Page 61 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

Epilogue

Zoe

Three months later.

The greenhouse smells like rosemary and new wood and spring sunlight coming through glass onto soil.

It’s small. Twelve by twenty. Cedar frame. Polycarbonate panels that Ryker and Brock installed over two weekends while Hazel and I supervised from a lawn chair with diagrams in my lap and opinions about ventilation they tolerated with varying degrees of patience. The workbench is reclaimed pine from a barn demolition in Bridger. The seedling trays are commercial grade, the one expense I didn’t try to cheap out on. Grow lights hang from adjustable chains. Below them, in rows as orderly as Ryker’s alphabetized spices, the herbs are growing.

Basil. Thyme. Rosemary. Mint. Lavender. Cilantro. Sage. Each one planted from seed in late February and tended through the last weeks of winter in the cabin’s kitchen window. This time nothing died.

The grand opening isn’t grand. There are no banners and no ribbon-cutting. Greta insisted on calling the Bridger Gazette, but the photographer is stuck behind an overturned cattle trailer on Route 12 and may or may not arrive before the cherry pie is gone. It’s just people. The people who matter. Standing in and around a twelve-by-twenty greenhouse on a piece of land next to a cabin on a mountain, holding coffee and plates of food.

Sara arrived first. She drove from Haven 7, where she’s been living in since the victim advocacy office placed her there. She’s cut her hair short and blunt. The bruise on her cheekbone is gone. What’s left is a face learning expressions other than fear, concentration and amusement and the early edges of something that might become confidence. She brought a housewarming gift: a three-inch bent, rusted nail. The same nail. She’d claimed it as personal property when the evidence team processed the warehouse.

I put it on the workbench beside the seedling trays. It sits there now, the most important garden tool I own.

“The basil needs more water,” Sara says, leaning over the tray.

“The basil always needs more water. It’s the neediest herb in the family. The equivalent of the customer who asks for extra everything and then sends it back.”

She laughs. The sound is still new to both of us, still a little surprising. But it’s getting easier.

Lacey is here. She came with Greta, who drove from Timber Creek with a cherry pie in the passenger seat and a bottle of champagne she’s been saving since 2019 for “the right occasion.” Lacey is different from the girl at Alpha Pig. She isn’t transformed. She’s just different the way all of us are different, edges a little harder, awareness a little sharper, the smile a little more deliberate because deliberate smiles are the ones you choose.

She’s starting community college in the fall. Hospitality management. She told me while we were setting up the folding tables, sliding the information into the conversation like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I might open a restaurant someday,” she said. “A real one. Something without a pig on the sign. Something with cloth napkins.”

“Cloth napkins are more laundry than you think.”

“I know. I’ve been reading about restaurant linen services. It’s fascinating and also deeply boring, which I think means I’ve found my calling.”

I put her in charge of the beverage station. She runs it with the authority of a woman who’s decided the world is going to be organized according to her preferences from now on, starting with the sugar packets.

The cabin door is unlocked, like it always is. The yellow curtains hang in the kitchen window now. The apartment doesn’t exist anymore. I gave notice the week after the trial. The hedgehog mug is on the shelf beside Ryker’s collection of stones and feathers and the framed photo of his sister Sarah, who sent a card that says “Congratulations on your new venture” in handwriting that looks exactly like his mother’s. The cat and owl mugs are in the greenhouse, holding pens and plant markers.

Ryker’s mother sent a new quilt. Blue with white stars, same pattern as the one in the cabin. She decided a business needs a blanket the way a house needs curtains, because some things should be wrapped in something soft. It’s draped over the lawn chair where I sit in the mornings with my weak coffee and powdered milk in the hedgehog mug.

The team is here. They’re off duty. They’re just present.

Jax stands near the greenhouse door with his arms crossed, sharp eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them, managing the social event by holding a perimeter position. Some habits are just how people are made. Ava stands with him, and together they’re the epitome of perfection.

Kane is inside examining the grow-light setup with the same focus he brings to communications architecture. He asked three questions about wattage and spectral output that I couldn’t answer, then answered them himself from his phone. I suspect I’ll have a custom lighting system by next week whether I ask for it or not. Lila just laughs when he Googles something. She loves the curious man he is.

Colt and Nora laugh near each other, holding hands like the cutest couple in the world.

Brock is in the kitchen making omelets and narrating the process like a sports announcer. “The cheddar enters from the left side. Beautiful approach, perfectly timed. And the fold is… yes, that’s a textbook fold. The crowd goes wild.” Hazel laughs along with him, and she’s honestly becoming one of my best friends.

Mason called this morning. He couldn’t make it because Riley’s pregnant and the morning sickness has been bad enough that leaving her for a long trip would be, in his words, “a career-ending move in a relationship I intend to keep.” He told me he was proud of me. Clean. Direct. No decoration. The words landed the way they do when they come from a man whose approval is earned.

The trial ended six weeks ago. Tyler was convicted on fourteen counts of human trafficking, four counts of kidnapping, two counts of assault, and one count of conspiracy to transport persons across an international border for exploitation. Sentencing is next month. The prosecutor is recommending forty years.

The flash drive was the cornerstone of the case. Kane testified about the financial records. I testified about the night I copied them, Maria’s Thursday song, the high note that held for three counts, the thirty seconds that changed everything. The jury was out less than two hours.

Maria sent a letter from the safe house in Billings. Written carefully in the English she’s been learning. “I heard you in court. You told about my singing. I did not know the singing helped. Now I know. I will keep singing.” The letter is in a shoebox under the bed, along with a pressed aspen leaf from Ryker’s Mary Oliver book, a birthday card from Greta, the origami crane, and my mother’s note that still says “You’re braver than you think.”

After the last guest leaves, Ryker finds me in the greenhouse. The sun’s going down behind the ridge. Amber light comes through the panels and makes the herbs glow. I’m on the lawn chair with the quilt over my legs and the hedgehog mug in my hands.