When everyone had food, Kipp raised his glass from where he stood near the table. He didn’t clear his throat or get dramatic. He just lifted his cup so that the room, which was already mostly listening anyway, went the slightest bit quieter.
“To another year on the Diamond,” he said. “To good horses, bad jokes, and the family that makes this outfit worth running.” The room answered with laughter and clinking mugs.
I caught Linc watching me again. This time I didn’t look away. I let him see me steady, I let him see that I was still standing here in this kitchen surrounded by people who would ride through fire for us if we asked. His hand found mine under the table, and his thumb brushed across my knuckles once, slow. He gave the slightest nod, almost nothing. The noise around us faded for a second, and in that second, I could only hear the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation and his breathing beside mine.
It was the first moment in three years that I felt steady, grounded in the place I knew I belonged.
After the toast, everyone started talking at once again. The volume went right back up. The room filled with laughter and the scrape of chairs and the clink of serving spoons against casserole dishes. I found myself wedged between Nash and Ryder at the long counter where Nora had laid out enough desert to feed three towns.
Ryder handed me a slice of pecan pie. “Eat up, Kris. You’re skin and bones.”
“I’m fine,” I laughed, trying to push the plate away.
“You will be after this meal,” he said.
Nash bumped Ryder’s shoulder with his own. “Ignore him. He’s already on his third helping.”
“Fourth,” Ryder said without shame, his mouth full of the delicious-looking pie.
Kipp moved through the crowd, refilling mugs and telling stories about the early days of the ranch. He had a way of talking that made everyone lean closer. It wasn’t loud, or flashy. It was steady, sure, and lived-in. Every time he spoke, the room shifted toward him just a little, like a herd turning toward the rider they trusted most.
When the food was gone and plates were scattered across every flat surface, someone started handing out the wrappedgifts. No fancy ribbons. Just brown paper and twine and Linc’s handwriting in black marker across the top of each one. The care sat right on the surface of the room.
Griffin unwrapped a set of new reins and lifted them with a grin that pulled all the way across his face. “You remembered,” he said.
“You complained about the old ones every day for a month,” Linc said.
“I was making conversation,” Griff said.
“Loudly,” Linc said.
The room broke into laughter.
Nash opened a box and found a heavy belt buckle inside, the kind with clean lines and weight to it. He ran his thumb over the engraving, as if he were unsure if he was allowed to touch it.
“You didn’t have to go this far,” he said quietly.
“You earned it,” Kipp answered. That was all. He didn’t turn it into a speech, or let it get overly sentimental, he just said the truth and left it at that.
Ryder pulled a new horse blanket from his package and held it up to the light. “My mare’s going to look sharp in this.”
“You better not get mud on it,” Griffin said.
“That’s what blankets are for,” Ryder shot back.
The laughter rolled again, but softer this time. Warm.
The afternoon light shifted across the room, settling honey colored along the floorboards and catching on the side of the tree. Everything glowed. It had that slow, full feeling of a ranch house in winter when work paused just long enough for people to breathe and tell stories about the work instead of doing it.
When it was Kipp’s turn, someone handed him a flat, careful bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He didn’t tear into it. He undid the twine slowly and smoothed the paper as he pulled it back. Inside was a framed photograph.
I knew the photo. We all did. It was from branding five years ago, before the ranch grew with wives and kids. Back when it was just the five, living in this big house together, working from sunup to sundown to create the life they all had now. The five of them leaning against the old cattle gate with the mountains behind them and the sun low and gold and the whole world looking like it belonged to them, standing shoulder to shoulder like nobody could ever lay a hand on this place without going through them first.
Kipp stared at it for a long time. No one spoke. For a few seconds, the house was quiet in a way that felt reverent. He stood and moved across the large room, setting the frame on the mantle with a sure hand, right in the center where everyone could see.
“That was a good day,” he said quietly. “It’s going right here where I can see it.”
“It looks great,” Linc said.
