Page 29

EPILOGUE

Gold light washed the western slope of the Larkspur Range, setting the aspen leaves blaze-yellow against the dark pine. September cold settled early into the valley, bringing the sharp scent of sage and river willow up from the creek.

Delaney shifted in the saddle, letting Maple set her own easy walk along the ridge line.

Two years ago, Delaney could barely ride a horse. Now, the sunset ride was her ritual. The leather reins felt familiar against hands that had built up thin, clean calluses, and her broken-in boots fit the stirrups without a thought.

Below the hill, the log house and the red timber barn looked small against six hundred acres of open pasture. Beyond the east fence line, the new shelter stood finished, its fresh cedar roof catching the last rays of sun. Twenty-eight horses grazed the bottomland tonight. Six more rescue stalls occupied, funded by a movie that had taken everything Delaney had to give and handed her back a life she actually wanted to live.

Delaney turned Maple down the dirt track toward the barn, her thoughts drifting back to the premiere four months ago in Los Angeles.

The distributor had wanted a spectacle, the press line stretched around the block at the Egyptian Theatre, and Delaney had laid awake at night terrified of dragging Claire into the middle of it.

She’d offered Claire an out half a dozen times. She’d offered to go alone, to dodge the photo ops, to protect the quiet sanctuary Claire had spent twenty years building in the mountains.

Claire had insisted that she would be there with her, and she was.

Delaney could still picture the moment Claire walked out of the hotel dressing room. A sharp black double-breasted suit tailored straight to her broad shoulders, hair pinned up loose, those vivid blue eyes unbothered by the chaos waiting downstairs.

When the black car pulled up to the velvet ropes and the flashbulbs went off like strobe lights, Claire hadn’t retreated. She’d stepped onto the carpet with the absolute calm of a woman who owed Hollywood nothing.

Halfway down the press wall, with photographers screaming Delaney’s name, Claire had reached out and slid her arm around Delaney’s waist. Firm, heavy, and completely grounded. She’d pulled Delaney right against her side, smiling down at her while the cameras went wild.

“Soak it all in,” Claire had murmured into Delaney’s hair over the roar of the crowd.

Claire was just as proud of the movie as Delaney was, but for Delaney the movie had brought her so much more than rave reviews and awards.

It had brought her the love of her life.

The critics had called Finding Her Way Back a triumph. The trades were already talking about nominations, and script offers sat thick in Delaney’s email inbox every morning.

None of it meant a thing compared to the arm around her waist on that red carpet four months ago, or the quiet certainty of coming home to this house, this barn, to Claire’s gorgeous smile and those steady hands that knew exactly how to gentle a nervous horse or settle the last of Delaney’s restless heart.

The movie hadn’t just saved her career. It had brought her to the only place she’d ever felt whole.

Maple nicker-greeted the horses in the turnout as they reached the yard. Delaney swung her right leg over the cantle and slid down, her boots hitting the gravel with a soft thud. She loosened the cinch, unbuckled the throat latch, and led the mare through the open south doors of the barn.

The hanging pendant light lit the center aisle in amber. Halfway down, Claire stood at the cross-ties with a skittish grey horse. Claire wore her canvas work vest over a dark blue flannel, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, long blonde hair pinned up in the messy bun Delaney loved best. Her hands moved over the gelding’s neck.

Delaney stopped just inside the doorway, resting her arm over Maple’s neck, taking in the sight. Two years of watching Claire work animals had never dulled the pull in Delaney’s chest.

Claire glanced over the grey’s shoulder. The tightness around her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by that private, crooked smile reserved only for Delaney.

Delaney unhooked the cross-ties from the mare’s halter and led her into her stall, sliding the wooden latch home. She stepped back into the aisle and walked straight to Claire.

“He behaving?” Delaney asked, stopping an inch from Claire’s hip.

“He’s learning.” Claire didn’t look at the gelding. Her gaze stayed steady on Delaney, bright and full of easy warmth. She reached out, her thumb brushing a speck of arena dust off Delaney’s cheekbone. “How was the ridge?”

“Perfect.” Delaney slid her hands under the edges of Claire’s vest, gripping the warm flannel underneath. “Better down here, though.”

Claire let out a quiet huff of laughter, stepping into the contact until Delaney’s back rested light against the timber post.

“Is that right?” Claire murmured.

“Yes.”

Delaney pulled her down.