Page 11 of Road Trip With Her Daddy Protector (Love Along Route 14)

LOLA

Snowflakes swirl like powdered sugar over Saddleback, frosting every pine bough and turning the log-cabin porch into a story-book postcard.

A year has slipped by since the night I told Gus I was pregnant, and now the tiny heartbeat we once imagined is bundled against my chest in a cream-knit sling, warm and perfect and ours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” I murmur, kissing the soft tuft of auburn curls that peek from beneath the baby’s cap. “Daddy’s almost finished.”

Daddy—Gus Monroe—stands a few yards away, splitting firewood with smooth, practiced strokes.

Even in the pale afternoon light he looks larger than life: flannel sleeves shoved to his elbows, silver flecks at his temples sparkling as bright as the new wedding band he still twists whenever he’s nervous or proud (which, with us, is almost always).

“All set!” he calls, stacking the last split log onto the sled. His grin crinkles the corners of his hazel eyes—those same eyes I see every time our daughter opens hers wide in wonder. “Ready to head inside, sunshine?”

I arch a brow. “Ask the real boss.”

Gus wipes his palms and steps onto the porch. Instantly his big hands cradle the baby-sling with reverence. “How’s my girl? Keeping Mama warm?” He peppers our daughter’s cheeks with gentle kisses, and the tiny bundle squeaks a contented answer.

We named her Grace Eleanor Monroe —Grace, for the miracle she is; Eleanor, for my dad’s mother, who taught him that quiet loyalty can be the fiercest kind of love.

We call her Ellie most days, but Gus prefers “my girl,” said in the same awed tone he once reserved for mountain sunrises and rare rifle stocks.

Inside, the cabin hums with holiday life.

Garlands of pine and cinnamon-stick twine over the mantel; gingerbread cools on the sideboard.

My dad hums off-key carols while stirring venison stew in the cast-iron pot—his third visit this season, because a granddaughter is the best excuse to linger.

Mason and Decker arrived an hour ago with their wives, claiming they were “just passing through,” though the arm-load of gifts and baby toys says otherwise.

When Gus shoulders the door open, a chorus of hellos and there they are! spills into the entryway. Boots come off, coats are hung, and Ellie is passed from loving arm to loving arm like the world’s most delicate snow-angel.

Dad pats Gus’s back. “Wood split?”

“Full cord, sir,” Gus answers with playful salute. “Should last through the next front.”

“That front’s nothing compared to Florida summers,” Mason teases from the sofa, bouncing Ellie on his knee. “You two picked the right place to hide out.”

“Live,” I correct, tugging a knit blanket higher over my daughter’s toes. “Hide-and-seek season ended when Tyler asked the warden for a plea deal.”

Decker lifts his mug. “To peace hard-won.”

Everyone echoes cheers , clinking enamel against stoneware. Ellie startles, wide blue-green eyes blinking up at Mason. The room melts into coos and shushes until her lower lip trembles, searching.

“That,” Gus says, swooping in, “is my cue.” He scoops her close, settles into the rocker near the hearth, and begins the low rumble of a lullaby he half-invented during our first sleepless nights.

The sight of this mountain-rough man crooning nonsense about pine-cone toes and honey-bee noses still takes my breath away.

Dad ladles stew into bowls and elbows me gently. “You happy, pumpkin?”

“More than I ever dreamed.” I glance at Gus—at the firelight glinting off his wedding band, at the way Ellie’s fist curls around his finger—and my heart feels bigger than my chest can hold. “It was a long road…”

“But the right one,” he finishes, eyes twinkling.

Gus lifts his gaze to meet mine as if he hears every word, even across the crowded room. The look we share is the same vow we’ve whispered through trials and triumphs: Safe. Loved. Always.

Dinner is loud and wonderful—stories of old missions, plans for sledding tomorrow, bets on whose cinnamon-cookie stack will topple first. Later, our friends head out to rented cabins down the ridge, promising breakfast at dawn.

Dad retreats to his favorite guest room with a book of fly-fishing knots and a slice of pie.

At last, the house is quiet save for the crackle of embers and the steady tick of Ellie’s breathing. I carry her up the stairs, lay her in the cradle Gus built from fallen cedar, and sing a soft refrain of his pine-cone lullaby. She drifts off, lips parted in a sleepy smile.

Downstairs I find Gus on the porch, snow still sifting from a pearl-gray sky. He wraps me in his arms, drawing me against the familiar wall of warmth and strength. For a moment we say nothing, watching moonlight silver the ridge and turn the world pristine again.

“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair.

“For what?” I tilt my face up, letting our noses touch.

“For trusting me when I was more battle plan than boyfriend. For making this cabin a home. For her .” His voice shakes on the last word—the forever kind of wonder that never quite settles.

I slide my mittened hands over his chest. “You once promised me a honeymoon every day for the rest of our lives. Looks like you’re keeping score.”

He chuckles. “I intend to keep winning.” He dips his head, kisses me—slow, sure, tasting of peppermint and promise. Heat flares even in the crisp air.

Behind us, Ellie sighs in her sleep, and the wind breathes through cathedral pines, their branches bowing like guardians.

Tyler Cole is a ghost of a bad chapter; fear is a visitor no longer welcome.

This cabin, these mountains, this family—they are the beginning and the ending, the whole wild journey etched in cedar and snowfall.

Gus breaks the kiss but keeps me close, his forehead resting against mine. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Monroe.”

“Merry Christmas, hero.”

The words float up with our breath, crystallizing in the cold before drifting away—joining the hush of Saddleback and the bright, unbreakable future waiting just beyond the tree line.