I catch Walker across the room speaking with the gallery owner. He hasn’t turned off his sheriff’s instincts just because we're an hour away from Evergreen Falls. His gaze still sweeps the room every few seconds.
Some habits never die.
Levi stands beside the refreshment table, explaining the difference between oil and acrylic paint to a couple who only asked him where the restroom was. He’d somehow turned a thirty-second conversation into a lecture about pigment quality.
I smile behind my hand.
Across the room, Santiago laughs as one of the older patrons shamelessly flirts with him.
He notices me watching and winks.
I shake my head.
The past few months have settled into something that feels remarkably ordinary. The best kind of ordinary.
At one point, I started browsing apartment listings, but the search didn’t last long.
Somewhere between Walker making me a house key, Levi filling the pantry with my favorite snacks, and Santiago expanding his closet to fit more clothes for me, the decision had apparently already been made.
I wasn’t a guest anymore. I’d simply been the last person to realize it.
Life on the ranch kept moving. It had to.
Jack stepped into Javier's boots without anyone asking him to. Not because he wanted the title. Because someone had to make sure the horses were fed before sunrise. Someone hadto mend fences. Someone had to keep teaching the younger wranglers the way Javier once taught him.
A few weeks later, they hired another wrangler to help carry the workload. No one replaced Javier. They simply learned how to carry what he’d left behind.
Silver Pines never closed. For a while, everyone thought it might. Neil Redford’s death nearly buried the resort before it truly had the chance to open.
Instead, the town refused to let another greedy man’s choices define its future. New management stepped in. The employees kept their jobs. The slopes stayed open. Tourists filled the lifts every weekend.
Martha complains constantly about how busy the diner has become. I’ve never seen her happier.
Bear recovered exactly as everyone predicted. Levi insists it was excellent veterinary care. Walker claims Bear is simply too stubborn to die. Santiago says he’s spoiled.
They’re all right.
Bear spends most mornings asleep beneath my easel, snoring loud enough to shake the floorboards of my studio, or playing with Shadow.
“Congratulations.” The gallery owner appears beside me with another red sticker in her hand. “That's the last one.”
I blink. “The last one?”
She smiles. “You sold every painting.”
Emotion catches in my throat.
Every painting.
Well…
Almostevery painting.
My eyes drift toward the far wall. One painting still hangs beneath its spotlight. It doesn't have a price. Never did.
The gallery owner follows my gaze. “I’ve had several people ask about that one.”
“I know.”
