Burke eased the truck into a space along Main Street. Families clustered near a food truck spilling steam into the cold night, children clutching cups of cocoa crowned with whipped cream. Rosie was instantly mobbed by mittened hands, her tail wagging like a banner.
Across the square, Scout stood near Sara Parker, both scanning the gathering with the easy vigilance of seasoned deputies. And near them, Tessa Quinn—already half turned toward the road, suitcase at her feet—lingered in conversation with Scout. She leaned in, her smile quick, her words brief—a goodbye, nothing more. But Sara’s sharp gaze caught it all, her lips pressing together as though holding back thoughts better left unsaid.
Tessa lifted her suitcase, the wind tugging at her hair as she paused to take in the courthouse steps. She lingered, eyes tracing the flickering lights on the hill, as if trying to capture the memory of the town before slipping quietly into the crowd.
Caitlin looked at Burke. “It’s beautiful. Even without the lights.”
“They light it every Thanksgiving night,” he told her, eyes bright. “Looks like we made it just in time.”
A tall man with an easy grin and a shock of dark-blond hair threaded with early silver pushed through the throng. He clapped Scout on the back, then turned to Burke.
“Preston Sinclair,” Burke said to Caitlin. “Professor Sinclair, technically—but don’t let that fool you. He’s been crashing our poker games since college.”
“Best bad decision I ever made,” Sinclair quipped. “Ask them, and they’ll say I cheat.”
Scout smirked. “Because you do.”
Sinclair tipped an imaginary hat toward Caitlin. “And you must be the woman Burke hasn’t shut up about. Caitlin, right? Pleasure.”
She laughed despite herself, and Burke’s grin widened.
As the mayor’s voice rose above the crowd, calling for the countdown, Caitlin thought she recognized a profile in the throng—a slick of dark hair, the strong line of a chin. Fear spiked, hot and sharp. But when the man turned, he was just another tourist in a red scarf. Relief washed through her like a tide.
He’s not here. He’s really not here.
Burke’s hand found the small of her back. “He’s in Denver,” he murmured, his tone fierce. “And even if he weren’t, he can’t take this from you.”
Before she could answer, a man in a tan jacket stepped out of the crowd and approached. He held a slim folder, his expression brisk and impersonal.
“Excuse me,” he said, glancing from her face to the papers. “Are you Caitlin West?”
Scout saw him moving fast. Instinct took over. He was at Caitlin’s side in two strides, hand on the man’s arm. “You want to rethink how you’re asking that?”
The stranger flinched. “Hey—easy. I’m just a process server. Doing my job.”
Burke stepped in, steady and unflinching. “What’s this about?”
The man thrust the envelope toward Caitlin. “You’ve been served,” he said flatly, then walked away as soon as Scout’s grip loosened.
The crowd barely noticed—music swelled, lights flickered, and over the hum of chatter, Mayor Johnny Phillips’s voice carried clear through the cold:
“All right, Sylva—let’s make it shine! Ten… nine… eight…”
He stood near the base of the courthouse steps, scarf tucked neatly under his dark coat, his silver hair and matching goatee catching the glow of the tree lights, his smile as warm as thelights about to blaze above them. Children shouted the numbers with him, mittened hands raised high.
Caitlin stared down at the papers in her trembling hands as the crowd’s countdown echoed.
Burke took the folder, scanned the first page, then bent until his forehead nearly touched hers, voice low and certain.
“Divorce petition,” he murmured. “Filed in Denver—you’re the respondent.”
She went still. It was really over.
He leaned closer, breath warm against her hair. “This is a good thing,” he whispered. “It means he’s letting go—and you’re free to start fresh.”
She could only nod, afraid that if she spoke, she’d break completely. Tears welled—not the kind that hurt. They shimmered—light, full, and clean.
The mayor’s voice lifted again: “Three, two, one?—”
