The lighthouse in the painting glowed in the afternoon light, its beam reaching across painted waves toward a distant shore. Just like my father’s love. It had been there all along, reaching across the distance he created to keep me safe, waiting for me to open my arms and let him back in.
Tomorrow, Detective Fernandez would come to collect the storage unit key, and this part of my life would be over. There would be pottery classes to teach and tourists to welcome, the ordinary joys and challenges of our life together.
But tonight, surrounded by my father’s art and the male I loved, I felt complete in a new way.
The mystery of my past was solved, and I was truly home, with the memories of the father who never stopped protecting me.
As we sat on the sofa, I rested my head against Hail’s arm, breathing in his familiar scent, feeling the solid strength of him beside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that I was exactly where I belonged.
Chapter 30
Epilogue
ALLIE
Six Months Later
Istood at my easel by the window in the pottery barn, listening to the steady sound of Hail’s wheel turning nearby. That sound had become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. I held my brush over the canvas, watching afternoon light shine on the clay as it rose under Hail’s hands. The room smelled like wet earth and sharp acrylic paint. My nose had become so accustomed to these scents that I only noticed them when I first walked in each morning.
“Your brushwork is getting stronger,” Hail said without looking up from his clay. I could hear him smiling. “Something about how you handle light now reminds me of your father’s paintings.”
I stopped and studied my valley landscape. He was right. My painting had changed into something more serious over the past month. Dad’s techniques from our Saturday morning lessons years ago had finally clicked. I remembered how he would guidemy small hand with his larger one, showing me how to mix colors on the palette until they matched exactly what we saw outside the window.
I put down my brush and stepped back to look at my work with fresh eyes. The morning mist rising from the meadow in my painting did look like the foggy quality in Dad’s lighthouse piece. I could almost feel the dampness of the morning air just looking at it. “I love it.”
“It’s as beautiful as you.” He stopped working the clay and looked up at me with that expression that still made my heart skip. “He’d be proud of what you’re creating.”
His words eased the familiar ache I felt when thinking about my father. The pain hadn’t gone away, but it had softened into a sad gratitude for our time together and what he’d left behind. Understanding why he’d pushed me away in his final years had lifted a weight I’d carried too long.
I touched my belly, wondering if my recent queasiness was more than just leftover stress, though I didn’t feel any changes. The thought of carrying a child, of protecting someone the way Dad protected me, made me both scared and determined. I promised myself I’d make different choices. My child would always know they were loved, even if I needed to protect them from danger. I imagined tiny hands learning to work clay beside Hail, and holding a paintbrush for the first time under my guidance.
“The afternoon class should be here soon,” I said, glancing at the clock. “Are you ready for the Martinez family?”
“As ready as anyone can be for twin eight-year-olds with unlimited access to cl-cl-clay.” Hail grinned, his whole face brightening. “At least their grandmother promised to-to help contain them.”
I laughed, remembering last week when the twins covered themselves and half the barn in clay slip. It had taken hoursto clean up, and my knees were sore from scrubbing the floor, but the memory made me smile. Their joy had been infectious, and watching Hail guide their small hands through making their first pinch pots had filled my heart with feelings I couldn’t quite name.
The pottery barn had become exactly what we’d planned, a place where locals and tourists could create beautiful things with their hands, where humans and orcs worked side by side, focusing on art rather than differences. A merging of our two worlds just like Lonesome Creek was for our orc cowboys.
Our class waiting list was now three weeks long, and we’d started talking about hiring a teacher. The shelves emptied of pottery almost as fast as we could fill them.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, wiping paint from my hands with a rag. “Maybe we could add a small gallery space. Show some student work alongside yours, and maybe…” I pointed toward my easel. “Some of my paintings too.”
Hail stood and came to look at my work more closely. Clay was still stuck to his fingers, leaving smudges on his jeans as he walked. “Your paintings de-deserve to be seen, Allie. This piece captures something about our v-v-valley that I’ve never seen anyone else manage. We should definitely display your art.”
Pride filled my chest at his words. Dad would have said something similar. He always encouraged my art, even when I was too young and impatient to appreciate his teaching. Now I finally understood what he tried to show me about seeing light, about capturing a moment’s essence rather than just its surface. I could almost hear his voice explaining how to observe the way light changed colors when it filtered through mist.
Tressa raised her head from her spot in the corner, her ears perking up at the sound of a car approaching. She’d made herself our official greeter, and her tail wagged as the Martinez family’s car pulled into the alley behind Main Street. Throughthe window, the twins bounced in their seats with excitement, their eager faces pressed against the car windows, their noses squished flat against the glass.
“It’s time.” Hail washed his hands at the sink while I covered my painting with a cloth. The familiar routine of preparing for class felt good, another sign of how completely this life had become ours.
I hurried to arrange the tools at each station.
Two hours later, we waved goodbye to the Martinez family. Their hands were still stained with clay despite a thorough washing, and their faces glowed with pride over their lopsided bowls. Clay clung to their clothes and hair. The twins talked about firing their pieces, while their grandmother promised to bring them back for an advanced class next month. Their chatter faded as they walked to their car.
“I love watching their faces when they realize they’ve made something lovely,” I said, beginning our end-of-day cleanup. I swept clay scraps into a bin for recycling, the broom bristles making a rhythmic sound against the wooden floor. “We’re seeing magic happen.”
