Page 41 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"I'm very real. And I have three orders from the girls in town already. Christie at the Cozy Cup wants something for her sister’s gala, and Celine from Velvet & Lace is talking about a partnership." I huff, trying to maintain my independent-woman-who-needs-no-man vibe, even as my body betrays me, leaning into his touch. "Your family is a distraction, you know. Ruthie tried to feed me three times this morning. And Linda left another sketch on my pillow. A hummingbird this time."

"They like you. Get used to it." His hand moves to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my chestnut hair. His grip is firm, possessive. "And I don't care about the orders. Not right now."

"Possessive much?" I arch an eyebrow. "I have a business to run, Cag. You built me this fancy cage—uh, workshop—and now you want me to ignore it?"

Something flickers behind his eyes. The word 'cage' hits a nerve, even when I’m joking. He knows. He knows that for twenty-seven years, my life was a gilded cage. He knows that every time I hear a phone ring, I expect it to be my father’s lawyers telling me I’m being liquidated. The damage my father caused hasn’t vanished, but it no longer controls every decision I make.

"This isn't a cage," he says, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin behind my ear. "It’s yours. The deed is in your name. The land is Kramer land, but this building belongs to you. If you wanted to burn it down tomorrow, I’d hand you the matches."

"Don't give me matches. I’m expensive to insure." I reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt. "Besides, I like it here. It’s quiet. Except when your brothers are shouting about water rights."

Six weeks on, the water is back. That’s the real victory. The deed-book reference we uncovered in Frank’s old records led us to a certified copy of the century-old easement, and once the court had it in front of them, Black Aspen was ordered to restore the upstream flow. My father’s name on those documents—the way it looked in bold, black ink—used to make me flinch. Now, it just looks like a name on a losing contract. He counted on the easement staying buried. He didn’t count on an entire family searching until we found it.

Cag pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine. “The Black Aspen Surveyor checked the upstream gate this morning. He left after he saw the new court notice and the locks installed under the sheriff’s supervision.”

"You’re a menace, Kramer."

"I’m a man protecting what’s mine."

"Is that all I am? Yours?" I challenge him, though we both know the answer.

"You’re everything," he growls, and then he’s kissing me. It’s not soft. It’s a claim. The kiss carries none of the fear that followed me out of the chapel. The tearing silk once sounded like my life falling apart. Now I understand that the dress needed to tear so I could find out what was left when my father’s plans were stripped away. Cag didn’t rebuild me. He stood beside me while I rebuilt myself.

I melt into him, my hands sliding up to his shoulders. He’s so solid. So permanent. In my old world, everything was made of glass and ego. Here, it’s dirt and sweat and a love that feels like it’s been carved out of the mountain itself.

“Come on,” he says, breaking the kiss but keeping his arm locked around my waist. “The town’s starting to show up. Linda’s got the punch ready, and Andy’s looking for a reason to start the grill.”

"Is it time already?" I glance at the clock. "I haven't even finished the display on the mannequin."

"You don't need a display. You’re the show, Juliette."

He leads me out onto the porch of the workshop. The air is crisp, smelling of late summer and the pine trees that give the valley its name. Below us, the ranch is bustling. I see Andy’s truck parked near the main house, Sadie running circles around Linda, who’s laughing as she holds a pencil and a pad. The Kramers. They’re my family now. Not by blood, but by choice. By the way they closed ranks around me when my father’s men finally rolled through Pine Valley, and by the way not one of them ever asked me for anything in return.

As we cross the yard, Dwight Puddy heads toward the clinic with a sack of feed tucked beneath one arm. One corner has split, leaving a thin trail of kibble he hasn’t noticed. The ranch vet looks exhausted enough to sleep standing up, but he still lifts two fingers in greeting before continuing toward the clinic.

Cag keeps his hand locked around mine as we walk on. The closer we get to the main house, the louder the celebration becomes—boots striking the porch, glasses clinking, and the hiss of meat hitting Andy’s grill.

We reach the main house, and the afternoon dissolves into a blur of faces and laughter. Old Jack from the Timber Trail Tavern shows up with a keg of ale that smells like stale beer and sawdust, and Frank from the hardware store spends twenty minutes telling me about the 'historical significance' of the nails Cag used for the workshop siding.

I find myself sitting on the porch swing between Linda and Pam. Pam’s thick dark braid hangs over one shoulder, and she smells like saline and professional competence. She studies me with the same direct, no-nonsense focus she probably uses on a horse twice my weight.

"You’re staying then," Pam says, her voice kind but direct. "No more running?"

"I think I’ve run as far as I can go," I say, looking out over the back pasture. The sun is beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows over the grass. "There’s nowhere else I want to be."

"Good," Linda says, her hand resting on my shoulder. "We need more women around here to keep these idiots in line."

"I'm doing my best," I joke, but my eyes find Cag. He’s standing by the grill with Andy and Benjamin. He looks happy. Truly happy. The cabin and the cottonwood hawk no longer feel like evidence of everything Cag once believed he couldn’t complete. He still carries the past, but it no longer decides what he builds next. In his place is the man who built me a sanctuary.

As the party begins to wind down and the stars start to prick through the violet sky, Cag finds me again. He doesn't say a word, just takes my hand and leads me away from the noise, back toward the workshop.

The light inside is soft now, the golden hour fading into dusk. He leads me to the big window, the one that looks out over the back pasture toward the half-built cabin he’s finally started working on again.

"I have something for you," he says.

"Another figurine? My nightstand is getting crowded, Cag."

"No." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wooden box. He doesn't open it yet. He just holds it, his fingers tracing the grain. "When I started this workshop, I was trying to fix something in myself. I thought if I completed something—anything—it would prove I wasn’t broken. That I could still be a man who didn’t walk away when the work became hard."