So I did something that could have backfired spectacularly. I submitted those photos along with a pitch about the “hidden historian of Montana’s backcountry,” complete with Reese’s impromptu lecture about the cabin’s origins. I didn’t tell her. Icouldn’t risk her talking me out of it or getting her hopes up in case they said no.

Three weeks later, an editor called her directly.

The look on her face when she hung up that phone… I’ll never forget it. Pure shock, then disbelief, then this slow-spreading smile that made my chest feel too small for my heart.

“They want to do a feature story,” she whispered. “About me. About the work I do here.”

I played dumb, of course. “That’s incredible, Reese. How did they even know about you?”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “They said someone sent them photos and a story pitch. They won’t tell me who.”

I came clean two months later, after the interview went well and the photographer captured her in her element. She cried and kissed me so hard I saw stars.

“You believed in me,” she said against my lips. “I love you, Sawyer. So much.”

“I love you too,” I said.

That was the moment I knew I was going to marry her.

The ranger exam was a piece of cake after all her tutoring. I passed with flying colors, like she’d predicted, and landed a job as a ranger, right here in Maplewood Springs. I also kept my promise about fixing her sagging shelves for the botanical pressings in the Natural History exhibit.

We spent every waking hour together. Talking, laughing, hiking. Kissing. When her lease came up for renewal, it made sense for her to move in with me. Her history books and my outdoor gear somehow all fit together perfectly in my little cabin outside town.

Now, another six months later, I’m standing in our bedroom, staring at the small velvet box in my hands and trying not to throw up from nerves.

I’ve been carrying this ring around for the past month, since I found it in an antique shop. The moment I saw it, I knew the vintage piece from the 1890s was perfect.

I’ve been waiting for the right moment. I thought about proposing at the lake where we had our first real hike together, or maybe at the Visitor Center where we spent all those hours studying. But those places didn’t feel quite right.

This morning, though, I figured it out.

I hear Reese’s car in the driveway and quickly stuff the ring box into my pocket. She’s been at the historical society all morning, working on research for her next article.Historic Gems Quarterlyhas already commissioned two more pieces from her, and there’s talk of a book deal. I’m so proud of her. And soon, hopefully, I’ll get to call her my wife.

“Yeah, this is Reese, my wife,” I’ll tell people. “She’s the best historian around. She even has a book deal and everything.”

Man, I often pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. That’s how lucky I am to have found her.

“Sawyer?” she calls as she comes through the front door. “You’ll never guess what I found in the archives today!”

“Tell me,” I say, walking out to meet her.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Letters!” she says, removing her jacket. “A whole box of letters from the 1890s, written by the woman who ran that fishing camp at the lake. The one where we had our picnic? Her name was Margaret Hartwell, and she wrote to her sister back east about everything. The weather, the guests, the fish they caught, even complaints about her husband tracking his muddy boots all through the house. What a coincidence, right?”

She laughs, and I can’t help but smile at how animated she gets when she talks about her discoveries.

“That’s incredible, Reese. You’re going to write about her?”

“I’m going to try. Her story deserves to be told.” She pauses, looking at me with that soft expression that still makes my knees weak, even after a whole year together. “I keep thinking about how we sat right there where she lived, where she built her life. It’s like… I don’t know, like the past and present were connected for a moment.”

This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. My nerves disappear entirely as I look at her. This brilliant, passionate woman who sees magic in forgotten stories and makes the past come alive. She’s my present and my future, and suddenly, I know exactly what I want to say.

“Actually,” I say, reaching into my pocket, “I have something that might connect our present to our future.”

Her eyes widen as I drop to one knee right there in our entryway, her jacket still dangling from one hand.

“Reese,” I say, opening the box to reveal the ring I spent months picking out. It’s exactly the kind of ring that has its own history. “I love how you see the world. I love how you make the past come alive, how you find magic in old stories and forgotten places. I love how you took a chance on hiking with me, even though you were terrified. I love how you inspire me to be better, smarter, and more curious about everything. I loveyou.”

Her hand flies to her mouth, and I can see tears gathering in her eyes.