Page 10 of Mountain Man Tempted (Hard Timber Mountain Men #2)
CALLA
One Year Later
The sign was crooked. Of course it was.
Holt had leveled it twice, grumbling about “uneven ground” and “damn soft dirt,” but I kind of loved it that way, tilted slightly to the left, perfectly imperfect, just like my life had been ever since Holt had told me he loved me.
Camp Braveheart. Est. Now.
The sign read exactly the way Lane had created it a year ago on that little flag. Back when my dream was just a box of plastic dinosaurs and so far out of reach, I didn’t dare hope.
Now, it was real. It was loud. It was messy. And it was all ours.
Kids raced between the activity stations we’d set up around the clearing, giggling and shrieking with the kind of unfiltered joy that could crack open even the hardest heart.
Lane was right in the thick of it, wearing a laminated "Junior Ranger" badge and a whistle he definitely wasn’t qualified to use. He had a clipboard, a walkie-talkie, and an extremely serious expression that made the other kids listen to him most of the time.
Holt stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all with the same quiet intensity he used to watch the tree line during a storm. Only now, he wasn’t looking for danger. He was watching me.
I made my way over, dodging a flying pool noodle and two kids armed with water guns.
"Did you check the archery line?" he asked without looking at me.
"They're using marshmallows," I said, trying not to laugh. "So yes. Extremely safe. Also delicious."
He grunted. Which, in Holt-speak, meant everything was okay.
I leaned into his side and tipped my head back to look up at him. "You know, you never asked me to marry you."
His gaze flicked down, slightly amused. “Don’t need to. You’re already mine."
"Still. Some women like a grand gesture."
He reached into his back pocket and handed me a folded sheet of paper.
I took it, wondering what he’d been up to, and opened it.
It was a permit application. Official, signed, and stamped.
Name: Camp Braveheart
Location: Ramsey Land Parcel 4B
Director: Calla Smith
Purpose: Outdoor education and therapeutic programming for youth and caregivers in need of safe emotional spaces.
I stared at it, my throat tightening.
Holt threaded his fingers with mine. "Figured you might want to make it permanent. You know. In case you aren’t done building stuff with us."
Tears hit faster than I expected. I blinked hard and held the paper to my chest. "You did this for me?"
"I did it for us. And for him." He nodded toward Lane, who was herding a group of kids toward the snack table like he was guiding a dinosaur dig team through enemy territory. "He still asks if you’re staying. Even now. Do you think putting a ring on your finger and making it official might help him feel more secure?”
“Only if that’s what you want,” I said, my heart too full for words.
He shook his head while he got down on one knee and pulled a small box out of his pocket. “I can’t think of anything I could ever want more than that, baby girl.”
The kids broke into an enthusiastic version of “Happy Birthday,” evidently the only song everyone knew, while Lane rushed over with a bouquet of flowers he must have picked from the perennials I’d planted around the cabin.
“Did she say yes?” He thrust the flowers at me, his smile eager and wide.
“I haven’t had a chance to ask her,” Holt muttered. He held out the ring and I slipped it on my finger. “Calla, will you please say you’ll be mine forever? Will you marry me?”
“Us,” Lane added. “You said she was marrying both of us, Dad.”
“You’re right, bud.” He looked up at me, his heart mine for the taking. “Will you marry us?”
“Yes.” I hugged Lane first before I tugged Holt to his feet. Then I leaned in and kissed him soft and slow, like it wasn’t just yes, but absolutely and finally and always.
When I pulled back, we stood there for a long moment, watching our chaos unfold. A goat wearing a bandana trotted past. Someone had gotten into the bubble machine. A counselor blew a whistle and called for backup.
Holt exhaled slowly. "You sure about this?" he asked.
"Absolutely."
He turned and kissed my temple. "Then we’re just getting started."
I thought about the first day I met him, back when he was gruff and guarded, all walls and protective instinct.
Then I thought about the day he came to my grandparents' porch with a box full of dinosaurs and a little boy who wanted me to come home.
He never needed fancy words. I could always tell how he felt though his actions.
His quiet, unwavering love was the most simple and grandest gesture of all.
I slipped the permit into my pocket and turned back to him. He was still watching me, his brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure if what he’d done was enough. It was more than enough.
“You really think we can do it?” I asked. “Build all this?”
He didn’t hesitate. “We already are.”
I leaned in, palms pressed to his chest. “You know this means I’m never leaving, right?”
His mouth curved into the rare kind of smile that made me feel like the sun came out just for me. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ve got plans.”
“Oh yeah?”
He leaned down, his voice low and rough against my ear. “You, me, and a porch swing with no kids, no goats, and absolutely no pants.”
I burst out laughing.
From behind us, Lane yelled, “No more kissing in front of the campers, Mom.”
I grinned up at Holt, my heart overflowing. “Better hurry up and build that swing, mountain man.”
His eyes heated. “I already started. It’s almost done.”
Then he ignored Lane’s warning and kissed me anyway. It was slow and sure and full of every promise he was still trying to figure out how to say out loud. We might be a work in progress, but we were working on it. One step at a time. Together.