REILLY
W ildwood Valley didn’t have a Justice of the Peace. There wasn’t a charming little wedding chapel with a built-in minister and events coordinator, either.
But what Wildwood Valley did have was beautiful scenery. There was no shortage of places to get married outdoors. The big question was which hill with a breathtaking mountain view to choose.
Bridget and I picked a piece of empty land by the water, with a mountain view off in the distance. It was toward the bottom of the parkway that ran through town, about a mile from the inn where I’d picked her up. It was a full-circle moment, closing out the two amazing weeks we’d spent together.
“Do you, Reilly, take this woman to be your wife?”
Old Man Coulter read the vows. He ran the feed store, led the church choir on Wednesday nights, and apparently became an ordained minister at some point.
My buddy Jareth said the guy had even run for mayor.
Jareth was standing behind me as I faced my bride in front of a small group of our friends. So was West.
Like me, West and Jareth were ex-vets who’d come to town after leaving the military.
West ran the town diner, inherited from his grandparents, and he’d somehow managed to find a girlfriend the same weekend I had.
It was a funny story. We still laughed about both women coming to town to meet me, thinking I was the guy they’d been messaging.
West’s girlfriend Mackenzie had fallen in love with him before she even saw me.
But it didn’t matter. I belonged with Bridget, and she belonged with me. I’d never been so sure of anything in my life.
“I do,” I said as Old Man Coulter reached the end of the vows.
Then he shifted to Bridget. She stared into my eyes, beaming with happiness. We would’ve gotten married two days after we met, but we wanted our families to come. Well, I did anyway. Bridget’s parents still didn’t know she was getting married. She swore they’d talk her out of it if they found out.
“It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission,” she’d said, reciting an old adage.
“I do,” she said, her voice strong and sure.
And just like that, she was mine.
The old man grinned beneath his white beard and nodded, raising his voice just enough for the small crowd to hear. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I didn’t hesitate. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment—because I had. Her lips were soft, warm, trembling with emotion. She melted into me, her hands gripping the lapels of my shirt like she never planned to let go.
When we finally pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with unshed tears and the kind of happiness that made a man believe in fate.
We turned together to face the handful of people gathered on the grassy hill. My friends. Her new friends. A few of the locals from Wildwood Valley who’d become family in their own way.
My parents were out there too. Not Bridget’s family, but that was okay. She’d chosen this. Chosen me.
Her fingers laced with mine, and I felt her squeeze once, gentle but certain.
A gust of mountain air rustled through the trees behind us, sending a swirl of leaves across the grass and tugging at the hem of her white sundress.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was her. Simple, pretty, and just enough lace to hint at softness without frills.
No veil or bouquet, just Bridget. My wife.
I looked down at her and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. “You’re stuck with me now.”
She tilted her chin up, eyes dancing. “Good. That was the whole point.”
The guests began to clap, a few whooping like their team had just won the big game. Someone popped open a bottle of cheap champagne. Bridget leaned into my side, and I wrapped my arm around her waist, anchoring her close.
It wasn’t the wedding either of us had grown up imagining. It was better. Because this wasn’t some society-planned, approval-stamped, hundred-person event. This was ours. Turned out, we hadn’t needed a string quartet or a tiered cake or monogrammed napkins. We just needed each other.
She was already talking about painting the front of the old brick storefront downtown—her soon-to-be coffee shop.
Said she wanted it to smell like vanilla and cinnamon year-round.
Wanted a menu that changed with the seasons and a back patio where people could bring their dogs.
Her whole face lit up when she talked about it.
She’d always dreamed of owning something. Creating something. And she was going to make it happen, right here in Wildwood Valley.
And me? I’d keep working on the logging crew. Cutting trees, hauling timber, keeping my hands dirty and my boots worn. Nothing fancy. But honest work, surrounded by mountains and men I trusted.
We weren’t chasing a perfect life. We were building a real one.
And as I stared at Bridget—my wife—I knew I’d spend every day making sure she never regretted choosing this path. Choosing me.
Because this wasn’t a mistake.
This was a damn miracle.