“Of course I’m keeping tabs. I will keep tabs on anyone who hurts my family as long as I’m alive, and even then I’ll probably find a way.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it was almost funny. But with Fury, you were never entirely sure where the joke ended and the promise began.
“Sienna told me to tell you she’s crying already and the ceremony hasn’t started,” Fury added. “She also told me to tell you that if you make her mascara run, she will end you.”
“Tell Sienna I make no promises.”
Fury stood. Kissed the top of my head.
“I love you, Rosie,” he said. The childhood name. The one only he and Blaze used. “Now go marry your Scottish idiot.”
“He’s not an idiot.”
“He walked into your private cabin that first day. He’s an idiot.” Fury grinned. “But he’s our idiot now.”
He went inside. I sat on the porch for one more minute, watching the mountains, breathing the air that smelled like pine and wildflowers and home.
Then I went to get married.
Patrick walkedme down the aisle.
Not Uncle Patrick. Just Patrick. Da. The man who’d taken three orphaned children into his home and loved them like his own and never once made us feel like charity. The man whose ginger curls were more grey than copper now, whose light blue eyes still crinkled at the corners when he smiled, whose Scottish brogue got thicker when he was emotional.
He was very emotional right now.
“Ye look bonny, lass,” he said, his arm steady under mine despite the tears tracking down his weathered face. “Your mother would—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “Shelly would be so proud.”
Shelly. My mother I never got to know.
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything. Not just today. For all of it.”
“Ach.” He waved his free hand, the way he always waved off gratitude, like love was so obvious it didn’t require acknowledgment. “You’re my girl. Always have been.”
The ceremony was in the field behind the barn. White chairs in two sections, one side overflowing with McCraes and Carideos and Gracens, the other side with Graham’s smaller contingent: Dex, Jamie, Olivia, Isla, a few friends who’d flown in from Scotland. Hank was in the back row, wearing a tie for what was clearly the first time in decades and looking like it might kill him. Kaya was beside him, crying before we even started.
And behind the chairs, along the pasture fence, the horses.
Cassiopeia stood at the fence line, watching the proceedings. Brutus was beside her, occasionally stamping at flies. Starlight hung back near the water trough, observing. Ricky was pressed against Cassie’s flank, drawing courage from her the way he always did.
My family. All of them. The humans and the horses and the man waiting at the end of the aisle.
Graham.
He was standing under the arch Eoin had built that morning, simple wood, wrapped in wildflowers, framing the mountains behind him like a postcard. He was wearing a kilt, his family tartan, dark greens and blues, and a jacket and a white shirt open at the collar. His hair was longer than when I’d met him. His jaw was clean-shaved. His eyes were wet.
He saw me and his face crumpled and opened simultaneously, like every wall he’d ever built fell down at once.
Dex put a hand on his shoulder. Graham nodded once. Steadied himself.
Patrick walked me the rest of the way. When we reached the arch, he took my hand and placed it in Graham’s.
“Take care of her,” Patrick said. Not a request. A command. Delivered with the full authority of a Scottish patriarch who’d raised sixteen children, buried one wife, married another and knew exactly what love cost.
“With everything I have,” Graham said. His voice was rough but steady.
Patrick nodded once. Kissed my cheek. Sat down beside Theresa, who was already crying into a handkerchief.
We’d written our own vows. Maggie, my maid of honor, had warned us this was a terrible idea. “You’re both going to be emotional wrecks and nobody will understand a word,” she’d said. She wasn’t wrong.
Graham went first.
