Page 7 of Christmas with the Dominant Mountain Man
"Good." He turns toward the door, then pauses, looking back at my suitcase. Without comment, he reaches for the handle. I relinquish it, oddly touched by the gesture despite its practicality.
Inside, Silas McCrae waits with a stack of papers and a sympathetic smile. "Ms. Mars, good to officially meet you."
"Likewise." I shake his offered hand. "Thank you for expediting this."
"Dario explained the urgency." His eyes flicker with curiosity but remain professionally neutral. "I've prepared everything as requested. Both your contract modifications and the marriage license are ready."
We settle at a small conference table, reviewing documents with meticulous care. Dario's signature is bold and sharp, like the man himself. Mine flows more smoothly alongside his. When we finish, Silas collects the papers.
"The judge will see you in ten minutes. This is a civil ceremony only, so it will be brief."
Dario turns to me, something unreadable in his expression. "Last chance to back out."
"I could say the same to you." I meet his gaze steadily.
"I never back out once I've committed."
Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear, but... anticipation.
The ceremony is indeed brief. Judge Hamilton, a stern-faced woman in her sixties, performs the legal minimum with efficient precision. When she pronounces us "legally married according to the laws of British Columbia," I feel a surreal disconnect. I'm now Mrs. Wallace, at least on paper. I slip the simple gold band Dario provided onto my finger. It feels strange. Temporary.
Outside, Silas shakes our hands and offers congratulations that sound almost sincere. "I've filed everything electronically. You'll have official copies by week's end."
"Thank you," I say.
Dario merely nods, already scanning the street. "My truck is this way."
I follow him to a massive black pickup that's surprisingly clean given the muddy roads. He loads my suitcase into the back with ease, then opens the passenger door. Again, the unexpected courtesy.
"It's about forty minutes to the cabin," he says as we pull away from the courthouse. "Longer if the weather turns."
I glance at the sky, noting the heavy clouds gathering over the mountain peaks. "Will it snow?"
"Probably." He handles the truck with the same confidence he seems to approach everything. "Not a problem for the truck, but we should make good time just in case."
We drive in silence for several minutes, the town falling away behind us as we climb into increasingly wild terrain. The paved road eventually gives way to gravel, then to what barely qualifies as a road at all.
"So," I venture, "furniture making. How did you get into that?"
He glances my way, seemingly surprised by the attempt at conversation. "Family tradition. My grandfather taught my father, my father taught me."
"And you enjoy it?"
"I wouldn't do it otherwise."
"What kind of pieces do you make?"
"Custom work mostly. Tables, bed frames, cabinets. Anything that needs to last generations."
"Like land ownership."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Exactly like that."
"Tell me about the property," I say, genuinely curious. "It must be special to go through all this trouble."
For the first time, animation enters his voice. "Two hundred acres of untouched wilderness. Old growth forest, three natural springs, wildlife most people only see in nature documentaries. My grandfather purchased the original forty acres during the Depression for almost nothing. My father expanded it, and I added the final piece five years ago."
"And the county wants it?"
