Now I’m… here.
Valor Springs.
Alive. In love. Married.
Turns out forever wears worn boots and calls me darlin’.
And somehow, I get to use my marketing degree to help sell homemade jams and leather goods, turning the Ranch’s side projects into something real. Something that keeps growing. Like everything else we’ve built.
It’s late morning, sun pouring in through the cabin windows, warm and soft and golden. The scent of cedar and toast fills the air, and I hear Knox outside hammering something against the fence line like it's personally offended him.
The cabin doesn’t look the same anymore. We extended it in the spring—extra bedrooms, a bigger kitchen, a wraparound porch where Knox likes to drink beer and pretend he doesn’t care when the rescue puppies try to eat the doormat again.
And God, the puppies.
We found them curled together behind a gas station on a rainy night in March. Shaking, soaked, all ribs and sad eyes. Knox carried them into the truck like they were made of glass, muttering about how they “better not chew my gear.”
They chewed his gear.
And my shoes.
And three of our porch cushions.
We kept them anyway.
Named them Whiskey and Boots.
They’re six months old now, pure chaos with tails, and they only act like civilized creatures for maybe an hour a day. But they curl between us at night and follow Knox like they were born to guard him, and I think they might’ve saved us as much as we saved them.
Knox says he can’t imagine this house without them.
Which is a good sign.
Because soon… there’s going to be more than just dog hair and muddy paw prints around here.
I glance down at the test again. Tucked inside the folded towel in my hand, as if that will make the second pink line feel lessreal.
It doesn’t.
My heart stutters.
My fingers press against my belly, already protective, even though there’s no bump, no change.
Just… a shift.
A quiet, holy knowing.
I hear the screen door creak, boots scuff across the wood.
I look up.
Knox steps inside, shirt sticking slightly to his chest, brow damp. There’s sawdust on his jeans, a smear of something dark near his temple. He’s frowning, muttering something about “that damn crooked post” as he shrugs out of his work gloves.
Then his eyes land on me.
And soften.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says, voice dropping just for me. “You okay?”
