"She almost did," Liam said. "Four outfit changes."
"Traitor," I muttered.
Louisa pulled back, holding me at arm's length to study my face. Whatever she saw there made her expression soften. "You look beautiful, honey. And that hat suits you."
"It's Maggie's. I hope she doesn't mind?—"
"Nonsense." She waved a hand dismissively. "Anything you need, we've got it. You're family now, Steph. What's ours is yours."
My throat tightened at her words. Family. She said it so easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Owen stepped forward with a wry smile. “Good to see you out and about, Stephanie. How are you feeling?"
"Better," I said honestly. "Much better."
He nodded once, satisfied. "Glad to hear it. Now, I’ve gotta go find Tom Morrison. He said something about the horseshoe tournament bracket being wrong, and I promised I'd sort it out."
"Tom Morrison?" The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.
"Our neighbor," Liam said as Owen strode off. "He's the one who—" He caught himself, glancing at Louisa.
"The one who what?" I pressed.
"I'll introduce you later. Come on, let's find the others."
The rest of the family found us within minutes—drawn together by some invisible Blackwood homing beacon, or maybe just by Louisa's voice carrying across the crowded square.
Wyatt arrived first, Ivy tucked under his arm, both of them looking disgustingly happy.
"Stephanie!" Ivy pulled me into a hug. "You came! I'm so glad you're here. Maggie and I were drowning in all the testosterone.”
I chuckled. ”Me too." And I meant it. "You two look great."
"We clean up okay," Wyatt said, grinning. "For ranchers, anyway."
Clay sauntered over, looking like he'd rolled out of bed and directly into his boots. His hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and he was carrying a funnel cake the size of his head.
"Hey, superstar." He nodded at me like my presence was the most normal thing in the world. "Want some?"
He held out the funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting his fingers. I tore off a piece, and the fried dough practically melted on my tongue. "Oh my God,” I groaned.
"Right? Mrs. Henderson's been making these for forty years. Secret recipe. Pretty sure it's just more butter,” he said. He probably wasn’t wrong.
Hunter wandered over from the direction of the tractor display, grease still visible under his fingernails. He gave me a quiet nod—no big greeting, no fuss—just a small smile and a "Hey" before turning his attention to the funnel cake Clay was guarding.
"That Mrs. Henderson's?" he asked, reaching for a piece.
"Get your own," Clay snapped, angling the plate away and making us laugh.
Hunter just shrugged, unbothered in typical Hunter fashion, and drifted toward the food stalls.
The bickering continued around me, warm and familiar, and I found myself relaxing into it. This was what family sounded like. Not the forced politeness of industry events or the careful performance of my parents' dinner parties. Just... people who loved each other giving each other hell.
"Where's Maggie?" I asked, suddenly noticing her absence.
"Running the ranch booth." Louisa gestured toward a tent near the edge of the square. "She takes the breeding program very seriously. Been preparing her displays for weeks."
"And Sophia?"
