Harlow’s pancakes steamed, the bacon crackled, and a half-dozen jams and jellies glistened in the morning light. There was no room for anything else, so the butter just sat in the middle like a pale, silent referee.
Knox cleared his throat and the noise died instantly, every head swiveling his way. Even the kids stopped mid-argument and stared, wide-eyed.
He held up a hand, palm out, then reached down and slid a small, square box onto the table. It was wrapped in nothing but a twist of butcher’s twine and the oil from his own fingers, the wood of the box pale and smooth.
Nobody breathed.
Ransom’s eyes went wide. “What’s that?” he stage-whispered.
Knox ignored him, eyes locked on mine. “Bridger,” he said, using the old surname, but with an intimacy that made it sound like a pet name. “You know what I like about this table?”
I blinked, not trusting my voice.
He continued, “It’s solid. It’s been here for a hundred years. Every scar, every stain, every burn mark tells a story.” He traced his finger along a blackened gouge, right where my plate sat. “They say if you want to remember something, you carve it in oak.”
He pushed the box across the table, slow and steady, and the room was so quiet I could hear the tick of the kitchen clock over the fridge.
I looked at him, then at the box. My hands shook when I reached for it—ridiculous, because I wasn’t scared of anything anymore, except maybe making a fool of myself in front of this family.
The box was light, the wood soft as skin. I worked the twine loose, hands trembling, and when I opened the lid I saw it—a ring, hand-carved, polished until it glowed, grain of the oak so rich it looked alive.
Inside, burned into the curve, was a single word: MINE.
My throat closed. I tried to say something, anything, but all I managed was a ridiculous, choked laugh.
Knox reached across, took my hand, and slid the ring onto my finger. It fit like it had always been there. “McKenzies protect what’s theirs,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Time to make it official.”
I tried again to speak, but the words tangled in my mouth. I settled for nodding, once, hard, and when I finally found my voice it was a wet, half-strangled, “Yes. Jesus. Yes.”
The room erupted. Ma clapped a hand to her chest and let out a warbling sob, which she immediately smothered with her apron. “I just got something in my eye,” she lied, but no one bought it.
Harlow let out a whoop that rattled the silverware. Bo and Ransom launched into a duet of catcalls and applause, and even the new kid let out a nervous laugh, looking around to see if this was a normal part of the routine.
Sheriff Hardesty lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “To the new McKenzie,” he said, and everyone raised whatever glass or fork was handy.
I stared at my hand, at the ring. It was real. It was more than real—it was proof that I was here to stay, that I’d built a life out of the rubble and claimed my place at this ridiculous, perfect table.
Knox watched me, expression unreadable except for the quirk at the corner of his mouth. I wanted to tell him everything I was feeling, but all I managed was a smile so stupidly wide it hurt.
He squeezed my fingers, then leaned in and kissed me—quick, hard, right in front of everyone. There were whoops and catcalls, and Ma shouted, “Not on my clean tablecloth!” but she was laughing as she said it, and her face was wet with tears.
The kitchen spun on, louder and happier than ever. The air was thick with syrup and heat, with love so palpable it made the walls hum. I sat there, surrounded by the best kind of chaos, and realized that for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just part of something.
I was the reason it existed.
And I was never letting it go.
* * * *
The McKenzie porch swing was older than half the trees on the property, but it still creaked with a slow, forgiving rhythm, as if the passage of time made it stronger instead of weaker.
Knox and I had claimed it as ours early on, mostly because it offered the best view of the back fields, but also because it was just far enough from the kitchen that no one could rope us into last-minute chores or grandchild-wrangling without a running start.
The afternoon had gone quiet, the heat of the day sinking into the planks and setting the whole farm in a kind of syrupy, golden stasis. Every so often, a tractor engine would cough to lifesomewhere in the distance, or the house would rattle with a door slamming and a child’s shriek, but mostly it was just us, the sun, and the slow, even sway of the porch.
My head rested on Knox’s shoulder, his palm tracing lazy circles on my thigh. I’d been staring at my hand for the better part of an hour, turning it this way and that in the light, letting the grain of the ring catch every possible angle.
It wasn’t just wood—it was a whole fucking forest. Sometimes it looked brown, sometimes gold, sometimes a deep, stubborn black where the bark had refused to be tamed.
