"No arguments," I agreed.
"And if you get overwhelmed, you tell me. We can duck out anytime."
"I will."
He cupped my face in his hands, brown eyes serious and soft all at once. "I'm proud of you, Steph. You know that? Coming here, healing, wanting to face the world again—that takes guts."
My throat tightened. "I'm terrified."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "But you're doing it anyway. That's what brave is." He pulled back, a small smile tugging at his lips. "And I've got you. Nothing's gonna happen to you while I'm around. I promise."
God help me, I believed him completely.
"Besides," he added, a smile tugging at his lips, "you've got your disguise."
He grabbed the straw cowboy hat from the bed—one of Maggie's old ones, soft and worn—and settled it on my head, tucking my braid underneath. Then he slid a pair of aviator sunglasses onto my nose.
"There. Completely unrecognizable."
I turned to look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looked like... well, like a rancher's girlfriend heading to a county fair. No glam squad. No designer labels. No Stevie Wilson.
Just Stephy.
The drive to town took twenty minutes, and by the time we pulled onto Main Street, my nerves had settled into something more manageable. The kind of butterflies that came before something good instead of something terrifying.
Copper Creek had transformed. The main square—usually quiet except for the occasional pickup truck—was packed with people, food stalls, and enough red, white, and blue bunting to make a flag factory jealous. A banner stretched across the street: FOUNDERS’ DAY FESTIVAL - 127 YEARS OF COMMUNITY.
"Oh my God," I breathed, pressing my face to the truck window like a kid. "It's like something out of a Hallmark movie."
"Don't let Aunt Lou hear you say that. She takes Founders’ Day very seriously."
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “How seriously?"
"She's been on the planning committee for thirty-two years. She has opinions about the placement of the lemonade stand."
I arched a brow. ”Strong opinions?"
He chuckled. “The strongest. Last year, she got into a heated debate with Pastor Jenkins about whether the pie contest should be before or after the square dancing.” He shook his head. “Things got ugly."
"Define ugly."
"Owen had to physically separate them. There may have been some aggressive finger-pointing."
I was still laughing when we found a parking spot near the feed store. The Blackwood convoy had arrived before us—Wyatt's truck, Clay's Jeep, and the big ranch SUV that Owen and Louisa drove lined up together.
"Ready?" Liam asked, squeezing my hand.
I took a deep breath. "Ready."
The moment we stepped onto the sidewalk, I heard her.
"There they are! Liam! Stephanie! Over here!"
Louisa stood near the entrance to the festival grounds, waving both arms above her head like she was flagging down a rescue helicopter. She wore a denim shirt with pearl snaps, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, and an apron that said BEST COOK IN TEXAS - JUST ASK MY FAMILY.
Beside her, Owen looked like the quintessential Texas patriarch—tall, weathered, distinguished in that way that came from decades of honest work and strong coffee.
"You made it!" Louisa pulled me into a hug before I could prepare myself, surrounding me with the scent of vanilla and something buttery. "I was worried you'd change your mind."
