“Rest now,” he says quietly. “We’ll be home before you know it.”
Chapter 22
Caleb
I hear the rumble of Wade’s truck long before it hits the drive. The sun disappeared a few moments ago, and I’m standing at the kitchen counter stirring the last of the stew, my heart beating a little too hard for a man who’s supposed to be calm.
Dinner’s ready. Bread’s warm. Table’s set.
But none of that matters half as much as who’s coming up the walk.
The porch boards creak, boots scuff, and then Wade appears in the doorway with Joelle at his side and a small, sleeping bundle against his chest.
My throat tightens.
Little Caleb’s head is nestled under Wade’s jaw, one fist curled in the collar of his shirt. Wade holds him with a gentleness most folks would never expect from a man built like him. And Joelle? She looks tired and emotional, but so beautiful that I can’t tear my eyes from her.
“Welcome home,” I say quietly.
Her smile wobbles, and before she can even speak, I step forward and brush a hand over the baby’s back. “Let’s take him upstairs.”
She nods, tears gathering in her lashes.
The small bedroom at the top of the stairs still smells of lemony cleaning products. The crib we found in the attic has been wiped down and prepared with fresh linen. Some of our old toys are placed around the room: wooden blocks, a small rocking horse, some stuffed animals that have been through the washer and hung out by their ears to dry, and a garage complete with Fisher-Price cars. It kept me busy most of the day, and Eli and Rick took on the work of four men today without complaint.
Joelle hesitates in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth.
“You… did all this?” she whispers.
“Figured he needed a place that felt like his,” I say softly.
Wade shifts the baby carefully into Joelle’s arms. Little Caleb barely stirs, nuzzling deeper into her chest with a tiny sigh. She kisses his forehead and lays him to rest on the daybed, pulling a diaper from a large bag she brought in on her shoulder.
She works quickly to change him and dress him in pajamas, somehow managing not to disturb his deep sleep. She smooths his curls, humming a lullaby.
When he’s tucked beneath the quilt and fast asleep, Joelle lingers, her fingers brushing the edge of the crib.
Finally, she turns to us, eyes shining. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. “Just be happy, Joelle. That’s all we want for you. For us all.”
She exhales, shaky and full, and I guide her downstairs with a light hand on her back, Wade following, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dinner is leftovers that she made, but she eats like it’s gourmet fare—laughing at Wade’s terrible jokes, teasing him about his “grumpy face,” and stealing little kisses from both of us whenever she leans between us to grab the salt or tear off another piece of bread.
Every time her lips brush my cheek, brightness sparks low in my chest. Every time she kisses Wade, his eyes soften in that subtle way that’s new since she arrived.
When our plates are empty and the light has slipped into a darker blue, we move out onto the porch with mugs of tea. Wade sets the baby monitor on the side table and lifts his legs onto the rail. Joelle sits between us on the swing, curled into my side with her head on my shoulder and her bare toes brushing Wade’s thigh.
The cicadas hum in the fields, the ranch settling into its nighttime stillness.
A soft breeze lifts her hair across my collarbone.
This is so close to the picture I had in my head.
Wade reaches over and rests his hand lightly over hers.
This is the life I imagined.
