“What’s up, pops?” Zane asks.
“I know we all love this house, but with all you boys married and blessing me with so many grandbabies, things are getting a bit tight.”
There’s a chorus of “Amen,” and, from Beck, a joke about being tired of hearing his brothers get “busy,” as if he doesn’t indulge himself. He and Quinn fuck like rabbits. How does he think baby Oliver, their one-month-old son, got here?
I laugh because family humor binds us, but there’s a weight under Dad’s words I can’t ignore. The family house is grand, full of memories, passed down multiple generations, but it’s ancient and lacks privacy.
It’s been renovated multiple times, but still, the walls are thin in some places, depriving us of personal space. Babies require their own lilac-scented corners, and married couples… well, they deserve privacy that doesn’t include an eavesdropping family member.
“So, what’s the solution?” Quinn, ever the problem solver, inquires.
“I’m going to solve the crowding problem by building each of you a house right here on the ranch. Iron Stallion needs to grow up with room for the next generation. You’ll have your own space, privacy, but the family will stay close.”
The idea fans out like a warm wind. Zane grins, already planning in his head. Quinn’s eyes light up, her urban mind already seeing layouts and permits. Ava squeals, then quiets when Luella fusses.
“Wait,” Beck says, voice half-teasing, half-suspicious, eyes tracking mine. “Why is Ella getting a house? She’s single. What will she use it for? Tea parties?”
The joke lands softly and meanly because it’s rooted in truth. Yes, I’m single. Yes, sometimes the ache is a small animal scratching at my ribs. For a second, something tightens in me. I expected it. I should be thicker-skinned by now, but the sting arrives like it always does—unexpected and familiar.
Quinn slaps the back of his head. “Beck Morgan, that is very rude of you,” she scolds before I can respond. “She’ll need a space for whoever she wants to bring home, and that person will be lucky.”
I stick my tongue out at Beck and smile at my sister-in-law. “Thanks, Quinn.”
She winks at me and hits Beck again. He mutters an apology, slumping back in his seat.
Dad slides me a look that’s half admonishment and half fatherly reassurance. “When the right man comes, he’ll find room in your house and in your life.”
His certainty feels like a hand on my back. It’s the kind of faith that has nourished me my whole life. Even if it’s embarrassing,even if my chest tightens with wanting, Dad’s words are the kind of truth you tuck away and harvest on a day when you are weaker.
“That’s the plan,” I grin back.
“What about Ryder? Is he getting one? He hasn’t been home in more than ten years,” Jace reasons.
Ryder is a complicated one. He’s always a call away when we need him, but he never comes home. Only Beck has been to his house, and he says it’s a fortress hidden away in the mountains.
Dad’s booming voice cuts right across the question before it can turn into a derisive joke. “Ryder gets one, too. He’s my child just like the four of you.”
No one argues with him when he sets his hand down like that.
“Okay,” Zane says, clapping. “Now we’ve got to find a contractor. Someone who can respect our land and doesn’t design mansions with columns where we need gutters.”
A chorus of suggestions rolls out. Names, numbers, contractors we’ve used, men who respect timber. I sit there and listen, cataloging not just the logistics but the way our family folds into itself: we’ve done this before, survived storms, births, fights, and reunions, and we’ll do it again.
Then a name slips into my mind, one I’ve been trying to keep polite and off-limits. Cole. He’s good with structure, withbuilding with intention. He’s worked on this property before, so he knows how we breathe.
And I know, with a private softness, how good this will be for him. He needs money for the buyout to avoid losing half of Dawson Construction to Calista. I know he will work himself to the bone to get that money, so maybe this way, I can be of help to him.
“Why don’t we give Cole Dawson a shot?” I suggest, my voice quiet, maybe too quiet.
Seven pairs of eyes turn toward me like the heat of a sunbeam.
“Dawson?” Zane asks, almost as if he’s testing the name to see if it fits next to ours. “The one who built the new cow dips?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“He also did a great job on the corrals,” Beck adds. “They held up in the flood season. He’s got an honest crew.”
Quinn leans forward. “He fits what we’re looking for. We need someone we can trust. He runs a company, yes, but he’s also a man who cares about getting the work done right.”
