Page 53 of Homecoming

Yes, he understood it was June, the busiest time of year for weddings, but Grace had been running herself ragged. Every weekend, there was at least one, sometimes two weddings at the same time. Andy had graduated this year and was there to help her, but Grace still did the bulk of the designing and creating. Then, during the week, she had deliveries and planning meetings for September and October weddings. It was non-stop.

Owen was big enough to admit that he missed her desperately when she wasn’t around. Once they professed their love for each other, they’d become damn near inseparable.Within just a couple of weeks, Grace was living up at the Foxhole with him.

With all of them. The men had accepted her like a little sister, and he was amazed at how some of them had changed. It was probably a combination of things. Women had a civilizing effect on men, as well as babies. And now that Grace, Angela and baby Fallon were on the mountain, and Jordyn had confirmed she was pregnant, the men were a little more circumspect in how they behaved and talked.

His jaw tightened, disappointment settling heavily in his chest. Six months with Grace Lane—six months of her warmth chipping away at his edges—and he’d planned tonight down to the last detail. He’d have to have Grunt package up the special meal he’d planned.

His grandmother’s ring sat in a velvet box in his pocket, a simple gold band with a single emerald he’d polished until it gleamed.

Two months ago, they’d gone to Montana to see his family. It had been an emotional time, and he was so thankful Grace had gone with him. She’d smoothed out the hard, accusing edges of conversations, and kept everything upbeat and positive. Hayden was married to a wonderful woman, Aria, and she had helped as well. But their father was beginning to slip, mentally. It had taken a long time to explain to his dad that he hadn’t died in a training accident.

For weeks he’d agonized over what exactly to tell his dad and brother about his absence, but he’d finally just admitted that he thought they’d be better off without him. Hayden had winced at that. Later on that night, as the brothers looked at the stars in the expansive night sky, Hayden had apologized to him for being so obstinate and difficult.

“It’s over and done with now,” Owen told him. “You were better off running the ranch, anyway. It wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Well, I want you to know you’re always welcome here, no matter what,” Hayden said, clasping his shoulder.

Before they left the next day, his father had pulled him aside and handed him an antique box. “I gave your brother your mother’s ring for Aria, but this belonged to your grandmother. I think it would look beautiful on Grace’s hand.”

Owen’s throat grew tight as he looked down at the piece of family history on his palm. Yes, it would be perfect. Colorful, just like her. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I want you to come home again, soon,” his father had said, his hard eyes tearing up a little.

“I will,” Owen promised.

The ring had been metaphorically burning a hole in his pocket. He was ready to propose, to ask her to tie her life to his messed-up world for good. It had taken courage to get ready for tonight.

Now, she was elbow-deep in flowers, and he was up here, alone with a postponed dinner and a plan gone sideways. Typical.

He could’ve sulked—part of him wanted to—but that wasn’t how they worked. Grace didn’t sit still, and he didn’t let worries stop him. Not anymore. He grabbed his keys, stopped in the kitchen for Grunt to package up their dinner, and headed for the truck. If she couldn’t come up the mountain, he’d bring the mountain to her.

The drive down to Whisper Hollow was a familiar thirty minutes, the summer evening casting long shadows over the winding road. The air smelled of pine and possibility, and he cracked the window, letting it clear his head. Grace had changed him these past six months—softened the noise in his brain, made the endless details he noticed feel less like a curse. She’d slowly been making the Foxhole a home, decorating cabins, laughing with the Dogs, even stringing daisies into crowns for Fallon totear apart. She fit, and that terrified him as much as it thrilled him.

So far, the Foxhole was secure. They’d flown under the radar, literally and figuratively, and they didn’t think anyone was the wiser. There had been one tiny mention that Yates had come across that peripherally mentioned a veteran camp, but they weren’t sure it was referencing them. All they could do was be vigilant, and prepare for anything.

Owen pulled up behind Bloom, the shop’s back door propped open with a crate of roses. Music drifted out—some upbeat country tune—and he could hear Grace humming along, off-key but unbothered. Stepping inside, he found her in the workroom, surrounded by a riot of flowers. White lilies, pink peonies, and greenery spilled over every surface. She was in cutoff shorts and a tank top, her chestnut hair piled into a messy bun, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. A beautiful, colorful mess.

“Owen!” she said, spinning around, a pair of shears in one hand and a rose in the other. Her golden eyes lit up, guilt flickering. “I’m so sorry. This bride changed her mind about the centerpiecesagain, and I’ve been scrambling?—”

“Stop apologizing,” he rasped, setting the bag with the food containers on a clear patch of counter. “Brought dinner. Figured you’d need it.”

Her grin softened into something warm, and she dropped the shears to cross the room, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re the best, you know that?” She kissed him, quick and sweet, then pulled back, sniffing the air. “Is that Grunt’s apple tart?”

“Among other things,” he said, smirking faintly. “You’re not getting out of eating just ‘cause you’re drowning in petals.”

She laughed, tugging him toward the counter. “Deal. Help me with these last few arrangements, and we’ll eat. I’m starving.”

They fell into an easy rhythm—him passing her flowers, her weaving them into bouquets with that easy grace she had. He watched her hands move, quick and sure, and his mind drifted to the ring in his pocket. He’d planned to ask her over candlelight, but maybe this was better. Morethem.

“So,” he started, keeping his tone casual as he handed her a sprig of eucalyptus, “all this wedding stuff got me thinking. How would you decorate your own?”

Grace paused, a peony halfway to the vase, and shot him a sidelong glance. “My own wedding? That’s a dangerous question, Mr. Black.”

“Humor me,” he said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re the expert. What’s it look like?”

She grinned, playing along, and set the peony down to gesture with her hands. “Well, I’d keep it simple, but bold. No fussy stuff. Maybe a barn venue—wood beams, open rafters. Long tables with white linens, but tons of color in the flowers. Deep reds, oranges, golds—like a sunset. Wildflowers mixed with roses, nothing too perfect. And lights everywhere, strung up like stars.” She tilted her head, teasing now. “What about you? Got a vision, Mr. Detail?”

He shrugged, fighting a smile. “Something quiet. Out in the woods, maybe. Just the basics—good food, good people. No damn reindeer headbands.”

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