Page 42 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

I stay quiet, my heart hammering against my ribs. Through the window, I can see the cottonwood hawk resting on the dashboard of his truck. Both wings are finished now, spread wide as if it might take flight the moment we look away.

"Then you climbed into my truck," he continues, his voice rough. "With your dress in tatters and that look in your eyes like you were ready to fight the whole world. And I realized I didn't want to finish this for me. I wanted to finish it for you. I wanted to give you a place where you never have to tear anything ever again."

He opens the box. Inside isn't a diamond from a city jeweler. It’s a band of old silver, hammered thin and set with a small raw sapphire the color of the mountain sky, and along the inside he’s cut a line of feathering with the same knife he uses on cottonwood.

"It’s not a merger, Juliette," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. "It’s a promise. I love you. I’ve loved you since you climbed into my truck and told me to drive, and I was too much of a coward to put it in words until I had something to put in your hand. You’re my woman. You’re my wife. If you’ll have me."

The sassy comeback I usually have ready dies in my throat. My eyes sting. This is the moment my father tried to sell for a higher stock price. This is the moment I thought was a myth.

"You cut this yourself, didn’t you," I manage to choke out, a tear escaping and rolling down my cheek. "You couldn’t just buy one like a normal man."

"Only for you, princess." He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. It’s warm, organic, and feels more real than anything I’ve ever owned.

"Yes," I whisper, throwing my arms around his neck. "Yes, you obsessive, possessive, beautiful man. Yes."

He lifts me off my feet, a rough laugh breaking from him and filling the workshop. He carries me to the center of the room, surrounded by the tools of my trade and the legacy of his family, and he kisses me until the rest of the world ceases to exist.

Black Aspen lost its claim to Pine Ridge’s water. Conrad lost the power to order me home. Neither one has vanished, but neither controls this room. There is only the smell of pine, the feel of his rough hands, and the knowledge that I am finally, truly, home.

I look over his shoulder at the half-finished cabin in the distance. We’ll finish the cabin together. Cag knows how to raise the frame, and I know how to turn an unfinished space into a life that belongs to both of us.

“Always mine,” he mutters against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin.

"Yours," I agree, closing my eyes. "Always yours."

Outside, the wind whistles through the pines, a low, steady sound that feels like a blessing. The wells are full, the workshop is open, and the runaway bride has finally found the one thing she was never supposed to have: a choice. And I choose him. Every single day.

I think of every woman still standing in a dress somebody else chose for her. I hope she finds what I found. I hope she finds a man who will build her a world and then stand at the gate with a rifle to make sure no one takes it away.

In Pine Valley, love isn’t a transaction someone else negotiates. It’s a choice I’m free to make. And every day, I choose him.

BONUS EPILOGUE

JULIETTE

Fourteen months after I climbed into the wrong truck, silk slides over the industrial dress form with a sound like a whispered secret, the kind of secret my father tried to bury under layers of legalese and offshore accounts. The cream-colored charmeuse is liquid light in the late afternoon sun, catching the dust motes dancing in the air of my workshop. My workshop. I still can’t say those words without pride tightening my chest.

Cag began restoring this place before he knew me, then finished it, equipped it, and put the deed in my name after I climbed into his truck. I run my hand down the curve of the mannequin’s hip, the fabric cool and unforgiving. It’s a far cry from the stiff silk and lace I tore apart while escaping my wedding. That dress represented a future someone else chose. Everything I create here begins with my own decision.

The smell of pine and old wax hangs heavy in the rafters, competing with the faint, lingering scent of saddle oil that always follows Cag like a shadow. He’s out there somewhere, checking the western fences and making sure the restored creek flow is reaching every tank. The Black Aspen bastards might have been held back by the easement we found, but they aren't gone. They're just regrouping, like a storm front waiting for the wind to shift.

My jaw tightens. My father hasn’t called since the morning the covenant was filed, and I don’t expect him to. He wrote Pine Ridge off the way he writes off any position that stops returning. He’s probably sitting in his mahogany office chasing the next acquisition while I’m here, pinning fabric in a workshop I own on Pine Ridge.

I love it. I love every single second of the uncertainty because it’s mine.

The heavy oak door at the far end of the workshop creaks open. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. The air in the room changes, thickening with a sudden, heavy pressure that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Cag. He doesn’t just enter a room; he claims it. Even before I turn, I recognize the slow certainty of his steps crossing my floor.

"You’re still at it," he grunts.

His words come out slow and rough behind me. I keep my back to him, focusing on the line of pins in my hand. I have to. If I look at him now, I’ll drop the pins, the fabric, and my dignity.

"Some of us actually have work to finish, Cag. I have a first-timer driving in tomorrow. Out-of-state plates, no appointment, wouldn’t say what she’s bringing. And I’m not meeting her with a half-pinned bodice on the form." I try to keep the sass in my tone, the sharp edge I use to keep from melting into a puddle. “Not everyone gets to spend the day outdoors while I argue with silk and pins.”

A heavy step sounds on the floorboards. Then another. He’s closer now. I can smell him—sun-warmed skin, the sharp tang of pine, and that deep, musky scent of a man who’s been working under the big sky all day.

"The cows don't stare back as much as you do," he says, his voice right behind my ear.

I shiver. I can’t help it. The heat radiating off him is like a physical weight, pressing against my back. He’s so much bigger than me, a wall of muscle and scars and possessive intent.