Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“Once a city girl, always a city girl.” His smile reaches his eyes. “Take your time. I’ve got time.”
“Give me two weeks,” I tell him. “That’s the notice I’m giving them.”
Jensen’s smile is blinding. He pulls me to him, lifting me off my feet in a hug that makes me laugh out loud. When he sets me down, there’s a lightness in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
“So, when do you want to tell the Bureau?” he asks.
I glance at my bag. “No time like the present.”
I retrieve the letter, holding it up between us. “Come with me? You’ll have to stay in reception of course but, I could use the support.”
He nods, understanding the significance of the moment. This is my decision, but having him beside me makes it feel less like an ending and more like a beginning.
We leave my apartment together, the resignation letter clutched in my hand. The spring air is warm on my face as we step outside, Sacramento spreading before us, golden in the afternoon light. I’ll miss this place, but it’s only a stone’s throw away over the Sierras.
But first, closure. First, the final steps away from one life and toward another.
Jensen’s hand finds mine as we walk toward the Durango. His grip is strong, steady—a promise without words. Whatever comes next, we face it together.
Above us, the sky stretches endless and blue. Ahead lies a future neither of us could have imagined when I first arrived at Lost Trail Ranch, searching for my sister and finding something else entirely.
Not a perfect ending—those don’t exist outside of fairytales. But a good one. A true one.
And as I squeeze Jensen’s hand, feeling the answering pressure of his fingers against mine, I know it’s enough.
More than enough.
It’s everything.
EPILOGUE
JENSEN
Two years, and I still wake before dawn.
Old habits die hard—but these days, I don’t mind. I ease carefully from the bed, trying not to wake Aubrey. She’s sprawled across her side, one arm flung over where I should be, hair a tangle against the pillow. Even in sleep, she looks strong. Determined. The woman who faced down monsters and lived to tell about it.
The woman who became my wife.
The ring on my finger still feels new sometimes, though we’ve been married for eighteen months now. Catching the gleam of it in the first faint light of dawn, I’m struck again by how much has changed. How much we’ve built from the ashes of what came before.
I pull on jeans and a shirt, padding barefoot downstairs. The ranch house feels different now—warmer, lived in. Aubrey’s books scattered across every surface, her boots beside mine by the door, framed photos crowded around other framed photos.
Coffee first. Then chores. The rhythm of ranch life continues regardless of how the world changes around it.
Outside, the air carries the crisp edge of autumn. The mountains loom on the horizon, their peaks catching the first light of day. Beautiful from a distance. We keep it that way—admiring from afar, never venturing back into those heights where nightmares still might lurk.
Everyone’s got a story about the cursed mountains, but the truth is—some stories were never meant to be told. They’re meant to be buried.
The stables are quiet at this hour, just the occasional soft nicker as I make my way down the center aisle. The therapy center doesn’t open until nine, giving me these peaceful hours to prepare. We’ve expanded in the past year—three new stalls, a covered arena for winter work, specially designed mounting ramps and equipment.
Duke’s head appears over his stall door, ears pricked forward in greeting. The gelding is showing his age now—who isn’t?—but his eyes are still bright, intelligent. Our star therapy horse. Something about surviving the mountains changed him too—gave him a patience, a gentleness that makes him perfect for the most traumatized kids.
“Morning, old friend,” I murmur, offering a palm with a peppermint.
He takes it delicately, then nudges my shoulder for more while chomping away. Some things never change.
The sound of a vehicle draws my attention. Too early for clients, or even staff. Through the stable doors, I spot Margaret’s car pulling up to the main house. She moved into the old foreman’s cottage last year when Mom’s condition improved enough to come home from the care facility. Having them both here has been good—for me, for Aubrey, for the kids who come through our program.
Mom won’t ever fully recover from her stroke, but she’s regained enough function to help with simple tasks around the therapy center. Turns out working with the kids gives her the same sense of purpose it gives the rest of us. Strange how healing works—how helping others heal can heal something in yourself.
I finish the morning feed and head back to the house, stopping to admire the sign at the entrance to the therapy center: Lost Trail Equine Therapy in carved cedar, with Aubrey’s design—a hand and horse silhouette—beneath. Her vision, brought to life over these past two years. FBI agent to equine therapist—not a career path many would predict, but she’s never been predictable.