Page 19 of Road Trip With Her Daddy Protector

“And I love you,” I answer, sliding the ring fully onto her finger. “Always, Lola. Forever.”

Her answer is a kiss that sparks like flint striking steel. Heat roars to life, urgent and undeniable. Hands roam, breaths hitch, the outside world shrinking to the span of the mattress and the thundering beat of two hearts learning to keep time together.

When we finally surface, sun now high and bright, our bodies twined and lazy beneath the quilt, peace settles over me deeper than any I’ve ever known. Lola’s head rests on my shoulder, her laughter rumbling against my chest as she traces circles where fresh gauze peeks from my bandage.

“So,” she murmurs, “wife me yet?”

I grin, tipping her chin up for another languid kiss. “First light tomorrow, on the porch, with the ranger as witness. Then we take a honeymoon every day for the rest of our lives.”

Her smile could power the whole ridge. “Best mission plan I’ve ever heard, Monroe.”

Outside, blue jays chatter and the creek babbles its endless song, but inside this log-and-stone fortress the future stretches wide and bright—free of fear, sparkling with promise.

And wrapped in the woman who turned my battle plan into a forever kind of peace, I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Epilogue

LOLA

Snowflakes swirl like powdered sugar over Saddleback, frosting every pine bough and turning the log-cabin porch into a story-book postcard. A year has slipped by since the night I told Gus I was pregnant, and now the tiny heartbeat we once imagined is bundled against my chest in a cream-knit sling, warm and perfect and ours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” I murmur, kissing the soft tuft of auburn curls that peek from beneath the baby’s cap. “Daddy’s almost finished.”

Daddy—Gus Monroe—stands a few yards away, splitting firewood with smooth, practiced strokes. Even in the pale afternoon light he looks larger than life: flannel sleeves shoved to his elbows, silver flecks at his temples sparkling as bright as the new wedding band he still twists whenever he’s nervous or proud (which, with us, is almost always).

“All set!” he calls, stacking the last split log onto the sled. His grin crinkles the corners of his hazel eyes—those same eyes I seeevery time our daughter opens hers wide in wonder. “Ready to head inside, sunshine?”

I arch a brow. “Ask the real boss.”

Gus wipes his palms and steps onto the porch. Instantly his big hands cradle the baby-sling with reverence. “How’s my girl? Keeping Mama warm?” He peppers our daughter’s cheeks with gentle kisses, and the tiny bundle squeaks a contented answer.

We named herGrace Eleanor Monroe—Grace, for the miracle she is; Eleanor, for my dad’s mother, who taught him that quiet loyalty can be the fiercest kind of love. We call herElliemost days, but Gus prefers “my girl,” said in the same awed tone he once reserved for mountain sunrises and rare rifle stocks.

Inside, the cabin hums with holiday life. Garlands of pine and cinnamon-stick twine over the mantel; gingerbread cools on the sideboard. My dad hums off-key carols while stirring venison stew in the cast-iron pot—his third visit this season, because a granddaughter is the best excuse to linger. Mason and Decker arrived an hour ago with their wives, claiming they were “just passing through,” though the arm-load of gifts and baby toys says otherwise.

When Gus shoulders the door open, a chorus ofhellosandthere they are!spills into the entryway. Boots come off, coats are hung, and Ellie is passed from loving arm to loving arm like the world’s most delicate snow-angel.

Dad pats Gus’s back. “Wood split?”

“Full cord, sir,” Gus answers with playful salute. “Should last through the next front.”

“That front’s nothing compared to Florida summers,” Mason teases from the sofa, bouncing Ellie on his knee. “You two picked the right place to hide out.”

“Live,” I correct, tugging a knit blanket higher over my daughter’s toes. “Hide-and-seek season ended when Tyler asked the warden for a plea deal.”

Decker lifts his mug. “To peace hard-won.”

Everyone echoescheers, clinking enamel against stoneware. Ellie startles, wide blue-green eyes blinking up at Mason. The room melts into coos and shushes until her lower lip trembles, searching.

“That,” Gus says, swooping in, “is my cue.” He scoops her close, settles into the rocker near the hearth, and begins the low rumble of a lullaby he half-invented during our first sleepless nights. The sight of this mountain-rough man crooning nonsense aboutpine-cone toesandhoney-bee nosesstill takes my breath away.

Dad ladles stew into bowls and elbows me gently. “You happy, pumpkin?”

“More than I ever dreamed.” I glance at Gus—at the firelight glinting off his wedding band, at the way Ellie’s fist curls around his finger—and my heart feels bigger than my chest can hold. “It was a long road…”

“But the right one,” he finishes, eyes twinkling.

Gus lifts his gaze to meet mine as if he hears every word, even across the crowded room. The look we share is the same vow we’ve whispered through trials and triumphs:Safe. Loved. Always.

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