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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐄 lifted Montana's golden hair as she walked up the steps of the Mercantile. Her pale pink purse rested lightly on her shoulder, her soft smile glowing in the midday light. Inside, the restaurant was warm with the scent of casseroles and pastries, voices weaving through the air like gentle music.

In the back, Jack sat waiting, his tall frame bent over the table. He wasn't just waiting—he was making sure everything was perfect: the china aligned, the silver polished, the glasses filled just so. His hands fidgeted with the napkin, his jaw tight with nerves, every movement betraying the truth—he wanted this moment to be worthy of her.

Montana let out the softest laugh, touched by his effort.

"Hi, Montana," Mary said warmly as she embraced the blonde.

"Afternoon, Ms. Mary," Montana replied with a sweet smile, returning the hug.

"Someone's in the back waiting for you," Mary teased. "He's been fussing over every detail—the china, the silverware, even the water glasses. He even asked what your favorite appetizer was."

Montana's cheeks flushed, her fingers brushing the strap of her purse. "That's so sweet," she murmured.

"Well, don't keep him waiting," Mary said with a knowing grin. "I'll get those mozzarella sticks started for you."

Montana's smile deepened as she walked toward the table. Jack looked up the instant she entered his line of sight. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The sunlight caught her hair, her delicate steps made her look like she was floating, and the gentle humility in her smile undid him completely. He stood quickly, his face breaking into the kind of smile that could only belong to a man in love.

"Hi," Montana said softly, her voice airy, almost musical. "I couldn't decide what to wear. I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"Not at all," Jack said quickly. He pulled her chair out for her with quiet reverence, every gesture careful, as if she were made of light itself.

"Thank you," Montana said, her eyes catching his. For Jack, that single glance felt like the world steadied itself.

"Ree mentioned you like the mozzarella sticks with ranch," Jack said, trying not to show how proud he was for remembering every detail about her.

Montana blushed and laughed gently. "It's my go-to. Especially with orange vanilla Coke."

Jack smiled, but inside, he was undone again. The way she said even the smallest things—with such grace, such sweetness—made him feel like she carried beauty in every syllable.

"Hey, Montana. The usual?" Laynie, the waitress and Montana's friend, appeared with a Coke and a plate of mozzarella sticks.

"Hey, Laynie!" Montana beamed, her whole face lighting up. "Yes, please. Oh, before I forget—this is Jack. Jack, this is Laynie."

"Nice meeting you," Laynie said warmly.

"You as well," Jack replied politely, though his gaze drifted right back to Montana as if pulled by gravity.

"I already know what Montana wants," Laynie said, pen poised. "What about you?"

"Whatever she's having will be fine," Jack said, not even pretending to think.

Laynie chuckled. "Grilled chicken club with fries, coming right up." She gave Montana a quick hug before walking away.

"You certainly have a lot of friends here," Jack said, half amazed, half enchanted.

Montana shrugged with her soft humility. "Well, I grew up here. Everyone knows me because my grandfather was a legendary Texas Ranger. And, of course, my dad and brother own the karate dojo." She sipped her Coke, her eyes bright with warmth.

Jack couldn't help but watch the way she lifted the glass, her movements graceful, unhurried, as though she didn't know she was captivating. He thought she was the kind of woman people noticed even in a crowded room—not because she tried, but because she radiated something they couldn't name.

"Your brother mentioned your dad was a karate champion in high school?" Jack asked, needing to hear her voice again, just to anchor himself.

"Yeah," Montana said as she dipped a mozzarella stick into ranch. "Dad never lost a single tournament until junior year."

Jack leaned forward, his chin resting lightly on his hand, trying to look casual, but the truth was he was studying her like she was art. "What happened senior year?"

"Well, Aunt Samantha's dad, Daniel, won that tournament," Montana explained. "It started a rivalry that turned into a whole karate war during their senior year. Honestly, it's a story that has to be told over several bottles of wine."

Jack smiled, but his eyes softened, steady on her. "I'd love to hear it sometime," he said.

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"I just passed the bar, and when I return home, I'll join my father's practice," Jack said as Laynie cleared their plates.

Montana sipped her orange vanilla Coke, her bright eyes soft with interest. "Does he practice criminal law?"

Jack shook his head, leaving bills neatly on the table for the meal and tip. "No, he handles mostly contracts, wills, trusts—that sort of thing. My father represents some of the wealthiest people in New York."

Montana tilted her head, her voice gentle but steady. "So you'll only be helping the wealthy?"

Jack hesitated, then shrugged faintly. "Well... that's who our clients are."

"Oh, Jack," she said softly, her tone carrying the kind of truth that slipped past defenses. She reminded him so much of Ava, of Laura, yet wholly herself—graceful, radiant. "You realize they don't have to be. You could help the less fortunate. They need someone like you to speak for them."

"We work with people who pay our fees," Jack said carefully.

Montana arched one delicate brow. "So that's all you care about? Money?"

His chest tightened. "No, that's not what I meant—"

"It seems to me," Montana said gently, reaching for the strap of her pink purse, "you don't have a true passion for the law, Mr. Lockhart."

Jack gave a wry smile, trying to mask how her words struck deeper than he expected. "Well, since we're on a last name basis, Ms. Lawrence—the definition of law is reason free from passion."

Her laugh was soft, like glass chimes. Jack felt it in his bones.

"Do you have time to take a walk?" he asked quickly, not ready to let her slip away.

Montana glanced toward the staircase leading to the boarding house. "I should be getting to Mrs. Stafford-Smythe."

"A short one," Jack pressed, his voice quieter now, almost a plea.

Montana's lips curved in the gentlest smile, and she nodded. Rising, she walked beside him as they stepped out into the streets of Austin, the breeze tugging at her golden hair.

"Do you really want to be a lawyer," Montana asked softly, clutching her purse strap as they strolled, "or was it simply expected of you?"

Jack exhaled. "It was always understood that I would follow in my father's footsteps. Yes."

Her luminous gaze lifted to him. "What does your mother think? Doesn't her opinion matter?"

His steps slowed. "Well... her opinion would matter a great deal, if she were still alive. She died when I was eight."

Montana stopped walking, her whole expression shifting—open, tender, filled with compassion. "Oh, Jack. I'm so sorry."

He looked at her, the world narrowing to just the two of them. "For the longest time after she died, I played this little game. Every time I left the house, I'd pretend that when I came home, she'd be there—hiding, waiting for me to find her. But the only thing I ever found was the latest nanny my father had hired." His voice caught. "He gave me every material advantage a boy could want. But the only thing I ever wanted was my mother, standing at the door when I came home."

Montana's eyes shimmered, her voice hushed but steady. "You're privileged to have both your parents," he added.

She shook her head slightly, her hand reaching for his with quiet grace. "I love them dearly, yes. Jack, I know I could never fully understand the pain you carry. But I can walk beside you in it. I can only empathize with you."

Jack's throat tightened as her hand settled in his. It fit so naturally, like it had always belonged there. He closed his fingers gently around hers, savoring the warmth, the softness. "I envy the relationship you have with your family," he admitted, his voice almost a whisper.

Montana tilted her head, a quizzical smile curving her lips. "Why?"

"Because you really love each other," Jack said, his gaze holding hers. "I haven't felt that since my mother died. That sense of security—that someone will always be there for you, that you'll never be completely on your own again."

Her smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Well, around us, you never have to feel that way. Especially my Aunt Kellie and Uncle Aaron. They could never have children of their own, so they welcome anyone with open arms. We all do."

She squeezed his hand gently, her radiance wrapping around him like a balm.

And as they continued down the street together, hand in hand, the silence between them was not empty but alive—full of promise, of a closeness neither of them had expected, and for Jack, the beginning of a love he knew he could never walk away from.

They wandered down the quiet street, their hands still entwined. The Texas sun was mellow now, filtering through the branches of the pecan trees that lined the road. Jack slowed as they reached a little park, its benches half-shaded, half-lit with golden afternoon light.

"Let's sit for a minute," he said softly.

Montana agreed with a gentle nod, and they settled onto the bench. She set her pink purse carefully beside her and folded her hands in her lap, the breeze tugging at the ends of her blonde hair. Jack, unable to help himself, kept his gaze on her—the way the sunlight kissed her features, the serenity in her eyes, the unstudied grace in every small gesture.

"You know," he said after a long silence, his voice low and unsteady, "I thought I knew what my life was going to be. Every step laid out. School, the bar, the practice, the firm. I thought if I just followed the plan, everything would fall into place."

Montana turned to him, listening the way only she could—wholly, gently, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

"But then I met you," Jack continued, his throat tightening. "And suddenly, none of it feels right anymore. The only thing I know for certain is how I feel when I'm with you. Like I can finally breathe."

Montana's eyes softened, luminous in the fading light. "Jack..."

"I can't explain it," he pressed, his words tumbling out now, unstoppable. "But every time I look at you, I feel like I'm seeing the world the way it was meant to be. Pure. Beautiful. Worth fighting for. And I know it sounds too soon, but—I can't help it. I'm falling in love with you, Montana."

The words hung between them, fragile yet undeniable.

Montana's breath caught, her heart fluttering in a way she hadn't expected. She looked down for a moment, then back up at him, her expression gentle, radiant, almost otherworldly in its grace. "Jack... I don't know what to say."

"Say whatever you feel," he said softly, searching her face. "Even if it's nothing. I just... I couldn't keep it inside anymore."

Montana reached out, her delicate hand brushing against his as though to steady him. Her touch was feather-light, yet it anchored him more deeply than anything had in years.

"You've been through so much loss," she said, her voice tender. "And yet you're still capable of giving love so freely. That's rare, Jack. That's... beautiful."

For a moment, they simply sat in silence, their hands resting together, the world around them slowing to a hush. Montana's smile was soft, almost shy, but it lit her face like the first glow of dawn.

And Jack, watching her, knew with unshakable certainty that his life had just changed forever.

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At the boarding house, Dr. Jackson and Stella stood beside Mrs. Stafford-Smythe as the older woman slowly lifted her left arm, this time entirely on her own.

"You see?" Mrs. Stafford-Smythe said, her face breaking into a smile of quiet triumph.

Stella's own smile bloomed softly, luminous. She reached forward, taking the woman's free hand between both of hers. "That's wonderful, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe. Truly wonderful."

"My, my, my," Dr. Jackson remarked, adjusting his spectacles as he observed. "You've made remarkable progress. To be quite honest, I wasn't sure you'd regain full use of the arm."

"Nor did I," Mrs. Stafford-Smythe admitted with a laugh, her voice warm with gratitude. "But Montana was stubborn about my therapy. She listened to me grouse and complain, yet she never once gave up on me. She's a remarkable young woman." She turned her gaze toward Stella, her eyes misting. "You and your husband must be so very proud of her, Stella."

Stella's eyes glistened, her smile tender and touched with emotion. She squeezed the woman's hand, her voice steady but soft. "We are very proud. From the moment she began with you, we had no doubt she would help you regain your strength. Montana has always had a heart that refuses to give up on people."

Dr. Jackson gave a satisfied nod, his tone brisk but pleased. "Well then, I believe it's time you start preparing to return to Boston. You've reached a point where you can continue life without restriction."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor. And thank you, Stella." Mrs. Stafford-Smythe's gratitude shone as she clasped Stella's hand more tightly.

Stella inclined her head with gentle elegance, her smile both gracious and heartfelt. "The thanks belong to you, Mrs. Stafford-Smythe. You did the hard work. We only walked beside you."

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The faint chime of the dojo's shop bell rang through the air, pulling Johnny's eyes up from the paperwork on his desk. The second he saw who had walked in, his mouth curved into that familiar grin—half swagger, half surrender.

"Hey, princess." His voice dropped warm, affectionate, as he stood and pulled Stella into his arms. He kissed her temple with a softness no one else ever saw. "What are you doing here? Thought you had to work late at the clinic."

"We finished early," Stella smiled, her arms circling him with the same effortless grace that had undone him from the very first day. "Remember that patient of Montana's? Mrs. Stafford-Smythe?"

"Yeah," Johnny said as he guided her toward the office. His hand stayed firm at her waist, unwilling to let her go. Once inside, he dropped into the chair and tugged her straight into his lap, where she belonged. "That's the one Montana's been helping get her arm back in shape, right?"

"Mm-hm." Stella's eyes glowed with pride. "Dr. Jackson and I followed up with her today, and she's fully regained the use of her arm. She spoke so highly of our daughter, John."

Johnny's chest swelled, his expression softening as he looked at the woman in his arms. "Doesn't surprise me. Montana's just like her mother. A natural-born caretaker with a heart of gold."

"Thank you, honey," Stella murmured, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "You know, you're not so bad yourself, sensei."

Johnny smirked, leaning into her touch, his eyes still burning with that unmistakable fire reserved only for her. "Thanks, princess. But let's be real—when she gets that devil's look in her eyes? That's all me." His grin softened, his thumb grazing her hip. "The rest—the grace, the patience, the soul that heals everyone she touches—that's all you."

For a moment, the room fell into quiet, their laughter fading into something deeper. Johnny pressed his forehead against Stella's, his bravado breaking open into raw devotion. "God, I love you," he whispered, voice rough, unguarded. "You, Montana, and Robby... you're it for me. Always have been. Always will be."

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The soft, haunting notes of Once Upon a December drifted from Montana's little music box, filling the bedroom with its lullaby-like grace. At her vanity, she untied the pink gingham satin ribbon from her silky blonde hair and laid it gently beside her porcelain trinket. Lifting her brush, she began to draw it slowly through her hair, each stroke thoughtful, dreamlike.

A gentle knock came at the door.

"Come in," Montana said softly.

The door opened to reveal Stella, her smile warm and knowing. Montana turned in her vanity chair as her mother crossed the room. Without a word, Stella took the brush gently from her daughter's hands and began running it through Montana's golden hair with a tenderness that had never faded.

"You were quiet at dinner," Stella said, her voice soft as a caress. "Are you alright, sweet pea?"

Montana's cheeks warmed. She set the ribbon in her lap and shifted to sit beside her mother on the bed. "Mama... I need to tell you something. It's about Jack."

Stella's brows lifted in gentle curiosity. "Go on, darling."

Montana took a breath, fingers brushing the ribbon as though it could steady her. "We went for a walk after lunch today... and he told me—he told me that he's falling in love with me. That when he's with me, it's like he can finally breathe. And... I think I'm falling for him too."

Stella's eyes softened, her hand covering Montana's with quiet reassurance. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, a tender smile touching her lips. "That's a rare kind of feeling—one that doesn't come often in a lifetime."

Montana leaned into her mother, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've never felt anything like it. It's not just the words... it's the way he looks at me, Mama. Like I'm the only person in the world. And I... I can't stop thinking about him."

Stella drew her daughter closer, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes. "Montana, love like that is a gift. Honest, unwavering, true. It isn't something you stumble upon often—but when you do, you hold it with all your heart."

Montana's eyes shimmered as she searched her mother's face. "Do you think... it's too soon?"

Stella shook her head gently, tucking a strand of hair behind Montana's ear. "No, sweet pea. Love isn't measured by time—it's measured by truth. The way he makes you feel, the respect he shows you, the care in his every word... that is the voice you follow. That is what will guide you."

The music box's melody wrapped around them like a soft embrace as Montana nodded. "I think... I've never felt this safe with anyone before. And yet... I feel like I've known him forever."

Stella's smile deepened, luminous in the dim glow of the room. She cupped Montana's cheek with a final gentle touch. "Then, my darling, honor that feeling. Let it grow. Let it show you how beautiful love can be."

Resting her head against her mother's shoulder, Montana let the haunting melody cradle her. For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to imagine a future with Jack—quiet, tender, and irrevocably hers.