James nudged Rose forward, and Enoch shifted a little, angling the babe so she could see.
The infant’s face was perfect—round and pink, with a dusting of dark hair peeking from beneath a knitted cap. Her eyes were closed, her tiny mouth working in sleep, and one miniature fist had escaped the blankets to curl against Enoch’s chest.
That tiny fist, so impossibly small it could barely wrap around one of Enoch’s fingers. How could anyone look at such perfect innocence and not want to protect it with everything inside them?
“Would you like to hold her?” Mandie’s voice came out warm with an invitation that made Rose’s throat close up again.
She wanted to say yes. Wanted it so badly her arms ached with the emptiness. But her hands were still trembling from the cold ride. And… “I…I’ve never…”
Mandie’s smile deepened, and she reached out to squeeze Rose’s arm. “She’s practically begging for her auntie to hold her.”
Enoch moved closer, and Rose found herself accepting the precious weight as he transferred his daughter into her arms. The baby settled against her chest, warm and solid despite her tiny size, and Rose’s throat tightened until she could barely breathe.
She’d never held an infant before. Never had the chance, locked up so tight in Vincent’s grip.
The baby shifted a little, her tiny face scrunching up before relaxing back into sleep.
Something inside Rose shifted too—cracked open and spilled over with an emotion so powerful it freed her tears once more.
She moved carefully toward the settee where James was settling himself, his brothers helping ease him down. They lifted his splinted leg to rest on the table before him.
She had to share this moment with him, needed him to see what she was feeling, even if she couldn’t find words for it.
Once he was situated, she lowered herself beside him, angling the babe so they could both see her tiny features. The firelight caught the downy dark hair, made her skin glow golden and perfect.
“We named her Catherine.” Mandie said from where she stood with Enoch. “After your mother, James, Lady Balfour.”
The name pierced straight through Rose’s already fragile composure. Catherine. Lady Catherine Balfour, the woman who’d shown such kindness to a common nine-year-old girl all those years ago. The woman whose gentle grace had left its mark on all her sons, teaching them what love looked like even when the world grew hard.
The tears flowed hot down her cheeks as she gazed at the tiny face nestled in her arms. This precious child would carry forward that legacy of kindness and strength, would grow up knowing she was loved and wanted and cherished.
James’s hand found hers where it supported Catherine’s small body, his fingers threading through hers. Anchoring her.
She looked up at him. He was watching the baby with such tenderness, such wonder—his battered features softened, the pain lines around his mouth easing as he studied his tiny niece.
Then his gaze lifted to meet hers, and the love shining there reached so deep inside her chest she could barely contain it. Whether she deserved it or not…this love was real.
And it was hers.
God had given her all these gifts—given her James, this family, this future she’d never dared to imagine during all those dark years.
“Would you like to hold her?” She kept her voice soft so she didn’t wake the sleeping infant. But James needed to experience this weight in his arms. This promise of what their own future might hold.
His smile reached all the way to his eyes despite the exhaustion pulling at his features. “I’d love to.”
She helped transfer the tiny bundle into his arms, careful not to jostle his injured leg. He settled Catherine against his chest with a natural ease that surprised her—this man who’d spent his life working cattle and breaking horses somehow knew exactly how to cradle an infant like she was made of spun glass.
The sight of him—her strong husband-to-be, her best friend in all the world—holding his tiny niece with such gentleness stirred something deep and warm through her chest. Something that felt almost too big to contain.
One day, Lord willing, they would have their own babe. Maybe several of them, filling this house with laughter and noise and the beautiful chaos of family. She’d never let herself imagine such a thing before.
But God was proving His love wasn’t conditional. Wasn’t dependent on what had happened to her or how she’d responded. He simply loved her—the way James loved her—completely and without conditions.
Rose leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as they both gazed at little Catherine. The warmth of the fire reached her now, seeping into her bones after the cold journey.
The familiar sounds of the ranch house settled around them—Thomas speaking with Enoch in low tones, Bea’s footsteps moving toward the kitchen, Mandie’s soft laugh at something Robert said.
The sounds of family. Of home.
