Page 17 of Marked By the Mountain Man
“God no!” She smiles and leans up into my lips for a kiss, lingering for a moment. “I loved it.”
“Good. I did too. And you don’t sense any ghosts around?”
She grins. “Not a single one. That EMF reader in my pocket hasn’t gone off either. Maybe all the lost spirits were looking for a good old-fashioned peep show before they crossed over.”
“Well,” I laugh, “I think they got more than their money’s worth.”
“Yeah,” she smiles sweetly, tiny hand on my face, fingers threading into my beard, “I think they did too.”
I shift slightly, brushing the cold earth beside me, and something smooth catches beneath my palm.
I sit up and pull away from her, blinking down at the shiny object covered with fallen pine needles.
It’s a coin. An old, worn, silver, 1921 Morgan dollar.
I lift it from the ground and press the worn money between my fingers. I’ve found a lot of weird things out here, but this is the first time I’ve found anything like this.
“Oh my God.” Juniper sits up and snatches the coin from my hand. “Dad used to carry one just like this. Said it was his lucky charm.” She smiles, her brain going a mile a minute. “He used to keep it in his jacket pocket. They couldn’t find it after the accident. But… this isn’t his. It can’t be. Why would it be here?”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
“You don’t believe in signs.” She rolls her eyes and squirms out from beneath me, tugging her clothes back into place as she talks.
“I didn’t believe in a lot of things until you came along. Now… I don’t know.” I turn it over in my hand, the metal warm now from my skin. “You should keep it.”
Her fingers brush mine as she tucks the coin into the pocket of her shirt, a content smile on her face as though she just won a bet she never made.
I’ve never been good at this part, emotions always confuse me, but somehow with Juniper it’s easier. She can laugh at my sarcasm, call me out when I’m being an idiot, and still look at me like I’m worth the trouble.
Guess miracles do happen. I caught feelingsandate dinner before six. Next thing you know, I’ll be journaling in my truck and crying at sunsets.
Thing is, if she’s there… I wouldn’t hate it.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
Juniper
Snow falls thick and steady outside the cabin windows, blanketing the world in silence. I’ve been up all night, hunched over the glow of my laptop, chasing the final paragraphs of my latest story,Ghosts of Dead Man’s Creek.It’s not exactly the paranormal deep dive I started my blog with, but sometime after the wedding, the stories shifted.
Now it’s part history, part fiction… and okay, mostly ghost smut. Turns out there’s a whole audience out there for paranormal romance. Ghostly lovers waiting centuries for reincarnated soulmates. Tragic vampires with emotional baggage and a flair for dramatic declarations. It’s weird, it’s wonderful, and somehow, it’s paying the bills.
I mutter to myself about sentence structure, tugging my sweatshirt back over my shoulder, half-aware of the man watching me from the kitchen. His coffee steams in his hand, his eyes soft and amused. I know that look. It’s the one he gives me when he thinks I’m beautiful but doesn’t want to say it out loud.
I used to think his lack of emotion would annoy me. Now I realize the emotion was always there, it was just buried. Buried, like the gold out in that river, and worth every second I spent mining.
The baby monitor crackles beside him, a sleepy sigh filtering through the static. Wren’s six months old now. She’s got my wild eyes, his quiet stare, and she’s already figured out how to charm the hell out of both of us. I thought maybe he’d last a little longer, but nope, he was the first to cave to her demands. Now, I’m pretty sure she has him wrapped tight around her little finger for life.
Doesn’t help that he was the one who delivered her. It was the worst snowstorm we’d had in years. Ten feet in forty-eight hours. The doctor couldn’t get up here for weeks. Knox had to learn on the fly from an old book we’d taken from the library. Turns out a lot has changed with birth since the 1972 publication of‘Birthing at Home.’He did great, though. Boiled the water, brought clean towels, held my hand, and reminded me how beautiful I looked even though I most definitely did not look beautiful.
When Wren was born, he was the first to swaddle her, the first to hold her, the first to look down at her sweet little face and tell her she was loved. It was poetry in motion, and I love that every piece of our story happens right here on this land.
I glance up and catch him smiling. That quiet, crooked smile that makes my chest ache.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, walking over to kiss my forehead. “Just thinking about how lucky I am that you put up with me.”
