He wore worn jeans that clung just right, a thick leather tool belt slung low around his hips, and a navy ball cap pulled down to shade his eyes from the early morning glare. He looked every inch the man who could rebuild her life.
“Dubois is almost three hours each way,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder bag. “Might not be back till dark.”
She nodded, fighting the tug in her chest. “Drive safe.”
He paused on the porch, one hand on the railing. “Capri...think about what we talked about last night.”
Her stomach fluttered at the mention of it. The wedding. She’d brushed him off with a joke, but they both knew it wasn’t nothing.
“I will,” she promised softly.
When he looked skeptical, she quickly reassured him. “I will think about it.”
He nodded once, then strode down the steps and across the gravel drive, boots crunching. She stayed in the doorway until the truck disappeared beyond the pines.
With a sigh, she closed the door and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The chill of the tile floor seeped through her skin as she poured herself a mug of coffee from the pot Jake had set to brew before sunrise. She wrapped both hands around the cup and leaned her hip against the counter.
I’ll think about it.
Her eyes drifted toward the window and the view beyond where a soft mist still hung low over the fields. The truth was, there wasn’t a good reason to wait. No cold feet, no lingering doubts—just a stubborn little voice inside her that didn’t like being rushed. But he hadn’t pushed. Not really. Jake never did. He just planted seeds and waited for her to let them bloom.
She didn’t want a fuss. That much was certain. No bridesmaids, no color scheme, no tissue paper invitations. If it were up to her—and it was—Pastor Pete would marry them in the wildflower meadow behind Moose Chapel. Reva, Lila and Charlie Grace would be there. That’s it. Especially since Jake’s family had already declined to travel from Arkansas. Instead, she and Jake planned a trip for Thanksgiving so Capri could meet them.
Capri took a sip of coffee and smiled faintly to herself. Simple. Intimate. Just right.
Still, people would want to celebrate. And she supposed it wouldn’t kill her to let them. A gathering at the Rustic Pine afterward. Low-key. Laughter. Toes tapping to Annie’s old jukebox in the corner. That would be enough.
Her thoughts settled into a warm stillness, the kind that whispered of something right around the corner. She set her mug down and pushed away from the counter.
Time to see if it still existed.
In the hallway, she reached for the attic pull-down. The rope was stiff with age, and it took two tries to tug the stairs down. They creaked in protest as she climbed, her left leg trembling by the third rung. The injuries from the avalanche still whispered warnings now and then, but she ignored them. Grit carried her up the last steps. That and some careful maneuvering.
The attic was dim and dust-laced, the scent of old cedar and forgotten memories thick in the air. Morning light filtered through a single cobwebbed window, casting long shadows over stacks of boxes, rusted lamp bases, and an unplugged lava lamp. Her mom’s holiday wreaths leaned against a busted rocking horse. A crate of old vinyl records sat half open, and the corner of a macramé wall hanging peeked from a box labeled For Donation.
Capri stepped carefully between a broken laundry basket and a suitcase missing its handle. She found the trunk tucked beneath an old chenille bedspread. Heart thudding, she flipped the latches and eased it open.
Inside, neatly folded, was a zipped-up wardrobe bag.
She took it with both hands and made her way back down the attic stairs slowly, carefully—each step deliberate. At the bottom, she caught her breath, then walked into the bedroom.
The room was cozy and unpretentious, with cotton curtains hung at the window and a worn quilt draped over the bed—one her mother had stitched years ago, its pattern soft from countless washes. A small dresser held a cluster of wildflowers in a mason jar, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
She laid the garment bag across her quilt and slowly unzipped it.
There it was.
White eyelet cotton with delicate ribbon piping in soft yellow. Little matching buttons ran down the bodice, stopping at the waist where the skirt flared just enough. Thin straps. A sweetheart neckline. Classic 1970s prairie style—Gunne Sax. Vintage perfection.
A grin tugged at her mouth as her fingers skimmed the fabric. Her mom’s dress. The one she’d admired since girlhood, hanging in the back of the closet, smelling faintly of lavender sachets and possibility.
Too bad her mom and Earl Dunlop were off-grid somewhere in the Salmon River Mountains of central Idaho, trying to out-fish each other with no bars of cell service between them. Not that Capri was certain her mother would come to the wedding anyway.
Still, she’d send a text. Just to say she was invited.
Capri stepped into the dress and zipped it up with a little maneuvering. She padded to the mirror and studied herself—barefoot, no makeup, hair still mussed from sleep. But the dress...
It fit.
