“I believe you.”
Wes leaned over for one more kiss, brief and sweet. “Thank you. For today. For showing me–”
“That you don’t have to do everything alone?”
“Yeah. That.”
He climbed out of the car, turned back to wave, and watched Jake’s taillights disappear down the drive. The night air was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and wood smoke. Above, the stars were brilliant against the black sky.
Change was coming. In more ways than one.
Inside the barn, Tucker’s laughter rang out, followed by Chuck’s deeper voice. Wes smiled and headed toward the light, toward the warmth, toward the people who’d shown up for him without him even having to ask.
Ten
Holiday Pines
Thursday, December 18
Wes Dalton had never been a gambling man. He left the betting to folks who bought lottery tickets at the gas station or put money on the Falcons game every Sunday. But sitting at his kitchen table, watching the two most important men in his life laugh over a shared bowl of mashed potatoes, Wes felt the urge to go all in.
“You’re telling me—” Henry said, his voice a little gravelly but stronger than it had been in days. He wiped a bit of gravy from his chin with a napkin. “—that she grew tomatoes in old tires?”
“Tractor tires,” Jake corrected. He was sitting on the other side of the round oak table, effectively sandwiching Wes between them. “Mrs. Henderson said the black rubber held the heat. Best heirlooms I ever tasted. Ugly as sin, but sweet.”
Henry chuckled, a sound that rattled slightly in his chest. “Your mother used to say something similar about Wes’s carvings. Said the wood was ugly until he found the shape inside it.”
Wes froze, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. He looked at his father. Henry hadn’t mentioned Linda’s musings or Wes’s carvings in years. Usually, both were subjects they skirted around, like a pothole in the driveway.
Jake caught Wes’s eye. He smiled, a small, private glimpse that warmed Wes faster than the heater venting at his feet. See? that look said.He’s tougher than you think.
The days following thethree-spiritstour—as Jake called it—had been a blur of quiet productivity. The panic that usually gripped Wes by the throat in mid-December had loosened its grip. They were hitting their sales targets. Miguel was handling the lot with a military efficiency Jake had helped reorganize. And in the evenings, Jake was here.
Not as a consultant. Not as a guest. But as... Jake.
Wes set his fork down. The kitchen felt cozy, smelling of rosemary chicken and reheated apple pie. The wind was picking up outside, rattling the loose pane in the window frame, but inside, everything was steady.
Do it, a voice whispered in Wes’s head.Do it now.
It was perfect. Henry was in a good mood. Jake was right there for support. The secret Wes had been carrying for over a decade felt heavy, a physical weight in his gut. He wanted to put it down. He wanted to reach under the table and take Jake’s hand without fearing for his father’s health.
“Pop,” Wes started. The word came out thicker than he had intended.
Henry turned to him, eyes bright. “Yeah, son?”
Wes cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been needing to tell you. About me. And... well, about everything.”
Jake went still beside him. He didn’t push, didn’t interrupt. He just radiated a silent, steadying presence.
“Is it about the loan?” Henry asked, his brow furrowing. “Did the bank?—”
“No,” Wes said quickly. “The farm is fine. Jake fixed the farm. This is about... us.”
Henry blinked. He looked from Wes to Jake, and for a split second, Wes thought he saw a flicker of recognition. A connecting of dots.
Then, the television in the corner, tuned to the local news for the evening report, let out a shrill, three-toned beep.
A red banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
