“Which somehow makes it more terrifying.”
Jane laughs, stepping back to admire her work. “There. Perfect. You look like a mountain bride.”
I turn to the mirror and catch my breath.
The dress is simple—ivory lace that whispers against my skin, fitted through the bodice, flowing softly around my legs. No train, no veil, nothing that would trip me on uneven ground.Jane helped me find it in a tiny boutique in Helena, both of us slightly tipsy on champagne and friendship (well, whiskey for Jane).
My hair is loose, the way Sawyer likes it, with small wildflowers tucked behind one ear—their scent sweet and green, like the mountain itself decided to bless me. Sadie’s work. She spent an hour this morning weaving them in while I tried not to cry.
I look like myself. Just... brighter. Softer. Like someone who finally stopped running long enough to be found.
“You’re going to make him cry,” Jane announces with obvious delight. “That big mountain man is going to take one look at you and absolutely lose it.”
“Tank doesn’t cry.”
“Sawyer does.” Sadie’s voice is gentle. “When it matters.”
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to settle the butterflies. Six months ago, I walked into a charity auction expecting nothing. Now I’m standing in the guest cabin at Havenridge Ranch, about to marry the man who bid a thousand dollars to keep me safe, then spent every day since proving I was worth so much more.
My studio is finished now. South-facing windows, exactly like he promised. The murals I paint there aren’t dictated by agents or algorithms anymore—they’re mine. The galleries that want them have to take them as they are, warm tones and all.
Turns out I didn’t need to shrink myself to succeed. I just needed someone who saw the whole picture.
“Okay.” I take a breath. “I’m ready.”
Jane grins. “Let’s go get you intentionally married.”
The ceremony is at the veterans’ cabins, in the clearing where they gather for bonfires, barbecues, and the kind of community I never knew I was missing.
Sawyer wanted it here.These men saved my life,he said when we were planning.Seems right they should witness me starting a new one.
I walk the path between the cabins alone—no aisle, no processional, just me and the Montana sky and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.
The clearing opens up, and I see them.
Our people.
Tex and Jane, already teary-eyed. Saint and Sadie, standing close, his hand on her back. The other veterans from the ranch—men I’ve come to know over shared dinners and long evenings, men who welcomed me without question because Sawyer claimed me as his.
Mabel Hutchins is there, of course. She catches my eye and winks. Wanda from Spur & Spoon removes her glasses and dabs at her eyes with a napkin.
And at the center of it all, standing beneath an arch that looks suspiciously handmade?—
Sawyer.
He’s wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and his good boots. His beard is trimmed, his hair actually combed. He looks uncomfortable in the formality of it, like he’d rather be in flannel.
But when he sees me, everything else falls away.
His face does something complicated—crumples and brightens at the same time—and Jane was right. His eyes are wet.
I close the distance between us, and he reaches for me immediately, taking my hands like he can’t bear not to touch me. His grip is warm and steady, callused palms rough against my skin.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” His voice is rough. “You look...”
“Like a mountain bride?”
