This—this right here—was the moment everything inside me finally healed.
Montana — July 29, 1948, Thursday, early morning
The house didn't settleuntil well past midnight. Mom had gone on a loving, unstoppable rampage, making up beds, fussing, planning, muttering about quilts and curtains andthose poor babies who need proper pillows, not those hotel things, while Dad carried trunks upstairs like a man half his age.
Molly kept dragging each kid back outsidejust one more timeto show them the barn cats, or the chicken coop, or her new mare.
They adored her. Naturally.
And through all of it, Inga moved with wide-eyed wonder, as if trying to absorb everything at once. Mom had voted—loudly—that Inga and I would sleep in separate rooms.
"It's proper," she insisted. "Not until the wedding, Gideon Boyd Griffin!"
Molly had smirked behind her. Inga had blushed, and though I hated being apart from her after nights of being tucked into her warmth, I didn't argue. It was tradition, and as my mother pointed out, proper. Mom was already neck-deep in wedding plans.
After the last door closed and the house finally exhaled, I found myself wandering. Something in me knew where she'd be. And sure enough?—
there she was. Sitting on the porch swing, wrapped in one of Mom's quilts, staring out at the dark land under the spill of stars. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders like a shadow lit by moonlight. I stepped out quietly, letting the screen door click behind me.
"You cold?" I murmured.
She startled softly, then relaxed the moment she saw me. "No," she whispered. "Just… thinking."
I sat beside her, put my arm around her shoulders, and she melted right into me instantly, leaning her head against my chest with a soft sigh.
"Happy?" I asked, voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded. "So much… it scares me."
My chest tightened. Her voice trembled, "Your family… they're wonderful. I don't know how I'll ever thank you for bringing us here."
I turned her face to mine gently, brushing away the tears with my thumb.
"Inga," I exhaled her name, pressing a kiss to her temple, "you don't ever have to thank me."
"But—"
"No."
I kissed the corner of her eye. Then the other. Soft. Slow. Her tears tasted like relief.
"If anything," I whispered, "Ishould be thanking you."
She blinked. "You?"
"Yes." I cupped her face in both hands, forcing myself to speak the truth I'd kept buried for years. "Before I met you, I was a broken man, sweetheart. I hated everything. Everyone. Myself most of all. I couldn't face coming home. Couldn't even call home. I felt empty and angry and… wrong."
Her hands slid up my chest, gentle, afraid to break the moment. "But you…"
I breathed out shakily. "You taught me how to love again. How to be a man again. How to come home."
Her eyes glistened, reflecting the porch light like tiny stars. Then she reached up and kissed me.
In the distance, wolves howled, low and haunting and beautiful. She jumped in surprise.
"What was that?" she whispered.
I laughed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Wolves. They roam the mountain ridge. Don't worry, they're shy. They won't come down here."
