life. He’d defended the woman he loved, stood by her, with the family and community who stood by them both. Tomorrow he’d work in the store his parents had started, and he’d continue to make successful. It was a hell of a good life.
“I want to ask her to marry me,” he said abruptly. “But I think I should wait, give her time.”
Thomas lifted a shoulder. “You have plenty of it. All the time you both need.”
“When you do, it will only confirm what everyone else can see. Especially Daralyn.” Marcus met his gaze. “She’s yours, but it’s pretty clear she sees you as hers, too. You’re already bound to her in every way that matters.”
Bound. Connected. Those were the right words. Several years ago, he never could have predicted this moment. A moment where he was happier, more content, than he’d ever been in his life, even when he had the use of his legs.
He wondered if Daralyn felt anywhere close to that, and then thought about what she’d said earlier, about hope. I think some way down deep part of my soul took it as a sign of hope. Hope that my life could be something different.
What was it Tyler Winterman had said? “Love can surprise you in so many ways.”
When he shared that out loud, Marcus grimaced. “Probably copped it off the cheesy inspirational wall poster of one of his corporate weasel friends.”
Thomas grinned at Rory. “You won’t get anything good from him about Tyler. Not until he has that sculpture.”
“I’ll buy it for pennies at his estate sale when he dies,” Marcus said, unruffled. “Which should be soon. He’s ancient. In his fifties or something.”
“Says the guy who’s hit his forties. Cradle robbed my brother.” Rory chuckled as Marcus tossed a balled-up napkin at him. “Since Tyler seems to feel the same about you, I’m betting he has some clause in his will that it can’t end up in your hands.”
“I’ll sweet talk it from Marguerite.”
“Yeah.” Thomas snorted. “Nobody sweet talks anything from that Mistress.”
Daralyn shifted, turning so she was facing Rory’s abdomen. She wrapped her arms around his waist and drew her legs up, snuggling in like a cat. Then she murmured something. Rory leaned in. “What, baby?”
She glanced up at him, her eyes heavy lidded and sleepy. “I would love to marry you,” she said. “A spring wedding. Outdoors.”
Then she subsided back into slumber. Rory stared down at her, distantly hearing Thomas and Marcus’s chuckles.
“When a woman finally decides what she wants,” Marcus said, “not even a Master can stand in her way.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
That was true, but Rory also knew stating things so directly was still new to her. A decision as big as marriage? He wasn’t going to hold her to something she’d likely said while halfway asleep, after a really tumultuous day.
So over the next week, as they returned to a normal schedule, it was definitely in the upper part of his mind, but he didn’t bring it back up. They did their work at the store, she attended her classes. She was already planning what she’d take next semester. Then there were plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Les would be home for a prolonged break, and Julie and Des would join them for both holidays. Rory’s mother was making plans for it. Rory placed the Christmas tree order and started lining up the help he’d need to get them unloaded and delivered to the ordering customers.
In the middle of all those usual things, he and Daralyn had started working out designs for her reclaimed house. They obtained a copy of the existing floor plan from the courthouse and pinned it to a drafting table they set up in the back of the store. The tracing paper taped over it would reflect the renovation ideas they were bouncing back and forth.
On the day they’d added that tracing paper, Daralyn had set the tone for where they were going with the project. In the top corner, she abolished any past reference to the Moorfield brothers by printing four words in bold block print.
The Wilder Moss House.
When Rory saw it, he took the pencil from her. As she watched, a puzzled half smile on her face, he marked through what she’d written and wrote the correction below it.
The Moss Wilder house.
He handed the pencil back, closed her fingers around it. “I know why you put my name first,” he said. “And I appreciate the respect. But this is you, reclaiming what’s yours. Your name