Page 11 of Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise

“I do,” she said, her voice strong and sure.

And just like that, she was mine.

The old man grinned beneath his white beard and nodded, raising his voice just enough for the small crowd to hear. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I didn’t hesitate. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment—because I had. Her lips were soft, warm, trembling with emotion. She melted into me, her hands gripping the lapels of my shirt like she never planned to let go.

When we finally pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with unshed tears and the kind of happiness that made a man believe in fate.

We turned together to face the handful of people gathered on the grassy hill. My friends. Her new friends. A few of the locals from Wildwood Valley who’d become family in their own way.

My parents were out there too. Not Bridget’s family, but that was okay. She’d chosen this. Chosen me.

Her fingers laced with mine, and I felt her squeeze once, gentle but certain. A gust of mountain air rustled through the trees behind us, sending a swirl of leaves across the grass and tugging at the hem of her white sundress. It wasn’t fancy, but it was her. Simple, pretty, and just enough lace to hint at softness without frills. No veil or bouquet, just Bridget. My wife.

I looked down at her and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. “You’re stuck with me now.”

She tilted her chin up, eyes dancing. “Good. That was the whole point.”

The guests began to clap, a few whooping like their team had just won the big game. Someone popped open a bottle of cheap champagne. Bridget leaned into my side, and I wrapped my arm around her waist, anchoring her close.

It wasn’t the wedding either of us had grown up imagining. It was better. Because this wasn’t some society-planned, approval-stamped, hundred-person event. This was ours. Turned out, we hadn’t needed a string quartet or a tiered cake or monogrammed napkins. We just needed each other.

She was already talking about painting the front of the old brick storefront downtown—her soon-to-be coffee shop. Said she wanted it to smell like vanilla and cinnamon year-round. Wanted a menu that changed with the seasons and a back patio where people could bring their dogs. Her whole face lit up when she talked about it.

She’d always dreamed of owning something. Creating something. And she was going to make it happen, right here in Wildwood Valley.

And me? I’d keep working on the logging crew. Cutting trees, hauling timber, keeping my hands dirty and my boots worn. Nothing fancy. But honest work, surrounded by mountains and men I trusted.

We weren’t chasing a perfect life. We were building a real one.

And as I stared at Bridget—my wife—I knew I’d spend every day making sure she never regretted choosing this path. Choosing me.

Because this wasn’t a mistake.

This was a damn miracle.

EPILOGUE

BRIDGET

The water had gone perfectly still by the time Reilly stepped into the bathroom. Candlelight flickered across the tile walls, casting soft golden shadows that danced along the edges of the tub. Steam curled around my shoulders, and I let my chin rest on my folded arms at the edge, breathing in the scent of lavender and warm water.

I closed my eyes and savored the warmth surrounding me. I was on the verge of falling asleep when suddenly, I felt my husband’s eyes on me.

This kind of quiet was rare these days. Rare when your world revolved around a wild eleven-month-old with a personal vendetta against naps. Rare when the only touch between you and your husband was a passing brush of hands during a diaper change or the accidental bump of hips while folding laundry.

So yeah. That quiet, unhurried gaze? I soaked it in like sunlight. Then I opened my eyes.

“You took your time,” I murmured, smiling as he stepped closer.

“I was giving you a moment,” he said, peeling off his shirt.

“I wanted a moment with you.”

His pants hit the floor. “Good. Because I plan on making the most of it.”

I watched him climb into the tub, my breath catching just a little as he sank in behind me. It wasn’t a huge tub—just the old clawfoot one we’d picked during the bathroom reno—but it was deep enough for him to slide his legs around mine, to pull me back against his chest, to tuck my wet hair behind my ear and press a kiss to my neck.

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