“I’ve got everything I need right here.”
She smiled again, softer this time. The morning light touched her face, turning her eyes gold. I could have stayed in that bed forever, listening to the world wake up slowly around us.
In another hour, I’d have to pull on frozen boots and check the pens. I’d have to make the call about the bull, and the day would roll on like it always did. But not yet.
She shifted closer, tucking her head under my chin. “You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured.
“Just counting how many calves we saved last night.”
She laughed quietly. “You can count in bed, but if you start naming them, I’m leaving.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, even though I had already picked one name for the first calf that had stood without help. You remember those kinds of wins.
Her hand moved over her belly again, slow and protective. “You think we’re ready for this?” she asked. I thought about it. The question wasn’t small. We’d come through hell. We’d built something solid out of broken ground. Ready wasn’t the right word. But I was willing.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think we are.” I slid my hand across her abdomen and covered the small bump with my palm.
Her breath let out in a soft sigh, and she smiled against my shirt. “Good. Because I can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Who would you tell first?”
“Nora,” she said without hesitation. “She already suspects, and I can’t keep anything from her.”
I laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
We lay there until the light brightened enough to fill the room. Her hand found mine under the blanket. She twined our fingers together and pressed them against her stomach. “You know,” she said, “next year’s going to look a lot different.”
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s going to be louder.”
“And busier.”
“And better.”
She smiled at that, her eyes closing again.
“Go back to sleep,” I told her.
“You too.”
“I can’t. My brain’s already thinking about chores.”
She cracked one eye open. “Then think quieter.”
So, I did. I let the rhythm of her breathing slow mine, the soft weight of her hand anchoring me. The house creaked in the cold. Somewhere outside, a horse snorted.
I had been tired for years, a kind of tired that never really left, no matter how much I slept. But lying there, with her in my arms and a new life starting under our joined hands, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.
Rested.
The sun inched higher. The coffee in the pot downstairs would be burnt by now. It didn’t matter. She shifted again, mumbling something about breakfast, but didn’t move.
“I’ll make it,” I said quietly.
“You’ll burn it.”
“Probably.”
“Fine,” she said, not opening her eyes. “Wake me when the toast’s smoking.”
