Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Melanie raises her glass. “To Charlotte and Asher, and the life they’re going to build—Denver and beyond!”
“Cheers!” we echo, clinking glasses.
Over the next hour, the chatter buzzes with logistics—when to list the condo, visiting schedules, mapping out renovations on Asher’s cabin. Dad pulls out his tablet to research potential companies. Melanie volunteers to handle social media for the rescue ranch—photographs, adoption events, puppy profiles. I feel a rush of love for her, for everyone here who’s stepping up.
Asher draws me aside while Mom and Dad discuss initial renovation considerations. “You okay?” he asks softly, thumb stroking the back of my hand.
I lean into him, pressing my cheek against his shoulder. “I’ve never felt more… certain about anything.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Me neither.”
We settle back to the table, but the earth has shifted. Every glance carries weight—this is real. This is our future.
Once the plates are cleared, Melanie shows me her phone. She’s already flagged venues, tux rentals, catering quotes for both Denver and Saint Pierce. I laugh, overwhelmed by the sudden flurry. Plans, deposits, guest lists—an entire new chapter opening.
By the time she scampers off with her notes, the sun is setting blood-orange across the windows. We gather in the living room again, my parents tucked into the sectional with fresh coffee, Melanie curled at my feet. Asher sits on the floor beside me, one arm draped over the cushions of the sofa.
I press my glass to Asher’s, clinking lightly. “To us.”
“To us,” he echoes, kissing my temple in the dimming light.
My heart feels as full as the mountain valleys I dream of. The nightmares still visit, but less often, less terribly. In their place grows the knowledge that we’re moving forward—together, unstoppable, stronger for everything we’ve endured.
Because tonight we’re not just survivors. We’re partners in a brand-new life, born out of chaos and cemented by love.
And happily ever after finally feels within reach.
Epilogue
CHARLOTTE
The Rocky Mountain afternoon glows across our forty-acre ranch as I step onto the back porch, decaf coffee warming my hands. Denver’s skyline shimmers in the distance, but here the air tastes of pine and fresh earth. Beneath my window, Asher is already at work—tall and strong and impossibly present—herding a pack of rescue dogs through the yard. Puppies bound around his legs, tails wagging like banners in celebration of him, and the older dogs follow behind with gentle trust.
I press a hand to my lower belly, feeling a flutter that’s already becoming our secret rhythm. One year ago, waking from nightmares still haunted by Wade Sinclair, I never could have imagined this: married to the man who saved me, owning the cabin in the Rockies, building a dog haven where every wagging tail tells a story of second chances. But here it is—our bit of paradise amidst pine and valley.
I sip the last of my decaf coffee and head inside, the wood floor cool beneath my socks. Smudged pawprints from earlier stand testament to the morning’s chaos and joy. I pause in the kitchen, stretching as the smell of fresh herbs drifts in. I’ve been planning today for weeks—Asher’s favorite dinner, every ingredient prepped, every moment in place for a big surprise.
The butcher block holds two thick steaks marinating in garlic and rosemary. On the stove, a pot of risotto simmers gently, pearl rice swelling in rich chicken stock with parmesan stirred in slow arcs. Across the counter, a salad of baby arugula, sliced pears, candied pecans, and goat cheese waits, dressed in a honey-mustard vinaigrette. Candles stand primed in vintage brass holders, and the dining table is set with our best stoneware plates—blue-gray to echo the sky outside. I take a deep breath, heart fluttering in that familiar way—nervous excitement, the same buzz that hit me when I first told him I loved him.
I turn toward the living room and catch a glimpse of the framed photo on the mantel: Asher in full tactical gear, helmet off, locking eyes with me after the rescue. Next to it stands another photo, our wedding day. We’re laughing under a willow tree, and there’s dew in the grass as the sun creates this golden light behind us. My chest tightens with gratitude and anticipation. Soon, there’ll be another photo: baby shoes tucked between our wedding rings.
The timer dings. I stir the risotto and taste. Delicious. Perfect creaminess. I pull the steaks from the marinade and pat them dry, then set the skillet to sear. Sizzle fills the quiet, and I smile. Asher taught me to cook this way—listen to each step, adjust the heat, taste and trust. Our life together has been like that cooking lesson: precise yet flexible, passionate yet patient.
I grab a glass and pour his favorite golden chardonnay. I’m mid-pour when Asher steps inside, closing the back door behind him. He brushes dirt from his jeans and drops to one knee to scratch Murphy’s ears—a brindle pit mix who’s slowly learning the meaning of “family.”