Clint’s shadow stretched long in the slatted light. He set his hat by the feed bin, the gesture deliberate, serious. “Why you so fired up about leaving, son?” Flynn didn’t answer right away, just ran the brush in steady strokes down the horse’s flank. Clint’s voice was low, even. “When I married, I expected a passel of children. But Velma…she couldn’t conceive.”
Flynn glanced over his shoulder, half a grimace. “Granddad… bloody hell.”
Clint only shrugged. “It’s important information, son.”
Flynn huffed, setting the brush aside. He loved the old man like blood, maybe more. Clint had been there through the rebellion, the grief, the lean years. He’d never wavered. Always steady. Always treating M&M like a queen. “I’m sorry, Granddad.”
Clint nodded sagely, eyes steady. “You’re a good boy, Flynn, and I love you. It was my intention to leave this ranch to you.”
Flynn swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the hay-strewn floor. “Ah, why’d you have to say that?” His voice cracked when he lifted his head. “M&M can holler at me all day. She just about did, but she never made me feel…guilty.”
Clint shook his head. “That’s not my intent.” He laid a broad, warm hand on Flynn’s shoulder, and the touch settled something raw inside him. Love shone in the old man’s eyes as solid and unmistakable as M&M’s Irish fire.
“I just want you to know,” Clint said quietly, “you’ll always have a home here.”
Flynn’s throat tightened. “I know. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I love it here, but…” His hand curled into a fist at his side. “It’s not mine. I didn’t earn it. I need something more. Something I can call my own.”
The horse shifted, and Flynn felt the truth of it burn in his chest.
The scrape of the barn door cut through the quiet. Flynn jerked his head up to see M&M standing in the shadows, arms crossed, green eyes flashing.
“I suppose I should’ve known you’d run to him when you’re done fighting me,” she said, voice sharp but fraying at the edges.
Flynn opened his mouth, but Clint lifted a hand, steady as stone. “He’s not wrong to want more, darlin’.”
He muttered under his breath, “Too right, mate,” before he bit down on the words.
Her throat worked, anger and grief tangling. She stepped forward, boots crunching on straw. “Then we’ll help him. Finances, a place to land until he finds a job. But don’t you think for a tick, Flynn Patrick Gallagher, that leaving us means you stop bein’ ours.”
She closed the space between them, reached up, and tweaked his ear like she had when he was ten and too wild for his own good. Tears shone in her eyes, fiercer than the fire in her voice.
“You will always have a home here, my boy,” she whispered, echoing Clint’s words. “Don’t ever forget it.”
Flynn’s chest burned as her words hit him, fiercer than any scolding. Before she could see the tears pricking his eyes, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her shoulder. His throat locked up. He wanted to argue, to shove off the weight of her love, but all he managed was a nod.
It was awkward. He’d shot past her in height years ago, already topping her by a head. He had to bend down to fold himself into her arms. She felt small against him, but she’d never seemed smaller than when he clung to her now.
Not just because he needed to, though God, he did, but because it was the only way to hide the tremor in his chest. He was scared, even if he’d never admit it. Scared, but determined all the same.
M&M stiffened, then softened, smoothing a hand down his back. “My boy,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Whatever path you take, don’t you forget where you came from. Mind your manners.”
“Yes, ma’am. No worries,” he whispered.
He breathed in the scent of lavender soap and hay dust, his throat tight all over again, memorizing it.
Behind them, Clint cleared his throat, voice dry as mesquite. “Don’t hog all the sugar, Maggie.”
She gave a wet laugh and swatted at her husband with her free hand, still holding Flynn close. The sound broke the heaviness, leaving Flynn caught between a grin and the sting of tears.
The next day, Flynn walked away from the best home he’d ever known, counting his blessings as he climbed into his granddad’s beat-up truck. They didn’t talk much on the drive, the silence comfortable, the weight of parting thick between them.
“I set you up with an account at one of them surf shops,” Clint said at last. “I’m sure you’ll want a board. Get yourself a good one, Flynn. You deserve it.”
Flynn clenched his teeth. He already had a board, but it would’ve been awkward to drag it on the plane. His granddad’s generosity had always been quiet like this, trips back to Australia, cash when he needed it, time when he didn’t know he did. Gratitude washed through him, sharp and deep.
“You’re the best, Granddad. I won’t let you and M&M down. I’ll find my way. I’ll make you proud. I promise.”
Clint reached across, a big warm hand slipping around the back of Flynn’s neck. Those hands had taught him to rope, to ride, to work, to pray. They had served up supper, balanced the books, and fastened a gold cross around his wife’s throat. “We’re already proud. Don’t you be forgetting that.”
