Page 6 of Mountain Man’s Bonfire Beauty (Wildwood Valley Harvest #5)

AYDEN

“ R emember, Hunter, the marshmallow goes all the way to the end of the stick,” Parker said, gently guiding our six-year-old son’s small hands. “That’s it, perfect.”

I leaned back against the tailgate of my truck—the same cream-colored pickup that had witnessed our first kiss—and watched my wife work her magic with a group of kids that had grown to include not just our own children, but half the neighborhood.

At thirty-three, Parker was even more beautiful than the day I’d first seen her across the harvest market.

Pregnancy suited her. She practically glowed in the firelight, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of her belly while the other demonstrated the perfect marshmallow-roasting technique.

“Dad, can I add more wood to the fire?” Our eight-year-old son, Chandler, appeared at my elbow, his earnest brown eyes—so much like mine—focused intently on the flames.

“What’s the first rule?” I asked, though I was already reaching for the metal poker.

“Never add wood without an adult supervising, and always make sure the flames aren’t too high first,” Chandler recited dutifully.

“And?”

“And always have water nearby in case something goes wrong.” Chandler gestured toward the fire extinguisher and bucket of sand that I had positioned strategically around our backyard fire pit.

“Good job. Come on.”

As we worked together to add another log to the fire, I marveled at how natural this felt.

Ten years ago, I would have been standing rigid with anxiety, cataloging every possible danger, ready to shut down the whole operation at the first sign of trouble.

Now, while I was still prepared for anything, I’d learned to balance safety with the simple joy of watching my family create memories.

“Chandler’s marshmallow is on fire,” Hunter called out, laughing.

“That’s the best kind,” Parker laughed, helping Chandler blow out the flames. “Crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside. Just like your daddy taught me.”

My chest tightened with emotion as I remembered that first day, when Parker’s tablecloth had caught fire and I’d thought the world was ending. Now here she was, completely at ease with fire and flame, teaching our children the same skills that had once terrified me to watch.

“Tell us the story again, Mama,” Hunter said as he carefully assembled his s’more. “About how you and Daddy met.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear that old story again,” Parker said, but she was smiling, her eyes finding mine across the fire.

“Yes, we do,” Chandler chimed in from beside me. “Tell us about how Daddy saved you from the fire.”

I snorted. “I didn’t save her. If anything, she saved me.”

“That’s not how the story goes,” Chandler said. “You ran over and put out the fire with your jacket.”

“And then he yelled at me for being unsafe,” Parker added with a grin. “Your father was not very smooth when we first met.”

“I was terrified,” I admitted, settling onto a log next to the fire pit. “Not of the fire—of how much I cared about a woman I’d just met.”

“Ew, gross,” Chandler said, but he was listening intently.

“So what happened next?” Hunter asked, even though he’d heard this story a hundred times.

“Well,” Parker said, lowering herself carefully onto the log beside me, “your daddy spent the rest of that day trying to make up for being grumpy with me. We worked together setting up safety boundaries for the big bonfire?—”

“The one where you guys had your first kiss,” Hunter said.

“Hunter.” Chandler sighed. “You’re not supposed to interrupt.”

I wrapped my arm around Parker’s shoulders, pulling her close against my side. Even after ten years of marriage, the simple contact made my heart race.

“And then what?” I prompted, even though I knew every word of this story by heart.

“Then your daddy taught me that sometimes the best things in life are worth being a little scared for,” Parker said, her hand covering mine where it rested on her shoulder. “And I taught him that sometimes you have to trust people to make their own choices, even when you want to protect them.”

“And now you both run the bonfire every year,” Hunter said.

“And Mom has the best s’mores booth at the harvest market,” Chandler added.

“Plus, we’re getting a new baby.” Hunter eyed Parker’s belly with the sort of resigned acceptance that came with being an older sibling.

“That’s right,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of Chandler’s head. “In a few months, we’ll have another little person to teach about fire safety.”

“Speaking of which,” Parker said, struggling to her feet, “it’s getting late, and school tomorrow means bedtime soon.”

A chorus of groans rose from the assembled children, but they began gathering their supplies without much protest. This was a well-established routine by now.

“Can we have one more s’more?” Chandler asked.

“Just one,” I said, “but make it count.”

As the kids busied themselves with their final treats, Parker moved to bank the fire for the evening. I watched her work with the same efficient, confident movements that had drawn my attention all those years ago, and felt that familiar surge of pride and love.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, catching me staring.

“Just remembering,” I said, standing to help her. “That first night, I was so convinced you were going to burn the place down.”

“And now?”

I looked around at our kids, sticky with marshmallow and chocolate, laughing with their friends around our fire.

At our home, the cabin I’d built but that Parker had turned into something warm and welcoming.

At my wife, who’d grown her little s’mores booth into a business that shipped nationwide, while I’d expanded from a one-man garage to employing half the mechanics in the county.

“Now I think maybe that fire was exactly what we both needed,” I said.

Parker smiled, the same radiant expression that had stopped my heart across the harvest market a decade ago. “Best accident I ever made.”

“Same here,” I said, pulling her into my arms for a kiss that tasted like chocolate and marshmallow and the promise of forever.

Behind us, Hunter made exaggerated gagging sounds while Chandler told him to shut up, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the last of the neighborhood kids calling goodnight as they headed home.

It was perfect. Messy and chaotic and absolutely perfect.

Just the way our love story had always been.