Page 25 of Wild for the Mountain Man
No one answers quickly enough.
He points. “Oh man. You’re gonna be my step-mom?”
Lilah blushes; I groan. Dave laughs outright.
Caleb’s grin widens. “Guess that makes you the family overachiever, huh? Just don’t expect me to start calling you ‘Mom.’”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lilah fires back, finding her footing.
Caleb slings the backpack higher. “Cool. So does this mean you’ll start cooking the good pancakes on weekends again?”
Dave shakes his head, chuckling. “Looks like you’ve got your marching orders.”
“Seems so,” I say, smiling at the chaos that suddenly feels exactly right.
Dave claps a hand on my shoulder. “You know, I’ve fought enough fires to know the good ones don’t always burn things down. Sometimes they clear the ground for what’s next. You two look like the latter.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Means more than you know.”
He nods. “Just make her happy.”
Lilah squeezes my hand.
“Deal,” I say, relief like oxygen after smoke.
Epilogue
Lilah
Cady Springs - June
Summer has finally settled into the mountains. The peaks still wear streaks of snow like forgotten scarves, but Main Street smells of wildflowers and warm bread. My studio door stands open to the breeze, the bell above it chiming whenever someone wanders in. From here, I can see the florist’s shop next door, its windows crowded with hanging baskets and sun-drunk daisies. On the other side, the bakery’s door is propped wide, the sweet scents drifting in every time Marci opens the oven.
It’s the perfect spot for my new studio, right between color and sweetness. The ring Wade slipped on my finger last spring still catches the light whenever I reach for my camera. It’s proof that some promises don’t need ceremony to last, but we had one anyway.
I glance around my own space with framed prints lining one wall. There’s a long worktable scattered with lenses and an old wooden easel by the window where I display my latest work.
The little sign in the window readsLilah Grant Photography, hand-lettered in Wade’s precise block script.
Outside, a few locals stop to peek in, smiling, waving. Cady Springs has a way of claiming you once you stop trying to leave.
The phone buzzes on my desk … Wade’s name flashing across the screen. I answer on the first ring.
“Hey, mountain man.”
His chuckle rumbles through the speaker, low and familiar. “Hey, trouble. You at the shop?”
“Still. Almost closing.” I can hear the wind where he is, a high ridge maybe, the same wind that used to scare me when it pushed too hard at the world. Now it just sounds like him—strong and always finding his way home.
“Tour group doing okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says. “They’re slow, but the view’s worth the wait. We’ll be off the trail by six.”
“Good. Don’t be late tonight.”
“Oh?” There’s a smile in the word. “What’s tonight?”
“Something special,” I say, biting back the grin that’s been threatening all day. “And before you ask, no, I’m not telling. Just make sure you’re home on time.”
