“You okay?” he murmured.
I looked at him—blindfolded, dangerous, mine.
“I’m more than okay,” I whispered. “I’m … becoming.”
Hours later, when the plane descended into Montana and the sky opened up into endless blue, the men were still blindfolded.
They grumbled more now, restless and suspicious, but the women were unwavering.
We loaded into vehicles. We drove.
The ranch came into view like a memory made real—wide land, mended fences, cabins in the distance that Portia had arranged for guests, strings of lights already twinkling like someone had captured stars and hung them up on purpose.
And the moment the blindfolds came off?—
The moment the Montana Danes saw where they were?—
They went so still, it was almost terrifying.
Caleb’s breath left him in a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.
Jacob’s eyes went glassy immediately.
Ethan turned his face away like he hated anyone seeing him feel.
Lucas whispered Lexi’s name like it was a lifeline.
Gideon’s jaw worked like he was holding back something too big.
Levi just stared, stunned, like the land itself had reached out and grabbed him.
Micah—my Micah—stood frozen beside me, eyes locked on the ranch like he was suddenly eight years old again.
Then Portia stepped forward.
“We brought you home,” she said simply.
And then she did what she always did—she made it bigger than logistics.
She honored their mother.
Lila’s name was spoken out loud, not as tragedy, but as belonging. As foundation.
And Caroline’s name, too—because the Charleston Danes were here, every one of them, standing with their wives, holding grief like a shared language.
Fourteen brothers under the same sky.
Two mothers remembered.
A family finally knit together not by secrecy, but by choice.
Byron’s gifts were waiting in the lodge—each item placed like an offering. When the men saw them, something shattered and healed at the same time.
Micah held Lila’s leather bracelet in his hands for a long time without speaking.
Then he turned to me, eyes wet, and said, hoarse, “He remembered.”
“He did,” I whispered.
