And God help anyone who tries to take her from me again.
TWENTY-FIVE
ATLEE
The ride homefrom the pharmacy is quiet, both of us processing everything that happened. Devlin drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine across the center console like he can’t bear to break contact. I don’t mind. After what we’ve been through today, I need that connection too—the solid warmth of his skin against mine, the gentle pressure of his fingers reminding me that we’re both okay, we’re both here.
The adrenaline has worn off, leaving me with a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even keeping my head up feel like a challenge. But beneath the fatigue, there’s something else. There’s a strange, fierce joy that we survived, that we’re heading home together despite everything Noah tried to do.
“You okay?” Devlin asks, his voice low and gentle in the dimness of the truck cab. Sunset is painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple, casting long shadows across the road ahead.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “Just tired. It’s been a day.”
He huffs a small laugh, the sound warm despite the understatement. “That it has.”
We lapse back into silence as he turns down the long driveway to the cabin. The sight of it sends a wave of relief washing through me—the solid wooden walls, the porch with its rocking chairs, the glow of the automatic porch light welcoming us home. Home. It’s amazing how quickly this place has become that to me.
Devlin parks, coming around to open my door before I can even unbuckle my seat belt. His protectiveness would have annoyed me once and made me feel smothered. Now I understand it’s just his way of showing he cares.
“Come on,” he says, helping me down from the truck, his hand lingering on the small of my back. “Let’s get you inside.”
But once we reach the porch, I hesitate. The evening is beautiful, crisp but not too cold. “Actually, can we sit out here for a bit? I could use some fresh air.”
Devlin studies my face, then nods. “Whatever you need.”
We settle into our rocking chairs, the wood creaking softly beneath us. The mountains rise before us, ancient and solid and unchanging, a reminder that today’s drama is just a brief flash in the grand scheme of things.
“The article seems to have worked,” Devlin says after a while, breaking the comfortable silence. “The town has rallied behind us. Morrison is going to have a hell of a time pushing Project Watershed through now that everyone knows what he’s up to.”
“Good,” I say, feeling a fierce satisfaction at the thought of Richard Morrison’s plans being thwarted. “He deserves to lose after what he tried to do.”
Devlin makes a sound of agreement, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the armrest of his chair. There’s something in his posture, a tension that tells me he has more on his mind than just Morrison’s defeat.
“Noah won’t be a problem anymore,” he continues. “Even if he recovers, he’s looking at serious jail time for what he did today.”
“I know,” I say, reaching across the space between our chairs to take his hand. “It’s over, Devlin. We won.”
He turns to look at me, his expression unreadable in the fading light. “Did we?”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs, running his free hand through his hair. “Just because Noah’s out of the picture doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. The cattle rustling charges are still hanging over our heads, and Morrison isn’t the type to give up easily.”
“But the town is on your side now,” I remind him. “And Shawn Cooper seems confident the charges won’t stick.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But there’s still a long road ahead.”
I squeeze his hand. “And we’ll face it together.”
That gets a smile from him, small but genuine. “Together,” he echoes, like he’s testing the weight of the word.
We rock in silence for a few minutes, watching as the first stars begin to appear in the darkening sky. The peacefulness of the moment settles over us like a blanket, pushing back the remnants of fear and tension from the day’s events.
“What would you say?” Devlin asks suddenly, his voice quiet but intent. “If I asked you to stay here forever?”
My heart stutters in my chest, and I turn to face him fully, searching his expression for what he’s really asking. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
The directness of my question seems to catch him off guard. A flash of vulnerability crosses his face before he nods once, decisively. “Yes. I don’t have a ring.” He looks down at our linked hands, almost apologetic. “And this isn’t how I planned to do it. But after today, after almost losing you, I don’t want to wait for the perfect moment.”
