Page 45 of Christmas With The Broken Mountain Man
TWO YEARS LATER
"Mommy! Mommy, wake up! It's Christmas!"
I open one eye to find a tiny face inches from mine, blue eyes wide with excitement. Mason's eyes, staring back at me from our daughter's cherubic face.
"Lily," I groan, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "It's five in the morning, sweetheart."
"But Santa came!" she insists, bouncing on the bed with all the enthusiasm her eighteen-month-old body can muster. "Presents!"
Mason stirs beside me, reaching out to scoop our daughter into his arms. "Got you, little monkey!" He pulls her down between us, tickling her until she shrieks with laughter.
"Stop, Daddy!" she giggles, her blonde curls, my contribution to her genetic makeup, bouncing as she squirms.
I watch them together, my heart so full it feels like it might burst. This life we've built still feels like a miracle sometimes.Our daughter, born nine months after that fateful Christmas when Mason taught me what real love looks like. Our marriage, a simple ceremony at the mountain overlook last summer, surrounded by the friends who have become family.
Lily was an unexpected blessing, conceived during those blissful early months when we could barely keep our hands off each other. Finding out I was pregnant terrified me at first, we'd barely been together six months, were still figuring out what our future might hold. But Mason's unwavering support and obvious joy quickly dissolved my fears.
"We're building a family," he'd said, hands cradling my still-flat stomach with reverence. "Everything I never knew I wanted until you showed up on my doorstep."
Now, watching him pretend to nibble on our daughter's toes while she squeals with delight, I can't imagine our lives any other way.
"Fine, you win," I concede, sitting up and reaching for my robe. "Christmas presents it is. But coffee first."
"Coffee first," Mason agrees, scooping Lily into his arms. "Let's go make Mommy's coffee so she doesn't turn into a Christmas grinch."
"No gwinch!" Lily declares, patting my cheek as they pass.
I follow them downstairs, pausing at the top step to take in the scene below. Our cabin, officially ours now since Mason added my name to the deed last Christmas, is decked out in holiday splendor. The massive tree in the corner sparkles with ornaments, many handmade by my second-grade students. Garlands drape the mantel where three stockings hang: MASON, DESTINY, LILY.
Home. After years of running, of fear, of uncertainty, I've found home in this mountain cabin with this man and our miraculous daughter.
The past two years haven't been without challenges. Greg made one last attempt to contact me about six months after that confrontation at the Christmas party. A letter, passed through a mutual acquaintance, full of manipulative apologies and thinly veiled attempts to reestablish control. I burned it in the fireplace while Mason held my hand, then called Tom to update him on the situation.
We never heard from Greg again. Last I heard through the teaching grapevine, he'd relocated to Arizona after the California investigation into his conduct cost him his job. His power over me is gone completely, a shadow dispelled by the light of the life I've built here in Whisper Vale.
I've flourished in ways I never could have imagined. My substitute position at the elementary school turned into a permanent one. I've made true friends, Riley and I have weekly coffee dates, and Savannah has become the sister I never had. I even reconnected with my parents, who finally met Lily when she was six months old. They visit regularly now, my mother completely smitten with her first grandchild.
And Mason... Mason has transformed too. The guarded, solitary man I met that snowy day has opened completely, his capacity for love seemingly endless. He's an incredible father, endlessly patient and utterly devoted. The trust issues that plagued him after Sarah have healed, just as my wounds from Greg have gradually scarred over.
We're not perfect. We still argue sometimes, usually when his protective instincts clash with my hard-won independence. But we've learned to fight fair, to listen, to compromise. To remember that we're on the same team, always.
In the kitchen, I find Mason already brewing coffee, Lily "helping" by arranging Christmas cookies on a plate.
"One for Santa, one for me," she's saying, clearly giving herself the better end of that deal.
"Santa already ate his cookies last night, remember?" Mason reminds her, winking at me over her head.
"More for me!" she declares triumphantly.
I accept the steaming mug Mason offers, taking a grateful sip. "You're a lifesaver."
"I know what my wife needs." He drops a kiss on my forehead. "Especially when our daughter decides dawn is sleeping in on Christmas."
Wife. The word still gives me a little thrill. Mason Walsh, brilliant therapist, mountain man extraordinaire, the love of my life, is my husband. Sometimes I still can't believe it.
"Can we do presents now?" Lily asks, cookie crumbs decorating her pajama top.
"First, we need a Christmas picture," I insist, grabbing my phone. "Tradition."
