“Yes, ma’am,” I responded automatically as Dom returned. Maggie jumped up to follow me.
My phone buzzed with another message. I glanced at it quickly—Alex responding to the text I’d sent her about landing.
Alex:glad you made it safely. give your family my love.
Her message sounded normal, upbeat even. Maybe I’d been reading too much into things this morning when she’d left for work without a word.
Mom handed me a serving dish and pointed toward the dining room buzzing with conversation. The long oak table could seat twelve easily, and tonight it looked like we’d need nearly every chair. Elowyn was setting the basket of rolls on the table as her husband, Luke, helped my grandmother. Their three kids—Belle, Jack, and Lucas—moved around them in varying degrees of cleanliness from whatever adventure they’d been on earlier.
“Uncle Finn!” Belle spotted me first, abandoning her water-filling duties to launch herself in my direction. At thirteen, she was all legs and enthusiasm, her dark hair braided back from a face that was becoming less kid and more young woman.
“Hey, Belle,” I caught her in a hug, noting how much taller she’d gotten since I’d last seen her briefly a few months ago. “You helping run this place yet?”
“Trying to,” she grinned, “but Jack keeps messing up thehorse schedules.”
“I do not!” Jack protested from where he was depositing napkins on every plate, eleven years old and all wounded dignity. “You just write everything too neat. Nobody can read it.”
“That’s called having good handwriting, dummy.”
“Belle,” Elowyn chided gently. “Your brother’s not a dummy.”
“Sorry.” Belle didn’t look particularly sorry as she returned to the water pitcher.
Lucas, nine and quieter than his siblings, offered me a shy wave before turning his attention back to arranging silverware in precise lines. Kid after my own heart—liked things organized and systematic.
At the end of the table, Móraí presided with the quiet authority of someone who’d help raise generations on this land. My grandmother was eighty-seven and still sharp as a tack, her white hair twisted into the same practical bun she’d worn my entire life.
“Finnegan,” she said, her Irish accent still evident after nearly seventy years in Wyoming. “Come give your gran a proper greeting.”
I leaned down to kiss her weathered cheek, breathing in the scent of lavender and the woodsmoke that seemed permanently embedded in her skin. “Good to see you, Móraí.”
“Sit here,” she patted the chair beside her. “Tell me about this girlfriend you’ve been hiding from us.”
Heat crept up my neck, but before I could answer, Mom reappeared with another serving dish, setting it on the table. “Boys, there’s been a slight adjustment to sleeping arrangements. Belle’s been helping me ready for Claire and Sarah tomorrow, and with all of us here...” She gestured around the crowded table. “They’re going to take your old room upstairs. You get the pullout sofa and air mattress in the family room, if that works.”
“That’s perfect,” I sat beside Móraí. The small room off the kitchen sounded better than being tucked away upstairs—easier to escape if I needed air or quiet.
Dad appeared with a platter of sliced brisket that smelled like it had been smoking since yesterday, and suddenly everyone waspassing dishes and filling plates with the efficiency of a family that knew how to feed a crowd.
“So,” Luke began as we settled into eating, “we got the final numbers and spring calving went better than expected. Only lost two, and that was weather-related, not health issues.”
“Numbers?” Dad asked.
“Hundred and forty-seven live births. Eight sets of twins.”
“Outstanding,” Dad nodded approval. “We still looking good on lodge bookings?”
“Lou had to turn away twelve families last week,” Elowyn added. “The new luxury tents should help when they open, but we might want to consider expanding capacity next year.”
“Restaurant too,” Mom chimed in. “Had a party of fifteen show up yesterday without reservations. Locals are starting to expect we can always fit them in.”
I listened to the rhythm of family business—numbers, logistics, planning ahead. The conversation flowed around practical concerns, seasonal adjustments. The kind of methodical and practical approach to life that had once made me feel trapped now felt oddly comforting.
“What about the airstrip?” I asked. “Everything maintained properly?”
“Your granddaddy’s Cub is still hangared,” Dad smiled. “Had Billy check her over the other week. Starts right up.”
My heart lodged itself in my throat at the mention of the plane—my plane if I still wanted it.
