Page 43 of Special Delivery Cowboy
And somehow—despite the ache in my chest and the distance growing between us—I knew we were going to be okay.
We had to be.
Because I'd found something worth fighting for, worth driving ninety minutes every weekend for, worth rearranging my whole life around.
I'd found my forever.
And I wasn't letting go.
Epilogue
Tinsley
Christmas Eve, one year after a blizzard changed my life, and the kitchen timer was telling me the cookies were done.
I was home.
The thought hit me as I tied the bow on the last gift box. Not just physically in this house, but home in the bone-deep way that meant I'd finally found where I belonged.
"Perfect timing," I called toward the living room, where TJ was adding logs to the fire. "Cookies are done!"
"Be right there."
I grabbed the oven mitts—the cow-patterned ones Carol gave me when I moved in over Thanksgiving, because apparently I'd become the kind of person who owned themed kitchen accessories now—and pulled out two trays of sugar cookies. Butter and vanilla hit me first, followed by cinnamon from the snickerdoodles I'd made earlier. The whole kitchen smelled like Christmas and childhood in Kalispell.
This kitchen.
I paused, just taking it in like I still did sometimes. The six-burner stove where I could actually cook multiple things at once. Double ovens that meant I'd never have to choose between cookies and dinner. That massive farmhouse sink I'd literally sighed over the first time I'd used it. Counter space for days, currently covered in cooling racks and mixing bowls and the organized chaos of holiday baking.
When Dale and Carol retired and moved to their smaller place outside Livingston back in January, they'd offered TJ the main house. Theranchhouse, with its log beam ceilings and stone fireplace and this kitchen that was bigger than my entire Bozeman apartment had been. He'd asked me to move in with him over Thanksgiving weekend, his eyes nervous like maybe I'd say no.
I'd said yes before he'd finished asking.
Best decision of my life. Well, second best. First was opening that cabin door a year ago.
Twinkle padded into the kitchen, her golden coat gleaming under the lights, nails clicking on the hardwood. She'd grown into her oversized puppy paws—sixty-five pounds of solid muscle and enthusiasm now, though she still thought she was small enough to be a lap dog. Her tail wagged so hard her entire backend swayed as she sniffed the air hopefully. That red bow we'd tied around her collar for the holidays—a callback to the one she'd worn as a puppy—had already slipped sideways.
"Nice try, baby girl." I scratched behind her ears, smiling at the way she leaned her whole weight into my leg. "But you already conned Uncle Josh out of three dinner rolls and a piece of turkey—he was always a soft touch for big brown eyes, whether human or canine. I saw you."
Her tail swept faster. Zero shame, this dog.
TJ appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that lazy smile that still made my pulse jump. Flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, jeans worn soft from ranch work, dark hair slightly mussed from where Carol had hugged him goodbye earlier and gotten a little emotional. He looked exactly like he had a year ago when he'd shown up on the porch in a blizzard—except now he was mine, and I got to keep him.
"Everyone get off okay?" I asked, transferring cookies to the cooling rack.
