Chapter 1: The Proposal That Wasn't
Flour hung in the air like dust motes in the late afternoon sun, a golden haze settling over the scarred pine of the kitchen table. Rose pressed the heel of her hand into the pliant dough, a rhythm as familiar as her own heartbeat. The dough gave with a soft, satisfying sigh. She could feel the faint grit of flour between her fingers, a dusting of it on the freckles scattered across her nose. The kitchen hummed, a quiet symphony of settling wood in the stove, the simmer of a copper kettle, and the distant, lowing complaint of a cow from the pasture.
The scent of cedar from the beams overhead mixed with the yeasty, alive smell of the proofing loaf. She was lost in the simple, muscle-memory task, her mind a pleasant blank canvas. The rose gold and sapphire on her left hand caught the light with each fold and push, a flash of blue fire against the pale dough.
She didn’t hear him come in. He moved like shadow through his own house, a man too big to be so quiet. The first she knew was the solid, wall of heat at her back, the familiar smell of leather, cold autumn air, and pure, essential him that was Jake Cooper.
His hands, work-roughened and broad, settled on the counter on either side of her, caging her gently. His chest pressed flush against her back, and she felt the hard plane of his abdomen through the soft cotton of her dress. She stilled, a smile touching her lips before he even spoke.
“That’s a sight,” his voice rumbled against the shell of her ear, a low vibration that went straight down her spine. “My Rosebud, up to her elbows.”
He nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear, his close-cropped beard a delicious scratch against her skin. She leaned back into him, her flour-dusted hands hovering over the dough. “Just getting ready for Sunday. Your mom’s bringing that peach cobbler. I can’t be shown up.”
“Never.” His lips brushed her neck. One of his hands left the counter and slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, coming to rest on her thigh. His touch was possessive, assured. It was a touch that still made her breath catch after all these years. “I’ve been thinking,” he murmured, his mouth tracing the line of her shoulder, pushing the strap of her sundress aside.
“Oh yeah?” Her voice was a little breathless. She tilted her head, giving him better access. “’Bout what?”
“This.” His thumb rubbed over the fabric covering her hip bone. “You. In my kitchen. That ring on your finger.” He paused, his hand sliding around to her lower belly, pulling her firmly back against him. She felt the hard, insistent ridge of his arousal through his jeans. A spark, hot and immediate, ignited low in her stomach. “I’ve been thinking all damn day about how I want to see you wearing nothing else tonight. Just that sapphire. Just that ring my grandmother wore, shining against your skin.”
A shiver, deep and involuntary, racked her. She turned her head, seeking his mouth. He met her halfway, his kiss not gentle but consuming. It was a claim. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of coffee and the wild air outside. He kissed like he did everything else—with full focus, with a thoroughness that left her weak. She whimpered into him, her floury hands coming up to clutch at the front of his shirt, leaving pale prints on the dark plaid.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His blue eyes, usually the color of a calm sky, were dark, stormy. “Right now, Rosebud. I need you right now.”
“The dough…” she whispered, her protest feeble.
“Fuck the dough.” He turned her in his arms, his hands going to the hem of her dress. In one smooth, firm motion, he gathered the fabric and pulled it up and over her head. It landed, a soft heap of yellow cotton, on the flour-dusted floor. The cool kitchen air pebbled her skin, her nipples tightening into hard peaks against the lace of her bra. His gaze was a physical touch, raking over her—the spill of her dark curls over her shoulders, the pink rose gold highlights catching the light, the swell of her breasts above the lace, the delicate tattoo on her forearm, the freckles he knew by heart.
“The rest,” he ordered, his voice gravel.
Her fingers trembled only slightly as she reached behind her back, unfastening the clasp. The bra joined the dress. He made a sound in his chest, a low growl of pure approval. His calloused hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. She arched into his touch, a soft cry escaping her lips.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. He bent his head, his mouth closing over one taut peak, his tongue lashing it. The sensation was electric, a direct line to the pooling heat between her legs. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, biting gently, sucking until she was mewling, her legs unsteady.
His hands went to the waistband of her panties, the simple cotton boy-shorts. He hooked his thumbs in them and dragged them down her legs. “Step out,” he said, and she did. He knelt before her, not in submission, but in worship. He kissed the inside of her knee, his beard tickling her sensitive skin. His hands smoothed up the backs of her thighs, over the curves of her ass, pulling her closer to his face.
“Bear…” she gasped.
His answer was to bury his face between her legs, his tongue finding her core in one long, flat, devastating stroke. She cried out, her knees buckling. His arms wrapped around her thighs, holding her up, holding her open for him. He feasted on her. He used his tongue, his lips, the faint scrape of his beard, with an intimate knowledge that bordered on obscene. He knew just how she liked it—a slow, circling pressure on her clit that made her thighs tremble, then a faster, focused rhythm that had her panting, her hips rolling against his mouth of their own volition.
“That’s it, baby,” he muttered against her, the vibrations sending fresh shocks through her. “Come for me. Come on my tongue.”
She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of blinding pleasure, her cries echoing in the quiet kitchen. He held her through it, his mouth gentle now, soothing, until the last tremor subsided and she was boneless, supported only by his strong arms.
He rose, a mountain of a man, his own need visibly straining against the fly of his jeans. He kissed her, deep and wet, letting her taste herself on his lips and tongue. “My turn,” he growled. He shrugged out of his shirt, revealing the sculpted chest she loved, the defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that arrowed down past the waistband of his jeans. She reached for him, scratching her nails lightly through the hair on his chest, down his happy trail, just the way he loved. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“You’re trying to kill me, woman.”
He made quick work of his belt, the buckle clanging, and shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down in one push. He sprang free, thick and heavy and fully erect. He was magnificent. All of him. Her Bear.
He backed her until the edge of the heavy farmhouse table pressed against her ass. “Up,” he commanded, hands on her waist. She hopped up, the wood cool and solid beneath her. Flour puffed up around her. He stepped between her spread knees, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her to the very edge. The sapphire on her hand glittered, a lone jewel on her naked body.
He notched the head of his cock at her entrance, wet and ready for him. He looked into her eyes, his own blazing with a love so fierce it sometimes frightened her. “You’re mine, Rosebud. Every damn freckle. Every sigh. Mine.”
“Yours,” she breathed, her green eyes holding his. “Always.”
He pushed into her. One slow, inexorable, devastating inch at a time. She was slick and open from her climax, but he was so big, stretching her, filling her so completely it stole the air from her lungs. A ragged moan tore from her throat. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling.
“Jesus, Rose,” he choked out. “You feel like heaven. Always. Every fucking time.”
Then he began to move. Withdrawing almost all the way, then surging back in. A relentless, pounding rhythm that shook the solid table beneath her. Each thrust drove a gasp from her lips. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the table by her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises she’d cherish tomorrow. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin on skin, his guttural groans in her ear, the creak of the table, the rich, musky scent of their joining.
“Look at me,” he demanded. She forced her eyes open, locking onto his blue gaze. He was watching her, watching every flicker of pleasure on her face. “Touch yourself. I want to watch you come while I’m inside you.”
Her hand slid down her belly, through the coarse curls, finding her clit, swollen and sensitive. She circled it, her movements clumsy with the force of his thrusts. The dual sensation—his thick cock driving into her, her own fingers working her clit—was too much, too intense. She felt the coil tightening again, deep in her core.
“Bear… I’m gonna…”
“Do it. Come all over my cock. Let me feel you.”
Her second orgasm hit her like a freight train. It was sharper, brighter than the first, a seismic explosion of pleasure that clenched around him, milking him, pulling a roar from his chest. He slammed into her three more times, deep, grinding pulses, and then he was coming too, his release hot and flooding inside her, his big body shuddering against hers.
He collapsed over her, careful to keep his weight on his arms. They stayed like that, joined, panting, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin in the cool kitchen air. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the persistent simmer of the kettle.
Finally, he softened and slipped from her body. He didn’t move away. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close against his chest, his face buried in the curve of her neck. She felt the frantic hammer of his heart begin to slow, syncing with her own.
“Happy early birthday to me,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with satiation.
A laugh bubbled out of her, husky and spent. She ran her fingers through his damp hair. “Your birthday’s in August, you lunatic.”
“Any day I get to have you like that is my birthday.” He lifted his head, kissed her softly, a world away from the consuming passion of minutes before. This was tenderness. This was home. He looked around at the floury chaos—her abandoned dough, their discarded clothes, the white dust now on the table and floor and both of their bodies. A slow, dimpled smile spread across his face. “We made a mess.”
“We did,” she agreed, tracing the line of his jaw. “And the bread’s ruined.”
“Worth it.” He helped her down from the table, his hands lingering on her waist. He fetched her dress, holding it for her as she slid her arms in. He pulled his jeans on, not bothering with anything else. He looked at the dough, then at her. “We’ll start over. Together.”
She nodded, moving to the sink to wash her hands. He came up behind her again, his now-familiar warmth enveloping her, but this time his arms just circled her waist, his chin resting on top of her head. They watched the sunset begin to paint the Montana sky in streaks of orange and purple through the kitchen window.
“Sunday,” she said softly, leaning back into him. “The whole crew.”
“Mmhmm.” He nuzzled her hair. “It’ll be loud. And chaotic. Brody’s kids will be screaming. Dad will tell the same story about the blizzard of ’79. Mom will ask you for the hundredth time when we’re giving her more grandbabies.”
She smiled, covering his hands with her own, the sapphire glittering. “And we’ll say ‘soon’ for the hundredth time.” She turned in his arms, looking up at him, this man who was her past, her present, her entire future. “I love our life, Bear.”
He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. “It all started with you, Rosebud. It’s all because of you.”
Outside, a truck rumbled down the long gravel drive, likely one of his ranch hands heading out. The real world was there, waiting. But here, in the warm, messy, sacred space of their kitchen, with the scent of sex and flour and cedar in the air, and his heart beating steady under her ear, their story was just beginning its next chapter. And it was deep, and it was real, and it was theirs.
And it was deep, and it was real, and it was theirs.
The water in their oversized slate shower was hot enough to turn their skin pink. Steam curled, dense and fragrant with the scent of her own rosemary and mint soap, clouding the glass enclosure. Bear stood behind her, his big hands working the suds into her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp with a tenderness that belied his strength.
“You’ve got flour in your curls,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the wet knob of her spine.
“Whose fault is that?” she asked, tilting her head back into the stream. The water sluiced through her dark hair, carrying white traces down her body, over the swell of her breasts, the curve of her belly, the tattooed bee on her forearm seeming to swim through the suds.
“Mine.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded proud. He smoothed her hair back and turned her around to face him. Water cascaded over his broad shoulders, running in rivulets through the dark hair on his chest, down the defined cut of his abdomen. He looked at her, water beading on his eyelashes. “Always my fault. Always my pleasure.”
He reached for the bar of soap, working it into a lather in his palms before spreading it over her body. His touch was deliberate, worshipful. He soaped the delicate slope of her neck, the jut of her collarbones, the soft weight of her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples until they peaked again, tight and sensitive, even after the thorough attention he’d paid them earlier. She sighed, her hands coming to rest on his thick biceps, holding on as his hands slid lower.
He knelt before her in the spray, his hands gliding over the flare of her hips, the gentle swell of her stomach, the thatch of dark curls between her legs. He washed her there with the same meticulous care, his fingers parting her, finding her still swollen and slick from him. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in his chest. He looked up at her, his blue eyes blazing through the steam. “Mine,” he repeated, a raw statement of fact.
He didn’t stand. Instead, he hooked his hands behind her knees and pulled her gently toward him. He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue finding her core all over again. This was different from before—not a frenzied prelude, but a leisurely re-acquaintance. He licked into her with slow, savoring strokes, his beard scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs. The heat of the water above, the heat of his mouth below, created a dizzying, overwhelming sensation. She braced her hands against the slick slate wall, her head falling forward, a string of choked, pleading sounds falling from her lips.
“Bear… God…”
He grunted, the sound reverberating through her. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur. He worked her with his mouth and his hand, a relentless, knowing rhythm that pulled her back to the precipice with shocking speed. Her orgasm built, a slow, deep pressure that suddenly broke, washing through her in a series of soft, shuddering pulses. She cried out, her body bowing over his head.
He gentled his mouth, kissing her inner thighs, her stomach, as he rose. He was rock hard again, his cock jutting thick and heavy between them. He pushed her back against the cool wall, his body pinning hers. The slate was hard against her back, his body a furnace against her front.
“Need you again,” he growled, his voice ragged. “Always need you. It’s a fucking ache, Rosebud.”
“Then take me,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist. He didn’t need guidance. He drove into her in one powerful thrust, filling the aching, empty space he’d left inside her. The stretch was exquisite, a full, burning completeness. He held there, buried deep, his forehead pressed to the wall beside her head, his breathing harsh.
“Every time,” he gasped. “Every goddamn time, it’s like the first time. You wreck me.”
He began to move. Shorter, harder thrusts, constrained by their position, by the water sluicing over them. Each impact jolted her, pinned between the unyielding wall and the relentless force of his body. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin, their mingled grunts and moans echoing off the tile, the constant rush of the shower. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, a man claiming what was his, reinforcing a bond that needed no reinforcement.
One of his hands slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, urgent circles. “Come with me,” he demanded, his mouth on her neck, sucking hard enough to mark. “Now, Rose. Let go.”
The third climax tore through her, a sharp, shattered peak that left her gasping, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms. He roared, his own release punching out of him, his hips stuttering against hers as he emptied himself inside her with a guttural cry that was her name.
They slumped together, a tangled, breathless mess under the now-cooling water. His weight was heavy, anchoring. She nuzzled into the damp skin of his neck, tasting salt and soap and him.
Eventually, he turned off the water. He reached for a thick, soft towel, wrapping it around her before slinging one around his own hips. He led her, still unsteady, into the bedroom. The room was shadowed, the last of the sunset casting long, amber streaks across the wide-plank floor and their heavy oak bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap, cradling her like something precious. He dried her gently, patting the towel over her curls, along her shoulders, between her legs with a tenderness that made her throat tight. She returned the favor, rubbing the towel over his broad back, the dense muscles of his shoulders.
They dressed in silence—soft, worn jeans for him, leggings and one of his old flannel shirts for her. The familiar fabric smelled like him, like the ranch, like home. He built a fire in the stone fireplace while she padded back to the kitchen. She scraped the ruined dough into the compost bin and started anew. This was their rhythm. Passion, then peace. Conflagration, then calm.
She was measuring flour when his arms slid around her waist from behind again. He rested his chin on her head. “Sunday,” he said, as if continuing their earlier conversation. “Mom’s gonna ask.”
“I know.”
“What’re we gonna say?”
She stopped, her hand hovering over the sugar canister. She leaned back into him. “We could tell her the truth.”
He stilled. “Which is?”
“That we’re not not trying.” She felt the sudden, intense focus in his stillness. “That we want it. A house full of them. Your dimples on some little kid’s face. My terrible temper on another.” She turned in his arms. “That we’ve been… practicing. A lot.”
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face, carving those dimples deep. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated joy. He hugged her so tightly her feet left the floor. When he set her down, his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s the truth.”
He helped her knead the new batch of dough, his large hands gentle beside her smaller ones. They worked in companionable silence for a while, the only sound the crackle of the fire from the next room.
“Scared?” he asked quietly, not looking at her, focusing on folding the dough.
“Terrified,” she admitted, just as softly. “What if I’m no good at it? What if I… what if my own mother’s… transactional… blood is in me?” It was a fear she rarely gave voice to, the lingering ghost of the woman who had traded her family for a series of ever-richer husbands.
Bear stopped kneading. He put a floury finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was absolute. “Listen to me. You are Rose LaRue Cooper. You built a business from a dream. You love deeper than anyone I know. Your heart is your own. It’s fierce, and it’s kind, and it’s loyal. You’re going to be an incredible mother.” He swallowed. “And you won’t be doing it alone. You’ll have me. And my entire, obnoxious, interfering, wonderful family. That kid will be so loved it won’t know what to do with itself.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak.
He kissed her, a soft, flour-dusted promise. “Now, finish this bread, woman. I’m hungry.”
The Cooper family Sunday dinner was a beautiful, chaotic siege.
Cars and trucks filled the circular drive in front of the big farmhouse. The sound of laughter, arguing, and children’s shrieks spilled out the front door before they even reached the porch. Bear pushed it open, his hand on the small of Rose’s back, and they were immediately engulfed.
“There they are!” Helen Cooper’s voice rose above the din. She emerged from the swarm of bodies in the great room, wiping her hands on a linen apron. She pulled Rose into a hug that smelled of yeast and lavender. “I was about to send a search party.” She held Rose at arm’s length, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “You look flushed, sweetheart. You feeling alright?”
“Just ran from the car, Mom,” Bear said smoothly, dropping a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “It’s cold out.”
Helen hummed, not quite believing him, and turned to her son. “Jake, your father needs you in the barn. Something about a foal’s hoof. Brandon’s already out there.”
Bear sighed, but his eyes were fond. “Can’t it wait for pie?”
“Go,” Rose said, laughing, giving him a little push. “Save the baby horse.”
He went, but not before catching her eye. A private, heated look that promised later. She felt a fresh wave of warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire in the massive stone hearth.
The great room was a symphony of Coopers. Sarah and Brody’s two young boys were engaged in a roaring duel with makeshift swords made from rolled-up newspaper, Brody trying half-heartedly to referee. Nate and Val were curled together on one end of the oversized leather sofa, her head on his shoulder as he scrolled through photos on his phone, showing her something. Colt had Maggie pinned in a playful headlock near the fireplace, while she tried to jab him in the ribs. “He started it!” Maggie yelled to Rose, though she was grinning.
Chloe and Brandon came in from the kitchen, carrying a giant tray of deviled eggs. “Rose! You’re just in time to save me from this one,” Chloe called, jerking her thumb at Brandon. “He’s trying to put pickles in the potato salad again. It’s an abomination.”
“It’s innovative,” Brandon argued, his veterinarian’s hands delicate on the tray.
Liam’s voice, theatrical and ringing, cut through everything. “Darling! You’re radiant! Country life agrees with you.” He swept over, crisply dressed in a way that defied the casual Montana setting, and air-kissed both her cheeks. Chris followed in his wake, offering Rose a warm, more subdued smile and a solid hug. “He’s been planning his menu critique since Tuesday,” Chris confided quietly.
Granny Eleanor was ensconced in the best armchair by the fire, a crochet project in her lap. She waved Rose over. “Come here, child. Let me look at you.” Rose knelt beside the chair. The older woman’s gnarled hand, dotted with age spots, cupped her cheek. Her eyes, a faded version of Bear’s piercing blue, searched Rose’s face. A knowing, gentle smile touched her lips. Her gaze dropped to Rose’s stomach, then back to her eyes. She gave a tiny, imperceptible nod. “The ring looks right on you,” was all she said aloud, but her squeeze of Rose’s hand spoke volumes.
The men trickled back in from the barn, trailed by Charlie Cooper, who was Bear in thirty years—broad, a little more stooped, with the same kind eyes. He wrapped Rose in a hug that smelled of hay and crisp air. “How’s my favorite daughter-in-law?”
“I’m your only daughter-in-law, Charlie,” she laughed into his flannel shirt.
“Then you win by default,” he chuckled, releasing her to clap Bear on the shoulder. “Foal’s fine. Just a little tender. Brandon fussed over it more than its mama did.”
Dinner was a loud, sprawling affair around the massive dining table that had been extended with every leaf it possessed. Platters of food were passed—Helen’s perfect roast chicken, Sarah’s crusty rolls, Rose’s honey-glazed carrots, Chloe’s potato salad (pickle-free), three different types of cobbler. The conversation was a crossfire of ranch business, town gossip, good-natured ribbing, and plans for the upcoming winter.
As dessert plates were being cleared, Helen, predictably, leaned forward. “So,” she said, her eyes twinkling as they landed on Rose and Bear. “Any news on the grandbaby front? This table could use a few more high chairs.”
A subtle hush fell over the family. Maggie stopped mid-sentence. Liam put down his wine glass with a soft clink. All eyes turned to them.
Bear’s hand found Rose’s under the table. His grip was firm, reassuring. He looked at his mother, then around at the expectant faces of his siblings, his father, his granny. He looked at Rose, and the love in his gaze was a tangible thing.
He turned back to the table, that slow dimple-flashing smile spreading across his face. “Well,” he drawled, his voice a low rumble that commanded the room. “We’re not not trying.”
For a second, there was silence.
Then the room erupted.
Helen clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. Charlie let out a loud “Whoop!” Sarah squealed. Brody grinned and shook Bear’s hand across the table. Maggie launched herself from her chair to hug Rose, whispering “Holy shit, really?” in her ear. Nate and Colt were pounding Bear on the back. Granny Eleanor just nodded, her smile serene, as if she’d known all along.
The noise was deafening, a wave of pure, exuberant joy that washed over them. Through the chaos, Bear pulled Rose’s chair closer to his, his arm slung around her shoulders, holding her tight against him. He pressed his lips to her temple.
“Told you,” he whispered, the words just for her. “So loved.”
Later, after the last dish was dried, the last goodbye hug was given, and the last taillight had disappeared down the dark ranch road, they stood together on the porch. The Montana night was vast and cold, the sky a black dome pierced by a million icy stars. Bear stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her, his chin on her head. They looked out over the sleeping land—his land, their land.
“Today was a good day,” she murmured, leaning into his solid warmth.
“The best,” he agreed. His hands splayed over her stomach, over the soft flannel of his shirt she wore. “Think we got a head start on that news tonight?”
A thrill, wild and hopeful, shot through her. She covered his hands with hers. “Maybe.”
He turned her in his arms. His face was in shadow, but the intent in his body was clear. “Let’s go make sure.”
Inside, the fire had died to embers. He didn’t lead her to the bedroom. Instead, he guided her down onto the thick bearskin rug in front of the hearth. The dying fire painted his skin in tones of gold and copper as he undressed her, slowly this time, peeling away the flannel, the leggings, her simple cotton underwear. He shrugged out of his own clothes.
He laid her back on the soft fur, his body covering hers, not in a hungry rush, but with a profound, aching sweetness. He kissed her slowly, deeply, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before delving inside. He kissed her until she was pliant and breathless, until the only thing in the world was the heat of his mouth and the hard, welcome weight of him.
He entered her with a slow, relentless glide that made her whimper, not from pain, but from the overwhelming fullness, the rightness of it. He set a deep, rhythmic pace, each stroke a deliberate, measured promise. His eyes were open, locked on hers, reflecting the flicker of the embers.
“This is where it happens, Rosebud,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion and effort. “Right here. In our home. With this love.” His thrusts deepened, intensifying, becoming less controlled. “You’re going to be the mother of my children.”
The words, spoken in that raw, vulnerable tone, undid her. Her climax built from a different place—not just physical, but from the very center of her soul. It swelled and broke over her in a quiet, profound wave that squeezed tears from the corners of her eyes. She cried out, a sound of release and surrender, her body arching under his.
He followed her with a choked groan, his own release pumping into her, his big body shuddering as he collapsed beside her, pulling her tightly into the shelter of his arms.
They lay tangled on the rug, bathed in the fire’s fading warmth. His hand drifted to her lower belly, resting there possessively, hopefully.
Outside, a lone coyote called across the frozen pasture. The wind whispered against the eaves. The house creaked, a living, breathing thing around them.
In the dark, Rose smiled. She placed her hand over his. The future was a wide, open plain, as vast as the Montana sky outside their window. And whatever it held, they would meet it. Together.
The chapter was not ending, she knew. It was just beginning.