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His mouth dropped to hers, kissing her, his lips soft, tender. Kissing her with the start of something new that didn’t demand urgency. Permanence. A future. Peace. All of it in his lips on hers.
He pulled up slightly, but didn’t release his iron hold on her. “I don’t deserve any of this—you—”
Her right thumb flicked in, pressing against his lips. “No, you do. Good caught up to you, Strider. For as hard as you ran from it. Good caught you.”
“No, you caught me.”
“I did.” She smiled at him. “When are we going to Scotland?”
“Scotland?” He shook his head, a wicked smile on his face. “I’m a duke now, Pen. I’m getting a special license and we’re getting married here as soon as I round up a clergyman.”
She laughed, leaning into his chest.
Finally, she was home. The home she was always meant to be in. The home in his arms.
She had her family back.
{ Epilogue }
You will be the best of men.
His mother’s voice, a whisper on the wind from the past, tickled his ear, and he paused in his steps, his stare on the pond just down the hill in front of him.
He wasn’t the best of men.
But he was trying.
Ever since Pen had shown up at the Den of Diablo four years past, he’d been trying. Righting what he could. Giving hope—the very hope that had eluded him for far too many of his years—where he could.
His strides had stopped, but that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the cherub-faced boy at the edge of the pond with rocks in his hand. Throwing the handful of pebbles all at once into the water, he tugged away from his mother’s hand and ran up the hill toward Strider, the chubby stubs of his legs slipping on the wet grass every third step and making Strider cringe in fear he’d tumble back down the hill.
“Papa, Papa, Papa.” The high pitch of his son’s voice cut over the buzz of all the other children near the water, the excitement in his voice so innocent it made Strider’s heart hurt for the sweetness of it. “Papa, Papa, Papa.”
Always the word repeated three times when his son was in full frenzy mode.
Wallace’s little strides crested the hill and Strider scooped him up into his arms and tousled his dark hair as he stared at the sparks of elation in his son’s green eyes.
“What is it, my heart?”
“Papa, Papa, Papa, Mama said yes. She said yes. Yes.”
He glanced past his son to where Pen stood by the water looking up at them. A vision in the soft yellow-orange rays of the evening sun, her left hand flattened on the top of the enormous mound of her belly. She wouldn’t be making the trek up the hill. But the smile on her face told him she was concocting something with their boy.
He looked to Wallace. “What did your mother say yes to?”
Both of his hands balled up into little fists, his entire arms shaking for the pure, uncontrolled excitement surging through him. “The archery field—she said yes. She said yes. I can go and learn arrows as long as you come with me. But only if you come with me. You will, won’t you? You will? I want to shoot. Please.”
Not so innocent, learning to maim something.
Strider stifled a chuckle, his left eyebrow cocking as he looked back down the hill to Pen.
The little bugger had worn her down. Or rather, their past had worn her down.
Pen hesitantly nodded her head in answer to his silent question. As unsure as she looked—opposite of the peaceful, loving and living-for-the-day woman she was—she could not deny the practicality of Wallace learning to shoot. The fear of uncertainty that had rooted into her when they were ten would always creep along the edges of her soul, a part of her. A part of him.
It was never too early to start learning how to protect oneself—learning how to survive.
Though both he and Pen fought it, the hard-learned instincts of their youth were difficult to squelch. It was only wise to prepare for any eventuality—including becoming proficient at shooting an arrow at a rabbit or squirrel if need be.
