I pressed a kiss to Maggie's hair and closed my eyes, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I fell asleep without dreading what morning would bring.
27
Maggie
The drive home took three days, and I savored every mile.
We started as a caravan—Liam and Stephanie in the lead, Jack and me following in his truck, Sully sprawled across the back seat like he was finally allowed to relax. But somewhere in Wyoming, at a gas station with a view of the Tetons, I pulled Liam aside.
"Go on without us," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"We'll be a day behind you. Maybe two." I glanced back at Jack, who was filling the truck and pretending not to watch us. "I just... I want some time. Just the two of us. Before we get back and everything gets real."
Liam studied me for a moment—that quiet, assessing look he'd inherited from our father. Then his mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "Take your time. I'll let Aunt Lou know you're coming."
Stephanie was less subtle. She hugged me tight and whispered, "Get a nice hotel room. Order room service. Don't come back until you're ready."
"Stephanie—"
"I mean it." She pulled back, her eyes sparkling. "You just chased a man across three states and got your heart put back together. You deserve a honeymoon. Even if it's just a practice one."
So Liam and Stephanie drove south toward Texas, and Jack and I turned west.
We spent that night in Jackson Hole—a little inn with a view of the mountains and a fireplace in the room. We ate dinner at a restaurant where they didn't know our names, didn't know our story. We were just a couple in love, holding hands across a white tablecloth, making plans for a future that suddenly felt possible.
After dinner, we walked through town in the cool mountain air. Jack bought me a turquoise bracelet from a Native artist's stall because I stopped to admire it. I bought him a worn copy of "Lonesome Dove" from a used bookstore because he mentioned he'd never read it. Small gifts. The kind of things people do when they're learning how to be together.
That night, in front of the fireplace, we drank whiskey and talked about nothing and everything.
Not big declarations. Not heavy confessions. Just... us. The kind of conversation that wanders wherever it wants to go—childhood memories and stupid jokes and what we'd name a hypothetical goat if we ever got one. He said Gerald. I said absolutely not. We talked about books we'd never finished and songs that made us cry and the best meal we'd ever eaten. He told me about the summer he tried to teach himself guitar and gave up after two weeks. I told him about the time I got lost in a corn maze for three hours and had to be rescued by a twelve-year-old.
He laughed at that. Really laughed. And I realized I'd do just about anything to keep hearing that sound.
Somewhere in the easy flow of it, the conversation got quieter. Deeper. I told him things I'd never told anyone—not the facts, he already knew those. But the shape of it. The way I'd rearranged myself around someone else's cruelty until I couldn't remember what my original shape had been.
Jack listened without interrupting. When I was done, he pulled me close and held me, and somewhere in the mess of tears and firelight and his steady heartbeat under my cheek, I felt something finally let go.
The next morning, we drove through Yellowstone—taking the long way, the scenic route, because we could. Because we had time. Because for the first time in my life, I was just... present. With Jack. Watching geysers erupt and bison graze and the world unfold in ways I'd never taken time to notice before.
We stopped at an overlook somewhere in the park, and Jack pointed to a herd of wild horses in the distance.
"Someday," he said, "we're going to have horses like that. Not wild, but free. Bred for heart, not just bloodlines."
I leaned into him, his arm around my shoulders, and watched the horses move across the landscape like poetry. "Tell me more."
So he did. He talked about patience and trust and the way you could rebuild something broken if you were willing to take the time.
He wasn't just talking about horses. I knew that. He knew I knew.
"I want that," I said. "All of it. With you."
Jack kissed the top of my head. "Then that's what we'll build."
We crossed into Colorado that afternoon. We talked about everything—the land, the business plan I'd been building in my head for years, finally given permission to become real.
We talked about the hard stuff too. Jack's grief, still raw but no longer suffocating. He told me more about his family—stories from childhood, memories that made him smile instead of flinch.
