Page 15 of Mountain Man's Christmas Gift
EPILOGUE
CAMILLA
“We have to get to our seats.”
I whispered it to the group of women helping me wrangle the kids. The kids had made their slow walk toward the stage, tiny hands clutching battery-operated candles, and now were climbing the steps two at a time, ready to line up at the microphones. Their little voices were about to carry Christmas cheer through the entire festival grounds.
I led the way around the outer edge of the audience, weaving between rows of standing tourists and locals until I spotted him—my husband—right where I knew he’d be. The front row. Keaton stood tall, arms crossed, that same steady presence he’d been for a decade.
And beside him? Our men. Keaton, Buck, Wade, Jonas, Gunnar, Hendrix, and Cyrus. The stubborn, good-hearted crew who’d once been mountain bachelors were now family men.
We slid into the row with them, each woman standing next to her husband. Keaton shifted immediately, draping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into the familiar curveof his side just as the first notes of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” filled the air.
Ten years.
It was hard to believe a full decade had passed since Keaton had walked up to my fudge booth demanding black coffee like he owned the place. That day felt like another lifetime, a doorway I’d stepped through into everything that mattered.
This wasn’t just about finding the man of my dreams—though Keaton still made my knees weak every single day. It was about all of it. This town. These friends. This family we’d built.
And there they were on stage. Our children. Our legacy.
Amara, our five-year-old firecracker, stood front and center, dark curls bouncing as she belted out the lyrics with total confidence. Beside her, Buck and Sheraton’s twins sang in perfect harmony, their voices rising clear and sweet. Ivy and Gunnar’s daughter twirled in her Christmas dress, swaying to the music with pure joy. Behind them, the older kids—including our Sebastian, now eight—rolled their eyes but sang anyway, doing their best to look cool even with reindeer antlers perched on their heads.
The audience laughed, clapped, and tapped along. I felt Keaton’s fingers tighten at my shoulder, pulling me closer until his lips brushed the top of my hair.
My fudge shop had grown far beyond anything I’d dreamed—I had three employees now and a storefront right in the heart of town. Keaton’s construction company had done the same. He and the guys had built half the new developments in the valley. But no matter how busy life got, we never missed this. The Christmas pageant had become tradition, just like running the fudge booth together during the festival.
The kids finished their final song to thunderous applause, and I’d swear the sound rattled the rafters. They came chargingoff the stage, a stampede of tiny boots and jingling bells, voices tumbling over one another in excitement.
“Hot cocoa time!” Amara announced, grabbing Sebastian’s hand and tugging him toward the refreshment tables.
The other children swarmed around them—Buck’s twins, Ivy’s little girl, Jonas and Paige’s kids—all of them laughing and teasing about who’d forgotten the words or who’d sung the loudest. Their joy was contagious, a reminder of how much we’d built together.
Behind them, we adults fell into step, all of us moving as a group the way we always did. Buck teased Jonas about tearing up during “Silent Night.” Hendrix pretended not to care, but everyone saw him swiping at his eye during “O Holy Night.”
Lainey and I exchanged knowing looks. After all these years, our husbands still weren’t as tough as they thought.
We mingled by the cocoa stand, the kids darting around like sugared-up elves while the men passed out paper cups and ribbed each other about whose kid had the best singing voice. Someone started talking about next summer’s camping trip, and Wade was already making bets on who’d catch the biggest trout.
Keaton and I hung back, our hands twined together, just watching it all. The festival lights twinkled above us, strings of gold and red stretching across the square, and the smell of cinnamon and pine hung in the crisp night air.
“You know,” Keaton said quietly, squeezing my fingers, “I think this might be our best Christmas yet.”
I looked around at everything we’d built. Our children. Our friends. Our town. And the man who had changed the course of my life with one grumpy request for black coffee.
“Every year gets better,” I whispered back, leaning into him. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
He tipped his forehead against mine, eyes soft. “Good thing you decided to stay.”
I smiled, my heart aching in the best possible way. “Best decision I ever made.”
The laughter of our friends surrounded us, kids racing in circles, men tossing out jokes, women swapping holiday recipes and planning cookie exchanges. And right in the middle of it all, Keaton bent down and kissed me—slow, certain, and full of every promise he’d ever kept.
As we pulled apart, Amara spotted us and wrinkled her nose. “Eww, Mom and Dad are kissing!” she shouted, sending the other kids into a fit of giggles.
Keaton just chuckled, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Let ‘em laugh. You’ll always be the best damn thing in my life.”
And as I looked around—at our children, at our friends who’d become family, at this valley that held every piece of my heart—I knew he was right.
This was the best Christmas yet. And next year would be better still.
Because in Wildwood Valley, love wasn’t just for Christmas. It was forever.
