Page 19 of Reluctant Bride

Her boxes end up in the master, the one with the attached bath and the west-facing windows that catch the mountains at sunset. I carried them there myself before she had a chance to argue, because it was never actually a question. Mine go in the room across the hall, the one that shares the hall bath with the third bedroom.

I notice what’s in her boxes, and she probably noticed what’s in mine: a laptop with a lock screen I don’t recognize, a hard-sided file case with a combination latch, a phone I’ve never seen her use.

She notices mine too. I watch her take in the same setup that I’ve established in the office downstairs: the case, the second phone, the careful architecture of a man running his own operation out of a house he’s supposed to be sharing with his wife.

Neither of us says a word about it. That, more than the porch, more than the mule, is the closest thing to a vow either of us has made since the contract.

The house has two intelligence operations and a red heeler who’s already decided she’s Sage’s own personal security detail. By the time the last box is unpacked I’ve counted exactly four people in this valley I trust completely, and I’ve spent the whole day watching a fifth one walk my fence line like he’s got nothing to hide.

Holt finds me on the porch after the house finally empties out, headlights disappearing down the drive one truck at a time, and hands me his phone without a word.

The photo is Sage, walking up to the boundary house this morning, box in her arms, taken from a distance long enough that whoever shot it had to know precisely what lens to use and precisely where to stand to get it clean.

“Taken from our side,” Holt says. “Blackwater land. Whoever took it had a clear line all the way from the ridge.”

I pull up the photo from the anonymous number the night of Knox’s wedding, timestamped hours before either father had said a word about this house, the boundary house catching the last of the light the same way it’s catching it in Holt’s photo now.

Same slant. Same hour of the afternoon, different day. Like whoever’s watching this house has a schedule and a favorite window, and no interest in hiding either one.

Someone knew about this house, and about her, long before either family pronounced our living quarters here.

I walk to the front window, still holding both photos side by side, and look out toward the ridge where the shot must have been taken from. Half expecting nothing. Half expecting what I find.

Felony is standing at the tree line, motionless, in the precise spot the angle says the photographer had to be standing.

He’s looking straight back at the house.

Straight at me.

SEVEN

SAGE

I get married at four o’clock in a room the size of my bedroom with a man I’ve hated on purpose for eight years, and I don’t cry once.

That’s the part I’m proudest of.

The Rimrock County courthouse doesn’t do romance. Fluorescent lights, old pine planks worn smooth in a path to the judge’s bench, a flag in the corner that’s seen better decades. Judge Alvarez has married half this valley twice over and looks about as moved by us as she’d be by a parking dispute. Cruz stands by the door in a suit that fits too well for a man whose whole job is standing near doors, hands folded, watching me like he’s watched me my whole life, like he’d take a bullet for me and also like I have no idea what’s actually going on behind his eyes.

I don’t know which of those is true anymore. That’s the problem.

Dawson’s mom and dad sit in the second row like they’re at a board meeting that happens to involve their son. Finn leans over to Tate and says, loud enough for the room, “This is basically the rehearsal for the expensive one,” and Kathleen turns her head exactly four degrees and ends him with a look that doesn’t require a single word. Finn goes quiet with the speed only a Sullivan raised by that woman can manage.

My mom and dad sit across the aisle like there’s a wedding party divide even in a room with twelve chairs. My mother’s hand finds mine once, brief, and she doesn’t say anything now, because she already said what mattered last night, alone in my old bedroom, quiet and fierce, and some things don’t survive being said twice. Knox stands at the back with his arms crossed, jaw tight, watching Dawson like a man he’d already threatened once this week. Holt just watches the room, every room, counting exits.

Dawson wears a charcoal suit like he wears everything, like it was built around him instead of the other way. He doesn’t fidget. I do, a little, twisting the plain platinum band on my left hand around and around, still not used to the weight of it. He picked it fast, told the jeweler nothing fussy, told me after that whatever I actually want, I can choose myself once this is real. Nothing left to negotiate today. Just this. We already signed the only paper that matters to either of us.

The judge says the words. I say the ones I’m supposed to say. Dawson says his like he means them, which is worse than if he’d rushed through them, because I’ve spent so long convincing myself that any tenderness out of this man is a business decision wearing a nicer shirt.

Then it’s done. Twelve minutes, maybe less. I’m Sage Sullivan on paper, and nothing in me agrees with the county clerk’s version of events.

Cruz drives like he does everything, competent and steady, both hands on the wheel, radio off. I give him three minutes of silence before I start working him, because that’s the job Gideon handed me two days ago whether I asked for it or not.

“Long day,” I say.

“Good day. Your family’s been waiting on this a long time.”

“Which family?”