of him over me.