Some folks say home is where you hang your hat.

But in the West, home was something different. It was where someone waited for you to come back. It was a lantern burning in a window after dark, a horse tied to the rail beside yours, a voice that called your name when the door creaked open.

And for Rose Whitmore, that kind of home had vanished long before the train ever carried her west.

When the locomotive finally groaned to a stop in Copper Creek, Wyoming, Rose stepped down onto the wooden platform with stiff legs and tired eyes. The wind carried dust across the street in thin gray ribbons, and the smell of horses, leather, and wood smoke hung in the air.

She stood there for a long moment with a worn suitcase in one hand and a folded letter in the other.

That letter had once been her future.

Now it was just paper.

The train whistle shrieked, the engine lurched forward again, and within minutes the only thing left behind was the fading rumble of steel wheels and a cloud of dust trailing down the tracks.

Rose watched it go.

When it disappeared beyond the bend in the hills, a strange emptiness settled in her chest.

“Well,” she murmured to herself, “I reckon there ain’t any turning back now.”

Copper Creek wasn’t much of a town.

One dusty main street stretched between a handful of buildings: a saloon with swinging doors, a general store, a blacksmith shop, a small church with peeling white paint, and a scattering of homes that looked like they had been built by men who cared more about surviving winter than about appearances.

It was rough.

Loud.

And full of strangers.

Rose knew immediately that she did not belong there.

Her eastern dress marked her as an outsider before she had taken three steps off the platform.

Still, she gathered her courage and began walking toward the town.

The first place she tried was the boarding house.

Mrs. Henley, a broad woman with sharp eyes and arms dusted in flour, listened to Rose’s request for work with an expression that never softened.

“You got family here?” the woman asked.

“No ma’am.”

“References?”

Rose hesitated.

“Only the man I came here to marry.”

Mrs. Henley’s eyes narrowed.

“And where’s he?”

Rose swallowed.

“He… appears to have left town.”

That was enough.

The boarding house door closed firmly in her face.

The laundry was next.

Then the general store.

Then the café.

Each place gave the same answer.

No work.

No room.

No help.

By the end of the third day, Rose’s boots were coated with dust, her stomach ached with hunger, and the small purse tied inside her skirt was empty.

Forty-seven dollars.

Two years of factory work in the mills of Lowell, Massachusetts.

Two years of breathing cotton dust and standing at the looms until her back felt like it might break.

All gone.

Gone to a man named Hector Finch.

He had written warm letters filled with promises.

He had called her “my dear Rose.”

He had spoken of a home in Wyoming and a future together.

And the moment she stepped off the train…

He vanished.

The people in Copper Creek knew exactly what had happened.

A mail-order bride who had been tricked.

It was not uncommon.

But sympathy was rare in a place where survival came first.

By the afternoon of the third day, Rose found herself back at the empty train platform.

The wind pushed strands of brown hair loose from her braid.

She stood there watching the empty rails stretching toward the horizon.

For a moment she considered simply walking.

Just leaving.

Heading anywhere the road might take her.

But the truth was simple.

She had nowhere left to go.

And that was when she heard it.

Heavy footsteps on the wooden boards behind her.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The kind of steps that made people notice.

The men standing at the water trough across the street stopped talking.

An old man sitting on the saloon porch quietly stood and went inside.

Even the horses tied along the rail shifted uneasily.

Rose turned.

A man had stepped out of the saloon.

He was tall—well over six feet—and broad across the shoulders in a way that made the doorway behind him look small.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms lined with old scars.

A faint white scar cut through one eyebrow.

His jaw was dark with several days of stubble.

But what caught Rose’s attention most were his eyes.

Cold.

Clear.

The color of creek water in winter.

The man led a chestnut horse beside him.

He moved with quiet confidence, not looking at anyone around him.

And everyone in the street seemed determined not to look at him.

Rose heard the whisper pass between two men nearby.

“That’s Callahan.”

Bo Callahan.

She had heard the name during her short time in Copper Creek.

Not much.

Just whispers.

Trouble.

Dangerous.

The kind of man decent folks avoided.

Rose should have stepped aside and let him pass.

Instead…

She stepped directly into his path.

The chestnut horse snorted and tossed its head.

The man steadied the reins with one hand.

Then he looked at her.

Up close, the silence between them felt heavy.

Like the air before a storm.

Rose’s heart pounded in her chest.

But desperation gives people courage they never knew they possessed.

“Mister,” she said.

Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced the words out anyway.

“I ain’t asking for charity.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

“I’m offering a deal.”

The street behind her had gone completely quiet.

“I can cook,” she said quickly.

“I can clean, mend clothes, keep a house running proper. I just need a roof over my head.”

Still nothing.

His eyes moved slowly from her face to her hands.

Calloused hands.

Hands shaped by factory work and long hours.

Then he spoke.

“You don’t know me.”

His voice was low and rough, like gravel sliding across wood.

“No sir,” Rose said.

“But I know I got nowhere else to go.”

A faint flicker passed through his eyes.

“And you look like a man who ain’t planning to stay in this town long.”

That seemed to catch his attention.

He studied her for several seconds.

Then he nodded once toward the café across the street.

“There’s a meal house there.”

He paused.

“I’ll buy you supper.”

Rose blinked.

“You tell me your story.”

He turned toward the door.

“Then we’ll see.”

And without another word, Bo Callahan walked away.

Rose stood frozen for a moment.

Then she followed.

Because sometimes the difference between survival and failure…

Is simply saying yes to the one chance you’re given.

Inside the café, the air smelled like bacon grease and boiled beans.

Four small tables filled the room.

Flies tapped against the window glass.

Bo chose a table in the darkest corner and sat down.

He ordered two bowls of navy bean soup without asking her preference.

Rose sat across from him quietly.

She waited until he lifted his spoon before touching hers.

He noticed.

But said nothing.

They ate in silence for several minutes.

Then he spoke.

“Name’s Bo.”

He paused.

“Bo Callahan.”

“Rose,” she said softly.

“Rose Whitmore.”

He repeated the name slowly.

“Rose Whitmore.”

Then he leaned back in his chair.

“Tell me how you ended up here.”

And so she did.

She told him about the mills in Lowell.

About the endless noise of machines.

About the long hours and small pay.

She told him about Thomas—her first husband.

A quiet man who worked the docks.

A man who had died of typhoid fever two years after they married.

And she told him about Hector Finch.

The letters.

The promises.

The dream of a new life.

When she finished, her hands lay flat on the table.

She didn’t lift her eyes.

Bo studied her silently.

“You got family back east?” he asked.

“None that want me.”

“Friends?”

“Not anymore.”

He finished the last of his soup and wiped the bowl with a piece of bread.

Then he spoke.

“The place I got is two hours out.”

Rose looked up slowly.

“Cabin my ma built with my pa.”

He paused.

“She passed two years ago.”

Something quiet moved behind his eyes.

“I’ve been there alone since.”

Rose held her breath.

“I ain’t looking for a wife,” he said.

“Not the way you mean.”

“But I could use someone to keep house.”

He met her gaze.

“Cook. Tend what my ma left behind.”

“And in return?”

“You get a roof.”

He paused.

“Food.”

Then his voice softened just slightly.

“And my name if you need it.”

Rose swallowed.

“Why?”

He looked down at his hands.

“My ma came west the same way you did,” he said quietly.

“She answered an ad. Traveled halfway across the country to marry a stranger.”

His fingers curled slightly against the table.

“She used to say the West ain’t kind to folks who don’t help each other.”

Bo dropped a few coins beside the bowl.

Then he stood.

“We leave in an hour.”

Rose watched him walk out into the evening light.

Her hands trembled as she sat alone at the table.

But deep inside her chest…

For the first time since arriving in Wyoming…

A small flicker of hope began to glow again.

Two hours after leaving Copper Creek, the last trace of the town disappeared behind the hills.

Rose had never seen land like this before.

Back east, the world had always felt crowded—mills, narrow streets, rows of houses pressed together like books on a shelf. But here the land stretched so wide it made her chest tighten just looking at it. Grass rolled across the valley in endless waves, broken only by scattered willows and the silver ribbon of a creek winding through the earth.

The sky felt impossibly large.

Bo rode ahead of her on the chestnut horse, guiding the narrow trail that climbed slowly through the hills. He didn’t speak much, but every now and then he glanced back to make sure she was still managing the saddle.

“You alright back there?” he asked once.

Rose adjusted her grip on the saddle horn.

“I reckon so.”

Her legs ached, and her back protested every bump in the trail, but she wasn’t about to complain.

Not after the chance he had given her.

They reached the ridge just as the sun dipped low in the sky. The light turned the valley below into a glowing field of gold.

Bo slowed his horse.

“There.”

Rose followed his gaze.

At first she didn’t see anything but trees and grass.

Then the cabin appeared.

It sat beside the creek, tucked into a line of tall willow trees whose branches swayed gently in the evening breeze. Smoke stains darkened the stone chimney, and a split-rail fence circled a small patch of land behind the house.

It wasn’t large.

But it was solid.

The kind of place built by hands that expected to stay.

Rose felt something warm stir inside her chest.

Bo rode down the slope and dismounted near the porch. He tied the horse to the rail before turning to help her down.

His hands were rough, but careful.

“Welcome,” he said simply.

Rose looked around slowly.

The creek whispered against the stones nearby. A pair of swallows darted through the evening air. Somewhere in the grass, crickets had begun their quiet song.

“It’s… beautiful,” she said softly.

Bo shrugged.

“It’s home.”

He pushed open the cabin door and stepped aside so she could enter first.

The interior was small but tidy.

Dust floated through the golden light streaming from the single window. A narrow bed sat against the far wall, covered with a faded patchwork quilt. A rocking chair rested beside a small Franklin stove, and a wooden table stood in the center of the room.

A basket of half-finished mending sat on the floor.

It looked as though someone had been working there only moments ago.

Rose walked slowly toward the shelf above the bed.

A photograph rested there.

It showed an older woman with gentle eyes and neatly pinned gray hair. Her expression held the quiet strength of someone who had worked hard and loved deeply.

Rose didn’t need to ask who it was.

“She looks kind,” Rose said.

Bo stood in the doorway behind her.

“Eliza May Callahan,” he said.

“My ma.”

Rose studied the photograph again.

“She built this place?”

“Most of it.”

He stepped inside and rested his hand briefly on the back of the rocking chair.

“My pa helped, but she was the one who knew where everything belonged.”

Rose touched the edge of the quilt.

“Your mother had good hands.”

Bo’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Yeah.”

He turned toward the door.

“There’s a well out back. Privy’s past the oak tree.”

He hesitated.

“I’ll be on the porch.”

Rose nodded.

“Thank you, Bo.”

He paused in the doorway.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

His voice held a quiet warning.

“Winter here ain’t kind.”

Then he stepped outside.

Rose stood alone in the cabin.

The quiet wrapped around her like a blanket she wasn’t sure she deserved.

For a long moment she simply stood there, listening to the creek outside and the faint creak of the porch boards beneath Bo’s boots.

Then she began to work.

Old habits from the mills came back easily.

She swept the floor.

Shook out the quilt.

Wiped the dust from the table.

By the time darkness settled outside, the cabin felt warmer somehow.

Less like a stranger’s place.

That night Rose lay beneath the quilt staring at the wooden ceiling beams.

The creek whispered outside the window.

At some point she heard Bo rise from the porch chair.

His boots crossed the boards softly.

He paused near the door.

Then walked away again.

She didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn.

The days settled into a rhythm after that.

Bo left before sunrise most mornings.

Rose would hear the quiet sound of him saddling the horse outside while the sky was still dark.

By the time she stepped onto the porch with coffee in hand, he was already riding toward the hills.

“Back by dark,” he would say.

And then he would disappear over the ridge.

Rose spent her days working.

She scrubbed the cabin until the wood floors gleamed. She patched holes in the roof where rain had leaked through. She washed clothes in the creek and hung them along the fence where the wind dried them quickly.

The work felt good.

Honest.

By the end of the first week, the place felt alive again.

Bo noticed.

He didn’t say much about it.

But one evening he paused in the doorway and looked around the room.

The tablecloth had been washed.

The stove shined.

Fresh wildflowers stood in a small jar beside the window.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

Rose shrugged.

“Can’t sit still long.”

He nodded.

Then sat down to eat.

They spoke little during meals.

Ten sentences a day, maybe less.

But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It simply… existed.

One morning in early July, Bo appeared in the doorway while Rose was washing dishes.

“Come with me.”

She dried her hands and followed him outside.

The grass was cool with morning dew.

They walked down to the creek where the mud along the bank held clear marks.

Bo crouched.

“See that?”

Rose knelt beside him.

Deep hoofprints pressed into the earth.

Two large ones.

And a smaller pair beside them.

“Deer,” she guessed.

“Doe and fawn,” Bo said.

“They passed through at dawn.”

“How can you tell?”

He pointed to the edges of the prints.

“Dew settled inside the tracks.”

Rose studied them carefully.

“The sun hasn’t dried it yet.”

He nodded.

“The land tells you things if you listen.”

Later that day he took her up the ridge.

He showed her wild onions growing near the rocks.

Service berries along the hillside.

Bitterroot flowers blooming between patches of grass.

Rose repeated each name aloud.

Learning.

Tasting the words like new food.

Halfway down the slope she slipped on a loose stone.

Her knee slammed against the granite.

Pain shot up her leg.

Blood soaked through the fabric of her stocking.

Bo stopped several feet away and looked back.

He didn’t rush to help.

He didn’t reach out a hand.

He simply waited.

Rose pressed her palm against the rock and pushed herself up.

Her knee throbbed fiercely.

But she climbed the rest of the ridge without a word.

When she reached the top, Bo studied her for a long moment.

“You’ll do,” he said.

That night they sat on the porch.

Bo whittled a small piece of wood while Rose mended a torn shirt.

The sky turned deep violet above the mountains.

The creek murmured quietly below.

For the first time since arriving, Rose felt something unexpected.

Peace.

A few days later she found the sewing box.

It sat beneath the bed.

Old but well cared for.

Inside were needles, thread, and scraps of fabric carefully folded.

Rose carried it to the porch where Bo was fixing a saddle strap.

“May I use this?”

He looked at the box.

For a moment his face tightened.

As if the object carried memories no one else had the right to touch.

Then he nodded.

“She’d want someone using it.”

Over the next few evenings Rose worked on a small project.

A tablecloth.

Yellow daisies stitched carefully across the corners.

When she finally spread it across the table, Bo noticed immediately.

He ran his fingers lightly over the stitching.

Didn’t say a word.

But something softened in his expression.

The next morning Bo left earlier than usual.

Rose decided to try something new.

She searched through the old recipe book she had found beside the stove.

Cornbread.

Stew.

The same meals Bo’s mother had once cooked.

When Bo returned at dusk, he stepped inside and stopped cold.

The smell filled the room.

His chest rose slowly as he breathed it in.

“Smells like my ma’s cooking,” he said quietly.

Rose looked up nervously.

“I found her recipe book.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

Bo sat down slowly.

“I don’t.”

They ate in silence.

When Bo reached for a second helping without asking, Rose lowered her head to hide her smile.

Later they sat on the porch again.

“My husband used to say I cooked better than his mama,” Rose said softly.

Bo raised an eyebrow.

“Was he right?”

She chuckled.

“I think he was lying.”

Bo almost smiled.

And in that moment…

The cabin by the creek no longer felt like a place of strangers.

It felt like the beginning of something neither of them yet understood.

Late summer settled over the valley like a quiet promise.

The grass had turned deeper green along the creek banks, and the hills beyond the cabin shimmered beneath long afternoons of warm sunlight. From the porch of the Callahan cabin, the world looked peaceful enough that a person might forget how quickly the land could turn dangerous.

Rose had been living there nearly two months now.

Long enough that the place no longer felt borrowed.

Long enough that she could wake before dawn, step outside barefoot, and know exactly where the sun would appear over the ridge.

Bo still left early every morning.

But he came home earlier than he once had.

Sometimes before the sun fully set.

Sometimes carrying a brace of trout from the creek or a sack of flour from town.

And sometimes—though neither of them spoke of it—simply to sit on the porch beside her while the sky faded into evening.

On one such afternoon, Rose decided to ride into Copper Creek alone.

Bo had hesitated when she suggested it.

“You sure you want to go there?” he asked.

“I can’t hide in the hills forever,” she replied gently.

He studied her for a moment.

Then nodded.

“Take the gray mare. She knows the road.”

The ride down the valley was long and dusty.

By the time Rose reached town, the sun hung high overhead and the street bustled with the slow rhythm of frontier life.

Wagons rattled across the road.

Men stood outside the saloon arguing about cattle prices.

Children chased each other through the dust.

For a moment the noise made Rose uneasy.

But she lifted her chin and walked into Peterson’s General Store.

The conversation inside died instantly.

Everyone knew exactly where she lived.

“You’re the woman staying at Callahan’s place,” a sharp voice said.

Rose turned.

Mrs. Morrison stood near the counter.

She was a narrow woman with gray hair pulled tight into a bun and eyes that carried judgment like a weapon.

“My son lost the use of his hand because of that man,” she continued.

The room felt suddenly very small.

Rose could feel every gaze pressing against her.

But she didn’t lower her eyes.

“I reckon I know Bo Callahan better than most folks,” she said quietly.

Mrs. Morrison scoffed.

“You foolish girl.”

“You don’t know what he is.”

Rose met her stare.

“Then maybe this town never bothered to find out.”

The store fell silent.

Mrs. Morrison’s lips tightened, but she said nothing more.

Rose finished her purchases quickly and rode back toward the hills.

The ride home felt longer than usual.

Dust clung to her dress and the heat made her head ache.

When she reached the cabin, Bo was sitting on the porch sharpening a knife.

He looked up as she dismounted.

“Town treat you kindly?” he asked.

Rose set the sack of flour on the table inside.

“Not particularly.”

That evening she told him everything.

Bo listened without interrupting.

He didn’t look angry.

He didn’t defend himself.

When she finished, he simply shrugged.

“They told you their side.”

Rose leaned forward across the table.

“Then tell me yours.”

Bo sighed.

“Tom Morrison pulled a knife on me in a card game.”

“Drunk. Losing.”

“I broke his wrist before he could cut me.”

Rose frowned.

“And the sheriff?”

“Morrison money goes far in this town.”

“And you just let them talk?”

Bo wiped his hands on a rag.

“A man can’t fix every lie folks choose to believe.”

Rose reached across the table and gently touched his hand.

“I believe you.”

Bo looked up slowly.

Something quiet and surprised flickered in his eyes.

“You’re a strange woman, Rose Whitmore.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’ve been called worse.”

For a moment Bo almost smiled back.

But outside the wind shifted.

The cabin boards creaked softly beneath their feet.

Bo’s head turned toward the window.

“Storm coming.”

Rose followed his gaze.

Dark clouds had begun gathering over the distant mountains.

Heavy.

Low.

But something about them felt wrong.

Bo stood and stepped outside.

He stared north for a long time.

When he came back in, his expression had changed.

“Not a storm,” he said quietly.

“Something worse.”

The next morning the valley felt uneasy.

Rose noticed it the moment she stepped onto the porch.

The birds were flying in tight flocks toward the east.

The buffalo herd grazing below the ridge had begun moving uphill.

Even the wind carried a strange tension.

Bo stood near the fence staring toward the mountains.

His coffee sat untouched beside him.

“What is it?” Rose asked.

He pointed toward the horizon.

Clouds piled high above the peaks.

But they weren’t rain clouds.

They were thick with dust and mist rising from the canyon.

“Been dry too long,” Bo said.

“Ground’s hard as stone.”

“Snow melt’s been building in the high country.”

Rose’s stomach tightened.

“When it breaks loose…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

“It’ll run fast,” he said finally.

Rose looked down toward the distant town of Copper Creek.

The creek wound straight through its center.

“You’re going to warn them,” she said.

Bo grabbed his saddle bags.

“They won’t listen,” she whispered.

He shrugged.

“Probably not.”

“Then why go?”

He paused beside the horse.

For a moment the hard mask he wore seemed to crack.

“Because it’s the right thing,” he said.

Rose stepped closer.

“Do you have to come back?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Bo looked at her carefully.

“Yes.”

His voice softened.

“I got a reason to now.”

He pulled the Colt revolver from his belt and placed it in her hands.

“In case I’m late.”

Rose held the gun.

It felt heavy.

Warm.

She wanted to say something more.

But the words never came.

Bo mounted the chestnut horse and rode toward the ridge.

Within seconds he disappeared over the hill.

Rose stood on the porch watching until the dust settled.

Then she sat down in Bo’s chair.

The revolver rested in her lap.

And she waited.

The sky darkened by mid-afternoon.

The creek slowed to an eerie crawl.

Even the insects had fallen silent.

Rose sat on the porch listening to the wind.

And then she saw it.

Far down the valley.

A dark line moving across the land.

At first she thought it was shadow.

Then she heard the sound.

A deep roar.

Like thunder rolling across the earth.

But it wasn’t thunder.

It was water.

A wall of it.

Trees and branches spun inside the rushing current.

The flood was racing toward Copper Creek.

Bo rode into town at a full gallop.

Mud sprayed from the horse’s hooves as he pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office.

“Flood coming!” he shouted.

“Get to high ground!”

People stared.

Confused.

Annoyed.

Sheriff Burroughs stepped out of the doorway.

“You looking for trouble again, Callahan?”

“I’m trying to save your town!”

Burroughs laughed.

“Ain’t rained in six weeks.”

“That’s the problem!”

Bo turned toward the street.

“Water’s coming down the canyon!”

Then the ground trembled.

Lightly at first.

Then harder.

Horses reared.

Windows rattled.

And in the distance…

A roar rolled over the valley.

The sheriff’s smile vanished.

Bo didn’t wait.

He ran.

House to house.

Door to door.

“Get out!”

“High ground!”

Some people still hesitated.

So he dragged them out.

An old man who couldn’t walk.

A mother holding a newborn.

A boy frozen with fear.

Then the flood hit.

The water slammed into town like a living beast.

It rose to Bo’s knees in seconds.

Then to his waist.

The cold nearly stole his breath.

Barrels and crates smashed against buildings.

A scream cut through the roar.

A small child clung to a porch rail.

Water up to his chest.

Tiny fingers slipping.

Bo lunged.

The current nearly knocked him down.

But he grabbed the boy’s wrist just as the child lost his grip.

“I got you!”

He fought toward the roof of the general store where people had gathered.

Mrs. Morrison reached down.

Her face streaked with tears.

She pulled the boy from Bo’s arms.

The water rose higher.

But Bo went back.

Again.

And again.

He pulled a man from beneath a fallen beam.

Helped a woman climb from a window.

Cut Tom Morrison free from a broken hitching rail.

For two hours he fought the water.

When the flood finally began to fall, the sun was setting behind the mountains.

Half the town was ruined.

But everyone was alive.

Bo sank onto the church steps.

His hands were raw and bleeding.

Mrs. Morrison approached slowly.

Her grandson clung to her skirt.

“I was wrong about you,” she whispered.

Bo didn’t look up.

“Don’t matter.”

“But it matters to me.”

Bo’s eyes lifted toward the road leading home.

Toward the ridge where Rose waited.

He rode through the night.

Twice the road had been washed away.

But he kept going.

Dawn touched the sky pink as he reached the ridge.

Smoke rose from the cabin chimney.

Light glowed in the window.

Rose stood on the porch.

She held a tin cup in both hands.

Her hair loose in the morning wind.

She didn’t run toward him.

She simply waited.

Bo slid from the saddle.

His legs nearly gave out.

Rose took the reins.

“I’ll see to the horse,” she said softly.

“You go inside.”

He woke hours later in the bed.

His hands clean and bandaged.

Rose sat near the window sewing.

She looked up and smiled.

“There’s coffee on the stove.”

“And biscuits when you’re ready.”

Bo sat up slowly.

“Town still standing,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

“You came back.”

He looked at her.

“Told you I would.”

Rose reached out and gently took his hand.

Weeks passed.

The town rebuilt.

Bo healed.

One afternoon Tom Morrison rode to the cabin and offered his apology.

Then Mrs. Morrison came with a message.

“The preacher will be passing through next Sunday.”

She looked between them.

“You two ought to be married proper.”

Rose glanced at Bo.

He nodded.

“We’d like that.”

They married beside the creek.

Rose wore a simple white muslin dress she had sewn herself.

Bo wore a ring made from a copper penny his father had once given his mother.

The water murmured softly as they spoke their vows.

That night they sat on the porch beneath a sky full of stars.

Rose rested her head against Bo’s shoulder.

“This is home,” she whispered.

Bo wrapped an arm around her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“It is.”