Colt’s voice rings through the house.
Turning the dryer on, I step out into the hallway and shut the door to dampen the racket. I pass Jonas on the stairs and give his hair a quick ruffle, which he groans about. Betty’s right behind him, happily trotting into his bedroom to sprawl out on his bed while he plays video games.
“Hi, beautiful,” Colt greets me at the bottom of the stairs. His voice drops a few octaves, taking on a sensual gruffness, and his head motions toward the laundry room. “Is that a sign that you need me to ‘fix your dryer’ for you?”
I hug him, because feeling his firm chest and strong arms wrapped around my body is the only thing I’ve been able to think about since Blair left an hour ago. He’s my person. My safe space.
“Are you crying?” His thumb catches under my jaw, trying to lift my eyes to meet his.
Iamcrying, though I don’t fully understand why.
“What’s the matter?” he asks softly, keeping me close as he walks us toward the couch. And when I stumble back, falling into the well-worn cushions, he’s quick to sit down next to me. Our legs brush and his thumb scrubs across my cheek. He leans in and kisses my forehead, letting his lips linger until I let out a breathy exhale indicating I’m ready to talk.
“Blair’s pregnant.”
“Oh…” His eyes narrow. “Honey, I’m…shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m happy for her. Likereally happyfor her. Both her and Denny. They needed this happy ending after everything they went through when they were younger.”
“So we’re crying because…we’re happy?”
“I don’t even know.” I snort a laugh at myself. “I’m just crying. I’m feeling all the things today, I guess. One of them being the need to tell you that…if a baby is something you really want, we can find a way. I was quick to shut down your suggestion of adoption, which was really fucking selfish. I want us to be a family forever, so…”
“Our family—we’re already a family, and it’s going to be a forever thing—it can be whatever we decide it needs to be. We don’t need to decide right this second or even a few years from now.”
“I’m just saying…”
He takes my hand in his, callused skin sliding across my trembling fingers. “If Denny and Blair’s baby gives me baby fever—and somehow Jonas’s smelly socks and ruthless insults don’t immediately squash it—we’ll talk about it. But right now, this is exactly where I want to be. Right here. With you.”
“That’s where I want you, too.Here.”
He leans in, lips brushing lightly over mine in an almost-kiss. “Then I guess we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.”
Epilogue: Colt (5 years later)
Baked in midsummer heat, the fairgrounds buzz with excitement. Though at least inside the ventilated barn, it’s a bit cooler. Jonas leans back against the fence rail, slurping the last of his celebratory slushy drink. At fifteen, he’s only an inch or two shy of my height and—thanks to busting his ass every day on the ranch—he’s damn near as strong. Though I guess it makes sense, given how much he eats.
Jonas holds the cup through the rails, silently asking me to toss it in a nearby trash can for him, and gets to work making sure his show steer has everything it needs before we head out to enjoy the fair.
“Excellent work in there, young man.” A good old boy, about seventy years old, leans his arms on the fence and peers in at Jonas’s steer.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Jonas fiddles with the stall door latch, letting himself out with a grating, metal-on-metal squeal. It clangs shut, scaring a pair of women walking by.
“Nice-looking animal. You gonna be selling him come fall?”
Jonas nods, stoic. “Sure will. At the auction in November.”
Seems like yesterday he was raising his first livestock as a 4-H project. No matter how prepared Whit and I thought he was for the auction, he sobbed the entire drive home—utterly inconsolable. I genuinely thought that was about to be theend of his 4-H career, but the next year he begged us to agree to another livestock project. And he’s been hooked ever since.
“Sure love to see the kids carrying on tradition like this.” The old man looks over at me. “You must be so proud of your son.”
Not the first time somebody has assumed we’re father and son, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Jonas’s reaction depends on the day—at best, he ignores it, and at worst, he immediately corrects them.
I, however, roll with it every time. Technically he’s my stepson, since Whit and I got married last summer, but to-may-to, to-mah-to.
“Sure am.” I clap a hand against Jonas’s back. “He’s an incredible kid. His mom and I are extremely proud.”
Biting back a smile, Jonas glances over at me. “Thanks, Dad.”
