Page 87 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

Josh gave her a framed photograph. The mountains at sunrise. On the back: Welcome home.

Emma’s gift was a drawing. Three figures in front of a house. The tall one frowning. The medium one smiling. The small one holding a dinosaur. Above them: MY FAMLY.

“That is Papa being grumpy,” Emma explained. “That is you being happy. And that is me being awesome.”

Chloe held the drawing against her chest and her eyes filled again and she said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She meant it. I could tell because her voice did the thing it did when she was telling the truth about something that mattered, going soft and quiet like the words were too important to say loudly.

My gift was last. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wooden box I had carved at the mill before the shooting. Small. Smooth. Hours of careful work because Chloe deserved careful work.

She opened it.

Inside was a key. Silver. Attached to a wooden keychain carved into the shape of a house.

“It is the key to the cabin,” I said. “When it is rebuilt. Which it will be. I am going to rebuild it, and when it is done, it is yours. Ours. Home.”

The tears came again. She held the key in her palm and looked at it like it was made of something more valuable than silver, and when she looked up at me the expression on her face was the reason I was put on this earth. Not the war. Not the mill. Not the survival. This. This woman. This moment. This life that I had almost lost and was now holding onto with everything I had.

“Sawyer Cole,” she said. “You are going to make me cry on every birthday for the rest of my life.”

“That is the plan.”

She leaned across the table and kissed me. In front of everyone. Dollie cheered. Josh looked away with a smile. Emma covered her eyes and groaned with the theatrical disgust that I was learning was her signature response to our affection.

We spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen. Dollie told stories. Josh told quieter ones. Emma performed a birthday concert for Sir Chomps-a-Lot that rhymed happy with snappy and cake with lake. And I sat beside Chloe with my good hand holding hers under the table, my thumb tracing circles on her palm, and I looked at her every few minutes because I could not help it.

She was twenty-eight years old. She was wearing my shirt. She had frosting on her chin and tears drying on her cheeks and a key in her pocket and a lopsided cake in front of her and a family around her that would burn the world down to keep her safe.

She was mine. She was home. And this was the best morning of my life.

I was never going to tell anyone that. But it was true.

31

SAWYER

She was wrapped around me before I could get my boots on.

Arms around my waist from behind, her cheek pressed against my back, her body warm and soft against mine in a way that made leaving the house feel like a punishment. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up my boots, and she appeared behind me like gravity, pulling me back before I could move forward.

“Love,” she said against my back. “Are you really going back there?”

“Yes, love.”

She tightened her grip. I could feel her heartbeat against my spine, fast and steady, and the warmth of her breath through my shirt. She was worried. She had been worried every morning since the shooting, watching me get dressed with those blue eyes tracking every wince I tried to hide, cataloging every stiffness, building a case for why I should stay home that she presented with increasing creativity each day.

She pressed her lips to the back of my neck. Then lower, to the spot where my collar met skin. Then to the side of my throat, and the kiss there was slow and deliberate and sent a current of heat down my spine that had no business existing at six-thirty in the morning.

“Are you trying to stop me?” I said.

“Does it work?”

Her mouth found the spot below my ear. The spot she knew. The spot that made my brain go quiet and my body go loud, and she kissed it with the kind of attention that suggested she had a very clear strategy and was executing it with precision.

I caught her hand. Pulled her around so she was standing in front of me, between my knees, her face level with mine because I was sitting and she was standing and the height difference worked in her favor for once. I wrapped my good arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“Love,” I said, looking up at her. “I will devour you tonight. But not now.”

She pouted. The full pout. Lower lip pushed out, eyes wide, the expression she used when she wanted something and knew exactly how effective her face was as a weapon. It was devastatingly effective. It almost worked.