And Wade's teaching riding lessons twice a week now, something he'd resisted for months before finally admitting it might be a good idea. Turns out, people love learning from a grumpy cowboy who actually knows what he's doing. We've got a waiting list three months long.
"Dinner's almost ready," Carol announces. "Wade, come help me carry these dishes. Sierra, you just sit and relax with that baby. It's his special day."
I settle into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, Frank contentedly gnawing on his wooden spoon. Through the window, I can see the sun setting over Blackwater Falls, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
Wade appears in the kitchen doorway, and even after two years of marriage and one year of parenthood, my heart still does a little flip at the sight of him. He's cleaned up for dinner: nice jeans, a button-down shirt that makes his brown eyes stand out. But there are still traces of the ranch on him: calluses on his hands, sun-weathered skin, the confident way he moves through space.
He's still grumpy sometimes. Still overprotective of the ranch and everyone he loves. But he's also softer now. Quicker to laugh. More willing to take risks and embrace change.
Being loved by Wade Turner has changed me too. Made me more confident, more willing to fight for what I believe in. Taught me that I'm worthy of respect and partnership, not just in business but in every aspect of life.
"There are my boys," Carol says, looking between Wade and Frank with love. "My son and my grandson. Come here, Wade, help me get this on the table."
Wade crosses to his mother first, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Thanks for doing this, Mom. I know it's a lot of work."
"It's not work when it's for family." She pats his face. "Besides, little Frank's first birthday deserves a celebration."
Wade then comes to me, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead, then Frank's. "There's my little cowboy. You being good for Mama?"
"He's perfect," I say, watching him with our son. "Just like his daddy."
"I'm many things, Vaughn, but perfect isn't one of them."
He still calls me Vaughn sometimes, especially when he's teasing. It's become an endearment, a callback to those first 24 hours when we were adversaries instead of partners.
"You're perfect for me," I correct. "That's all that matters."
His eyes soften. "Damn straight."
Carol starts bringing dishes to the table, and Wade helps while I keep Frank entertained. Soon we're all gathered around Carol's dining table.
We pass dishes around—roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh bread. Frank sits in his high chair between Wade and me, smashing pieces of soft potato between his fingers and occasionally getting some in his mouth.
"He's got your appetite," Carol observes, watching Frank enthusiastically destroy his food.
"And Sierra's determination," Wade adds. "Kid won't give up on anything once he sets his mind to it."
"I want to say something," Carol says, setting down her fork. "Two years ago, Wade, you were drowning. The ranch was failing, you were carrying so much weight on your shoulders, and you wouldn't let anyone help. You were so convinced you had to do it all alone."
Wade shifts uncomfortably, but his mother continues.
"And then Sierra showed up. And at first, you fought it. Fought her. But she didn't give up. She proved herself. And now look at you both." Carol's eyes are bright with tears. "The ranch is thriving. You have a beautiful son. You're building a life together that honors Frank's memory while creating something new. I'm so proud of both of you."
My own eyes sting. "Thank you, Carol. For welcoming me into your family. For never making me feel like an outsider, even when I was one."
"You were never an outsider. From the moment Wade brought you here, I knew." She smiles. "A mother knows these things."
"Mom," Wade says, his ears reddening.
"It's true and you know it." Carol reaches across the table to pat his hand. "You're allowed to be happy, sweetheart. Frank would want that. Your father, wherever he is, should want that, though he never deserved you anyway."
Wade's jaw tightens at the mention of his father, and I reach over to take his free hand. He squeezes it.
"Frank would be proud," I say softly. "Of the ranch. Of how you've honored his legacy. Of this little guy." I gesture to our son, who's now trying to grab his father's water glass.
"He would," Carol agrees. "He loved you like a son, Wade. And he'd love knowing his name lives on in this beautiful boy."
We eat and talk until the food is gone and Frank is rubbing his eyes, fighting sleep despite the excitement of his special day. Carol brings out a small birthday cake—chocolate with a single candle in the shape of a "1."
