“Fifteen,” Jasper said. “Fourteen. Thirteen. Are we there yet? Twelve. Eleven. I’m going to count all the way to zero and then sit down wherever I am. Ten. Nine.”
I let him continue—the rhythm of his voice a counterpoint to our footsteps, the warmth of his hand on my arm solid and present—until we reached the property line.
I stopped him with a gentle pressure on his shoulder, turned him to face exactly the right direction, and reached up to pull the bandana from his eyes.
Jasper went completely still.
Where there had been empty meadow three months ago, there was now a two-story farmhouse—white-painted board and batten siding, a wide wraparound porch running the full front width and wrapping both sides.
A porch swing hung at the near corner, the wood pale and new but already showing signs of use. The front steps were wide and shallow, the kind a child could navigate without help or an adult could manage while carrying groceries.
A front-facing gable window caught the afternoon light, the glass throwing back a perfect reflection of the Black Butte mountain that rose behind it.
The house sat on a gentle rise, positioned to take in the full view of the mountain without blocking it from the neighbors. Through the tree line along the left edge of the yard, the rooflineof Burke and Danny’s place was just visible—close enough for help if needed, far enough for privacy if wanted.
Jasper’s breath caught—a quick, sharp inhale that I felt against my side. His hand had come up to cover his mouth, his eyes wide and fixed on the house in front of us.
“What is this,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
“It’s our house,” I said, keeping it simple. “Remember the conversation on the porch after the firefight? The one about building our own place?”
Jasper nodded once—tight, definitive—but didn’t take his eyes off the house.
“Rawley deeded us ten acres,” I continued, each word precise. “Carter and Macon put in the framing and finish work. Burke’s crew handled the rest.”
Jasper turned to look at me, jaw working like he was having trouble forming words. “I thought you were building a barn,” he said finally, voice carrying the confusion of a man who’d been handed exactly what he wanted without having asked for it. “Everyone kept talking about a new barn.”
“That was the point,” I said, the simple statement carrying more weight than its four words should have been able to.
Understanding dawned on Jasper’s face. “You lied,” he said, but there was no accusation in it.
“Not exactly,” I said. “We did build a barn. It’s behind the house.”
Jasper made a sound that wasn’t quite a word, but carried meaning anyway, and then his hand found mine—quick and certain, palm warm against my knuckles.
“Show me,” he said.
I squeezed his fingers once—brief, definitive—and then turned toward the front gate, guiding him with one hand on his arm and one at the small of his back.
The gate swung open at a touch—well-oiled hinges, carefully balanced—and then we were walking up the front path, gravel giving way to wide wooden steps, the sound of our footsteps changing as we moved from ground to porch.
Jasper’s hand had tightened on mine, his breathing quick but controlled—not the rhythm of fear or even excitement, but something quieter and more certain: the simple fact of a man stepping into a life he’d chosen rather than one that had chosen him.
The front door was solid oak with a simple brass handle. I reached for it with my free hand, feeling the weight of the moment land somewhere beneath my sternum.
“This is us,” I said, keeping it simple. “If you want it.”
Jasper’s face did something complicated—not quite a smile, but adjacent to it, a softening around the eyes that made my chest tighten. “Yes,” he said, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should have been able to. “I want it.”
I turned the handle and pushed the door open, guiding Jasper across the threshold with one hand on his arm and one at the small of his back. The warmth of him pressed against my side registered somewhere beneath my sternum—not quite a physical thing, but close to it.
The mountain hadn’t moved—wouldn’t move—would go on sitting exactly where it was regardless of what happened in its shadow.
I understood, with Jasper’s hand warm in mine and the house solid around us, that we had handled this exactly the way we should have.
I walked Jasper through the house room by room, watching his face at each threshold. The entryway opened into a wide front room with wide-plank hardwood floors that caught the afternoon light.
A river rock fireplace dominated the north wall, stone running floor to ceiling with a thick oak mantel at chest height—the kind you could rest an elbow on while leaning in to adjust the fire.
