Evie crawls into my lap, sticky-fingered and drowsy. “Dr. K, tomorrow, can we see the train?”
“Which one?” I muse.
“The old-timey one,” Cade says. “Durango to Silverton. Narrow-gauge. Scenic as all get out.”
“Like a princess train,” Evie mumbles sleepily.
“Exactly like that.” I kiss the crown of her head.
Later, after we tuck Evie into her bunk with Bandit curled beside her, I step onto the deck.
The river hushes below; the Milky Way burns bright above.
Cade joins me with two mugs of hot chocolate. He sets one in front of me, then leans against the railing.
“You okay, Dove?” he asks softly.
I curl my fingers around the mug. “I think so,” I admit. “It’s just…a little overwhelming. Feels like it’s taken forever to get here, but at the same time, everything’s moving so fast. I don’t even know how to feel about it.”
His hand finds mine, squeezes gently. “You don’t have to feel it all at once. Just enjoy the now, and know I’ll be here tomorrow.”
We stand like that, hands tangled, listening to the river carry the heavy stuff away as we drink our hot chocolate and live in the moment.
CHAPTER 45
cade
The courtroom smells of old wood polish and stale coffee—just like it has every day these past few weeks, while we’ve sat waiting, listening, testifying during Violet’s sentencing hearings.
Sarah’s hand is in mine. I glance at her and catch the small lift of her chin, her braid pulled over her shoulder, the steel hard in her green eyes.
My Dove walked through hellfire to be here.
Judge Hamilton clears his throat, and his voice carries through the hushed room. “Violet Mercer, you’ve been found guilty of conspiracy, attempted murder, and obstruction of justice. On the charge of first-degree murder, this court sentences you to life imprisonment without parole.”
Sarah exhales sharply, like she’s been holding her breath for a decade. My thumb rubs slow circles across her knuckles.
There’s a flurry in the aisles packed with reporters.With phones banned inside the courthouse, they’re scribbling furiously, scrambling to relay updates to the crews waiting outside with satellite links to their newsrooms.
Violet stands stiffly, lips painted, hair immaculate, eyes empty as stone. No tears. No apology. Just a cold mask as deputies step forward and cuff her wrists.
Next to me, Mav mutters, “Good riddance,” low enough only I hear.
Aria lays a hand on her husband’s arm, eyes wet but proud.
Joy dabs at her cheeks with a handkerchief, sitting straight-backed and elegant, her free hand curled into Hunt’s.
Sarah leans into me. “It’s over.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my heart aching. “It’s over.”
When the deputies lead Violet away, her heels click sharp against the tile. I don’t watch her go. I turn to Sarah and to the people who showed up for us, the ones who never once flinched, no matter how difficult the times got.
Mav catches my gaze and nods once. He’s the kind of friend a man thanks God for.
Joy squeezes Sarah’s hand as we file out, murmuring something soft—something only women can say and somehow make sound like a promise. If I said it to either of them, they’d call me a chauvinist. Which means I probably will, just to rile them up.
Outside, the September sun is bright—almost jarringly so after the dim courtroom.
