"Yes. Yes. Yes."
I take the ring out of the box. Hold her left hand. Slide my grandmother's ring onto her finger. Whitley's resize is perfect. The turquoise catches the last gold of the sunset.
I pull her to me. Kiss her. Long.
When we pull back, her forehead is against mine and we're both crying and laughing at the same time the way people cry and laugh when they finally get the thing they spent their whole life waiting for.
"Take me home, Spur."
"Yes, ma'am."
I stand and pull her up. Cinch follows us to the gate. I open it, walk Dakota out, and the mustang stays at the rail.
The family is already on their feet on the back porch.
Dakota holds her left hand up as we come up the gravel. The turquoise catches the last of the sunset.
Marlena comes off the porch first. Hits Dakota at the bottom of the steps and pulls her into her chest the way a mother wouldpull her daughter into her chest, saying things into Dakota's hair I can't hear, and Dakota's crying into Marlena's shoulder.
But, even now, I know she’s wishing Jolene were here. And, if Jolene weren’t a batshit crazy bitch who lost her damn mind, she would be.
She goes to Grace next, then Bex.
Then Phantom. He comes off the porch slowly and walks up to me.
He looks at me for a long second, then he pulls me into a hug. "If anyone was going to be a new son of mine, I’m glad it was you."
The Lyle family closes around us in the gravel as the sun goes down behind the western fence of Sharp Shooter Ranch.
She said yes. The threat is dead, and my grandmother's ring is on her hand. Everything is finally starting to settle down.
Thisis the rest of my life.
EPILOGUE
Dakota
The east pasture is silver with frost when I pull the gauze curtain back at six o'clock in the morning on the day I'm supposed to get married.
Earl's oak is bare and black against the gray country sky.
The white chairs Banshee set up yesterday afternoon are dark with overnight dew.
The string lights in the oak's branches are off, but I know they'll come on at sundown.
The grass between here and the oak is gold and dry the way it goes in January, and I can see my breath against the cold of the windowpane when I lean against the glass.
I'm in Spur's flannel and a pair of his thick wool socks because the floor of my father's house is cold the way it's only cold this time of year.
I'm getting married inelevenhours.
I should be sleeping. I'm not. I can’t fucking sleep, no matter what I do. I guess it’s my nerves.
I walk back to the bed and pick my phone up off the nightstand.
The thread hasn't been touched in a while now.
The last message I sent was at Christmas that never got a response, but it’s because her phone was shut off.
