I press a kiss to the top of her head, marveling at how right this feels—just holding her, talking, laughing. No expectations, no performance, just us.
“Forrest?” she murmurs again, her voice growing sleepy.
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad we’re starting over.”
I smile into the darkness, overwhelmed by the simple joy of this moment. “Me too, my little conch shell. Me too.”
Within minutes, her breathing evens out, her body growing heavy and relaxed against mine. I lie awake a while longer, savoring the feeling of having her in my arms, of knowing that tomorrow brings not just another day, but the first day of our real story together.
I’m getting a second chance at a first impression.
And this time, I’m determined to do it right.
chapter 29
Forrest
“That’s him,” I say, nodding toward the unmistakable figure leaning against a dusty, red pickup truck in the Jackson Hole Airport parking lot.
Even from a distance, my father cuts an impressive silhouette—tall and lean, with a well-worn Stetson pulled low over his eyes. At sixty, Boone Hawkins could still star inYellowstone, fully equipped with his silver handlebar mustache and the don’t-mess-with-me squint that terrified my teenage friends.
“Papaw!” Dakota shouts, tugging her hand free from mine to race across the parking lot.
I watch, throat tight with emotion, as my daughter runs toward the grandfather she’s only ever seen in photos. This moment—their first real meeting—has been a long time coming.
My dad’s weathered face breaks into a wide smile that shaves a decade off his age. He crouches down, arms open but hesitant, as if unsure how to greet a granddaughter he’s never held. Dakota shows no such uncertainty, barreling into him with the force of a tiny missile.
“There’s my girl,” he says, his usually gruff voice gentle as he carefully wraps his arms around her. “Even better looking than your pictures, that’s for sure.”
Dakota beams up at him, completely at ease. “You look just like your pictures, Papaw! Daddy showed me so many!” Without an ounce of trepidation, she tugs at the tip of his mustache, as if familiarizing herself. Dad makes a funny face and then chuckles, uncharacteristically, giving Koda far more grace than he’d ever give me. If I tugged on his mustache as a kid, he’d dropkick me across the room.
My dad’s eyes find mine over her head, saying everything his old country soul can’t articulate with sappy words:She’s precious, good to see you, son, thank you for bringing her home.I answer his unspoken words with a simple nod of my head as we approach.
Beside me, Sora fidgets with the sleeve of her jacket, and I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Dad, this is Sora.” I nudge her forward, her feet glued to the concrete like a child nervous on their first day of school. I’m not used to her this bashful, which warms my heart because it means this is important to her. “Sora, I’d like you to meet the one and only Boone Hawkins.”
My father straightens up, one hand still on Dakota’s shoulder as if afraid she might disappear. His sharp eyes immediately focus on Sora, a look of genuine interest and warmth replacing his usual stoic expression.
“So you’re the city girl,” he says, extending a callused hand.
Sora looks like a fish out of water as she takes Dad’s hand. “Yes, sir. Born and raised in Manhattan.”
There’s a beat of tension-ridden silence, and then Dad throws in the biggest plot twist I could’ve imagined. “It’s good to know some good things can come out of the city,” he says amidst a barking laugh. He yanks Sora awkwardly into his chestand gives her a bear hug. “Been looking forward to meeting the woman who got my son to finally come home.”
Sora freezes for a millisecond, then melts into the hug. All the acceptance and validation she needed flooding out of one embrace. “Mr. Hawkins, thank you for having us. I’ve heard so much about you and the ranch,” Sora says when Dad finally releases her.
“Boone, please,” he insists, his smile revealing the crow’s-feet around his eyes. “And I hope some of what you heard was good.”
“All of it,” she assures him.
My dad looks pleased, if a bit flustered. He’s a man of few words by nature, and that hug probably satisfied his social quota for an entire month.
“You don’t look a damn thing like Pumpkin’s mama,” Dad says, surveying Sora head to toe before he flashes her a sly grin, then turns his attention back to Dakota, leading her to the truck.
“Is that a bad thing?” Sora asks, lowering her voice so only I can hear.
