"No more secrets. No more lies hiding behind the harvest. Just us. Just truth. Just whatever future we build together, one honest day at a time."
"Just us," she agreed.
And for now, in this moment, with Devon's arms around her—that was enough.
The danger was over. The secrets were exposed. Whatever came next—whatever she decided about the Callaway inheritance, whatever complications arose from being David's daughter and Sarah's tragedy—she wouldn't face it alone.
She had Devon. Had her father. Had a family who'd claimed her as their own.
She had a life she'd built through her own determination, talent, and refusal to quit.
And that, she was beginning to understand, was worth more than any inheritance David Callaway could have left behind.
Twenty
TWO WEEKS LATER…
The November afternoon had settled into that perfect golden hour when the sun hung low enough but high enough to still chase away the autumn chill. Devon stood on the main house deck, one hand wrapped around a glass of iced tea that had long since stopped sweating, the other braced against the railing as he surveyed the organized chaos unfolding in the backyard.
This was what family looked like when the storms had passed.
Grant's son, Randy, and Erin's boy, Nathan, had turned the lawn into their personal football field, complete with elaborate plays they'd clearly been planning for weeks. Randy crouched low, hands on his knees, calling out plays that made absolutely no sense but sounded impressively strategic. Nathan bounced on his toes in what he probably thought was a defensive stance, his dark hair flopping in his eyes.
"Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Hike!" Randy took off running, dodging an invisible defensive line, while Nathan charged after him with the kind of determined fury only boys that age could muster. They collided near the oak tree in a tangleof limbs and laughter, the football squirting free and rolling across the grass.
Willa appeared from nowhere, scooping up the ball with the confidence of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this opportunity. "I got it! I got it!"
“Hey, that’s not fair.” Nathan scrambled to his feet. "You can't just steal the ball!"
"I can if you fumble it.” Willa clutched the football to her chest and took off running, her ponytail streaming behind her like a victory flag.
Grant stood near the first block of vines, arms crossed, watching his nephew and son chase his niece across the lawn with barely contained amusement. His wife, Kelly, sat on a blanket nearby with Erin and Walter, all three of them clearly enjoying the show.
"Twenty bucks says Willa scores," Erin called out.
"You're on," Grant shot back. "Randy's faster."
"But Willa's more determined.”
"Fair point." Grant laughed.
Jessica, Grant's almost-thirteen-year-old daughter, had claimed one of the lounge chairs and declared herself far too mature for football, tag, or anything that involved running and sweating. Instead, she'd positioned herself as the centerpiece of what appeared to be an impromptu nail salon, with Hasley, Ashley, and Emery arranged around her like ladies-in-waiting attending a very particular queen.
Gabe and Olivia had claimed the picnic table under the pergola, both of them looking more relaxed than Devon had seen them in months. The investigation had finally cleared Gabe completely. His reputation had taken a bit of a hit, as there was renewed interest in his grandfather and the whole sordid affair. Gabe hated talking about it. But since the guns hadbeen returned, and he’d successfully donated them to the local museum, his attitude about his heritage had shifted—a little.
He’d decided he couldn’t change where he came from. Nor could he change the fact that Stone Bridge had been built on wine, whispers, and secrets. He might as well control the narrative, as Riley constantly put it.
Michael, Emery’s father, occupied an Adirondack chair near the garden, a book open in his lap that he clearly wasn't reading. Instead, he watched his daughter laugh with Devon's sisters, a small smile playing at his lips. The terror of almost losing Emery had left its mark—Devon saw it in the way Michael's eyes tracked her movements, the way he relaxed incrementally whenever she laughed.
Emery’s mom had flown in for a visit, and she sat between Michael’s legs, waving at Willa as she paraded around the lawn, dancing and singing without a care in the world.
It was perfect. The kind of autumn afternoon that belonged in a painting or a memory you pulled out years later when you needed to remember what happiness felt like.
But Devon couldn't quite settle into it. His eyes kept scanning the vine rows, searching for movement, waiting. While Bryson did have some anxiety about how he’d propose, he had none about his and Riley’s future. He was only concerned he’d blunder, making an ass out of himself, giving Riley—and the rest of the family—ammunition for the rest of his life because that was just the Boone way.
“What are you thinking about?" His mother appeared at his elbow, her own glass of wine in hand, her facial features soft, but she had that crinkle in her brow that she got when she worried about one of her children.
"Nothing."
