“You should’ve seen the way he looked at you during that warehouse fire.” Kowalski was counting bills now. “Man was gone. We just had to wait for him to figure it out.”
I thought about denying it. Thought about playing it cool, maintaining some dignity.
Then I remembered last summer, when I’d been the one collecting on the bet about Cal and Lucy. When I’d been the one ribbing Cal about the looks he gave her when he thought no one was watching.
Karma, apparently, had a sense of humor.
Cal clapped me on the shoulder, leaning in so only I could hear. “Told you it would be an interesting year.”
For once, I didn’t argue.
That night, after shift, I found myself at my grandmother’s dresser.
The velvet box was where I’d left it, buried in the back corner under socks I never wore. I hadn’t touched it since Claire gave it back. I hadn’t been able to look at it without feeling the weight of everything it represented. Everything I’d wanted and lost.
I opened it now.
Gran’s ring caught the lamplight, simple and elegant. A modest diamond in an antique setting, the gold worn smooth from fifty-three years on her finger. She’d pressed it into my palm the week before she died, her hands papery and thin, her eyes still sharp.
“For the woman who chooses this life with you,” she’d said. “Not someone you have to convince. Not someone who sees the ranch as a burden. Someone who looks at this land the way I did. The way your grandfather did. Like it’s worth fighting for.”
I thought about Riley’s hands.
Calloused from ranch work and firehouse labor. Capable hands that dug fence posts and hauled hose and gentled spooked horses. Strong hands that held her sister through nightmares and gripped mine in courtroom hallways. The hands of awoman who worked for everything she had, who never expected anything to be given to her, who’d built a life out of nothing but stubbornness and love.
The hands of someone who belonged here. With me. On this land.
The hands this ring was always meant for.
I thought about the simple gold band she wore now. Not cheap, but not what she deserved either. I’d bought it at the only jeweler open on a Tuesday afternoon, three days after a desperate proposal in a firehouse kitchen. The woman behind the counter had asked about sizing, and I’d described Riley’s hands from memory: small but strong, calloused fingers, a woman who worked with her hands. She’d guessed a size six, and somehow she’d been right.
The band was real gold, a proper ring, but it had been chosen in a rush for a marriage that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was a symbol of convenience, not love.
She deserved something chosen with intention. Something that meant forever.
She deserved this.
I closed the box and held it in my palm for a moment, feeling the weight of it. The promise it represented.
Not yet.
The timing wasn’t right. We had one more hearing to get through, one more hurdle before the custody was permanent. I didn’t want to propose in the middle of chaos. Didn’t want her to wonder if I was asking because I loved her or because I was trying to strengthen our case.
But soon.
Soon, I’d ask her properly. Give her the wedding she deserved, the one with flowers and vows and Mia standing beside us. Give her the ring my grandmother had worn for fifty-three years, the one meant for the woman who chose this life.
Soon.
The third custody hearing felt different from the start.
We walked into the courthouse together. Actually together, not performing togetherness for the judge’s benefit. Riley’s hand found mine without hesitation, our fingers interlacing, and she didn’t pull away when we passed through security. Didn’t put distance between us when we entered the courtroom.
Mia walked between us, calmer than she’d been at the previous hearings. She’d worn the dress she picked out herself, a purple one that matched the ribbon in her hair, and she’d practiced her answers in the truck on the way over. Not scripted—just prepared. Ready to tell the judge exactly how she felt.
The evaluator’s report glowed. Mia’s grades had improved. Her teachers noted increased engagement, better social connections, a child who was finally settling into herself. The home visit had gone flawlessly. The psychological evaluation showed a kid working through trauma with support, making progress, thriving.
Thriving. The word appeared three times in the report. I’d counted.
