Epilogue
Lights twinkle from the Christmas tree. Three stockings hang on the fireplace mantel. Firelight illuminates Hank’s tall, broad silhouette from behind. He sways slow and steady to a country song on the radio.
“You’re being territorial.” I set the tray filled with hot cocoa and whiskey on the coffee table. At the noise, Zelda ruffs and lifts her head from her dog bed.
My husband turns, grinning down at our one-month-old son, Jackson, cradled in his arms. “Ain’t my fault he’s already got me wrapped around his little finger.” His voice is low and rough. It warms me all over.
All I can do is stare. I cannot get enough of my very precious little family.
“That so?” I step closer, head lifted, peering at the bundle in his arms.
“That’s so.” Hank’s gaze lands on my face. “Same goes for his mama.” Keeping one arm beneath the baby, he loops his other around my waist.
Sighing, I curl my body around him. We stand like that, entwined, slowly swaying to “Blue Christmas” in front of the fire.
Our son has tufts of dark hair, long lashes, rosy cheeks. He’s precious and perfect and all ours. “Think he’ll sleep through the night?”
A chuckle rumbles out of Hank. “It’d be a Christmas miracle.” Those lines by his eyes crinkle. He’s besotted.
So am I.
We got pregnant a month after we remarried. We were ecstatic. Then terrified.
There’s no rulebook for losing a baby and getting pregnant again. For the first few months, I worried. To the point that I feared I was holding myself back from falling too deeply in love with what I could lose again.
But Hank was there. Through morning sickness and three-a.m. cravings and hormones, he never left my side.
With each week that passed, with each doctor visit and flutter in my belly, I dropped the guards around my heart.
I let myself be happy. Excited. Grateful.
And when our son was born, I felt more at peace than I ever have.
Hank was my rock. My person. I appreciate and love him more every day.
I stare down at Jackson’s sweet, sleeping face, his thick onesie studded with blue and red cowboy boots.
“He’s the perfect gift.”
Hank swallows, a sheen to his sapphire eyes. “He is.”
Taking a step back, he carefully lays Jackson in the bassinet. Then he pulls me to his chest. “I want you to sit. Relax,” he murmurs into the top of my messy hair.
“Hank.” I pull back slightly, frown up at him. “You’re fussing.”
“I’m not.” His look is entirely unamused. Serious, even.
Bullshit. The man has followed me everywhere since we came home from the hospital. He makes me sleep any moment I can, and he has taken over all midnight diaper changes and feedings.
If I could marry him again, I would.
“Who’s coming tomorrow?” I murmur. In the firelight, my original wedding ring sparkles.
“Everyone,” he says, grinning. “My dad, your mom. Clint and Laura and their kids.”
I smile. We may have a full house now, but I still love our cozy nights where it’s just the two—now three—of us.
“That means we should trade our ornaments tonight.” I clap my hands, a thrill zipping through me. “Tradition.”
With a nod, he guides me to the couch. He picks up a glass of whiskey and gives me a sip before taking his own. “You ready, Bluebell?”
“Oh, yes. Very.”
Grinning, he pulls a bright-colored square from beneath the coffee table.
I laugh. It’s a mini version of my painting titled Cowboy’s House.
“For all your success this year.” His voice is choked with emotion, pride in his eyes. “I’m so damn proud of you, Bell.”
I’m proud of myself. Hank taught me it’s never too late. I can chase my dreams anywhere; I only need confidence in myself. And a Montana cabin.
I clear my throat, my own voice warbling at the edges. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Our life over the past year has been a whirlwind.
After marrying at the Silverwood courthouse the day after Christmas, I packed up my San Francisco apartment, quit my job and moved back home.
I painted my heart out the second I got back, sold three paintings, and blew up on social media overnight, which led to an offer to display my work in a gallery in Bozeman.
When I’m not painting, I help Papa Blue and Hank with the tree farm. It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams, but the cherry on top of our lives is Jackson.
I glance over at the bassinet where our son sleeps, then look up at my husband. “Ready for yours?”
“Lay it on me, sugar.”
“It took a lot of work to acquire it,” I tell him. “And I may have had some help from a very handsome gentleman.”
Hank’s face creases with a frown as I reach beneath the coffee table.
Finger looped through the silvery string, I lift the ornament.
As his gift comes into view, he lets out a loud exhale. His face, his shoulders soften as he surveys Jackson’s tiny footprint, molded in clay. “Oh, sugar.” His strong hand finds mine, warm, fingers curling around my own. “I love it.”
“Should we do the honors?”
Together, we stand and shuffle to the tree.
It’s tall and spindly and is draped with multicolored lights and red ribbons.
We went with Hank’s traditional Christmas décor this year.
I don’t mind. It reminds me of childhood and is fitting for Jackson’s first Christmas.
Beneath the branches sit gifts of various sizes wrapped in plaid paper.
We hang our ornaments on the long branches of the tree, then step back to admire our collection. The ceramic dog figurine that represents Zelda. A tiny cast-iron skillet for our first camping trip together. When I find the silver frame with the sonogram inside it, tears blur my vision.
I’ll never forget our first baby. He taught me so much. How grief and happiness are intertwined. How to be okay. How to mess up but fix things too.
Like he senses my melancholy, Hank wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. He kisses my hair, voice dropped to a whisper. “You okay?”
“I am.” Twisting, I face him, hands on his broad chest. “Especially with you.”
His smile speeds the beat of my heart.
“I love you, Bell.” Hand moving to my cheek, he drops his forehead to mine.
“I love you too.” I breathe him in. Cup his face. Kiss him deeply.
My entire being gets lost in Hank’s steady presence. His heart. This man, this cowboy who has shown me that it’s okay to be lost because he’ll always find me.
Tiny, adorable snuffling noises come from Jackson’s bassinet. Still tangled together, we tiptoe a few inches to the right and peer inside.
“He’s dreaming.”
Jackson’s pouty lips turn up into a smile.
“That’s what this feels like,” Hank murmurs. “A dream.”
“The best dream,” I tell him, my body warming at the pure adoration in his expression. “One I never want to wake up from.”
“Never been happier, Bell.” He leans down and presses his lips against mine.
As I take in his handsome face, I wonder about all the Christmases we’ll have together. All this love and the rest of our lives to do this over and over again.
I can’t wait.
“How lucky are we?” I ask, my heart a hammer of happy inside my chest.
Hank holds me closer. “The luckiest.” He brushes a kiss against my temple and whispers, “Merry Christmas, Bluebell.”
I tilt my mouth up, sweeping my lips over his. “Merry Christmas.”
My favorite time of the year.
All because of a cowboy.