Peace.
And I'm never letting go.
Epilogue
Five Months Later
Madison
The Wylde Mountain Fall Festival is everything I dreamed it would be.
Crimson and gold leaves carpet the town square, crunching underfoot as families wander between booths selling apple cider, handmade candles, and pumpkin-spiced everything. Children chase each other around hay bales while a bluegrass band plays on the gazebo stage. The air smells like woodsmoke and caramel apples and the particular crispness that only October in Montana can deliver.
And right in the middle of it all, my food truck gleams like a vintage jewel. The bakery opened three months ago. The truck still hits the road twice a month. And somehow we’ve figured out how to build both a home and a horizon.
"Three apple cider donuts, two pumpkin spice lattes, and a maple pecan sticky bun," I call out, sliding the order across the counter to a woman in a hand-knitted sweater. "Enjoy the festival!"
She beams at me. "Madison, these donuts are incredible. I've been telling everyone."
"You're my favorite customer, Mrs. Patterson."
She laughs and disappears into the crowd, and I take a moment to survey my domain. The menu has expanded significantly since spring. Fall demanded an entirely new lineup of seasonal offerings, and I've been testing recipes for weeks. The maple pecan sticky buns are the current bestseller, but the apple cider donuts are gaining ground fast.
Jake appears at my elbow, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You're in your element."
"I really am." I lean into him for a moment, savoring the solid warmth of his presence. "Have I mentioned lately that I love this town?"
"Only about fifteen times today."
"Make it sixteen. I love this town."
He grins, the expression softening the sharp angles of his face. Five months together, and I still get butterflies when he smiles at me like that. I'm starting to suspect I always will.
"I need to steal you for a minute," he says. "If you can spare the time."
I glance at the line, and at Jenna King, the college student I hired last month to help with festival rushes. She gives me a thumbs up.
"Go," she says. "I've got this."
I untie my apron and duck out of the truck, taking Jake's hand as we weave through the crowd. The festival sprawls across three blocks of Main Street, and every business in town seems to have set up some kind of booth or activity. The hardware store is running a pumpkin-carving contest. Harper's bookshop has a "spooky reads" tent right next to Emma's coffee booth, the two best friends running a joint operation that's been doing brisk business all day. Even the real estate office has a presence with a tasteful table topped with listings and branded hot chocolate.
"So what's the occasion?" I ask.
"Remember that client I mentioned? The one Dave recommended?"
Dave Lennox, one of Jake's former Silicon Valley colleagues, has sent several wealthy tech refugees Jake's way over the past few months. The luxury ranch market is apparently booming among people who made their fortunes in cryptocurrency and want to spend it on Montana wilderness.
"The guy looking for the big property?"
"That's the one. He's here. Wanted to meet in person before I show him the Morrison ranch tomorrow."
The Morrison ranch. I whistle low. That property is enormous. Nearly two thousand acres of pristine mountain wilderness, with a river running through it and views that could make a grown man weep. Jake's been trying to sell it for over a year.
"That's a big commission."
"Very big." He squeezes my hand. "Come meet him with me? He mentioned wanting to try the famous cinnamon rolls."
"They're sticky buns today, but I think I can manage."
