The words felt like a benediction. I wanted to believe them.
We climbed the stairs together, Rawley’s hand gripping the rail, the bandage stark and white against the tanned meat of his arm. In our bedroom, he stripped down, then pulled me into bed, his back to the wall, his good arm cocooning me into his chest.
His hand splayed over my belly, the heat of it sinking through to the place where our child—God, was that real?—slept, oblivious to the war outside.
I inhaled the scent of him—gunpowder, antiseptic, sweat, the faint musk that was uniquely his. It made me feel safe, in the way that standing in a bunker is safer than the field, even if you’re still under fire.
He pressed his lips to my temple. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you,” he whispered. It should have scared me, but instead I felt an iron rod slide into my spine. I wanted to say something brave, something worthy of him, but all I managed was a whisper: “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” he said, with such finality that I almost believed in forever.
The night was full of ghosts—footsteps that weren’t there, the echo of glass shattering, the phantom of cold steel against skin—but Rawley’s body was an anchor, his breath a tide that pulled me under.
In the end, I slept.
When I dreamed, it was of wildflowers, of Rawley standing at the edge of our fields, shotgun cradled in his arms, watching for wolves and never blinking. Of the baby, a flash of light on ascreen, now as real and urgent as the blood that still stained our kitchen tiles.
When I woke, the sun was already up, spilling gold through the window. Rawley was there, breathing slow and even, his grip on my waist unbreakable.
Whatever came next, we’d face it together.
I wasn’t afraid.
Chapter Fifteen
~ Rawley ~
You always know a man by how he parks his truck.
Macon O’Reilly’s old white pickup took the curve on two tires, slalomed the potholes, and rolled up flush against the fence like he’d measured the gap in a geometry textbook.
The engine didn’t idle—it brooded, coughing diesel ghosts even after he cut the key. Then he waited a full ten seconds before stepping out, like he had to check his perimeter before unsealing the cab.
Burke Callahan, on the other hand, parked his F-350 in the open. Didn’t hug a line, didn’t bother with symmetry. The thing was so polished it reflected the sunrise, and when he killed the engine, the silence was almost cocky. Burke hopped out first, adjusted his Stetson, and took a long, savoring look at the property, as if he was cataloging the land’s flaws for sport.
I stood on the porch, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable banter. Macon’s first look swept past me, checking the barn, the ridgeline, the flagpole, before circling back. Only then did he nod. Burke grinned so wide I half expected him to tip his hat and do a little two-step.
When they hit the porch, we fell right into it. No “how’s the family” or “good to see you”—just Macon’s hand catching my shoulder, thumb digging into the scar that only he knew was there. His handshake turned into a chest bump, then a split-second squeeze so hard it threatened to crack ribs.
“You get uglier every year,” he said, voice like gravel and bourbon.
“You’re one to talk,” I shot back. “Your beard looks like it lost a bet.”
Burke swept in next, bear-hugging both of us at once. “Who’s the lucky bastard?” he said, glancing at the house with the glint of a man who could smell secrets. “Heard you got domesticated.”
I cocked a brow. “Only thing domesticated here is the livestock.”
Macon released the handshake, then held up a battered cardboard box with crude air holes punched in the sides. A muted, frantic peeping came from inside.
“Got your cargo,” he said. “Ten Barred Rock chicks, unsexed. Feed store’s out of Leghorns till next month.”
The sound cut through the tension like sugar in gunpowder. I took the box, the warmth of it seeping into my palm. For a moment, all three of us just stared at it, the soft vibration of life weirdly anchoring.
From inside the house, footsteps. Not the heavy, booted kind—light, almost hesitant, like the creak of a shutter in wind.
Jojo appeared in the doorway, hands dusted with flour, hair still wet from the shower. He saw the men, blinked, then zeroed in on the box in my hands.
His eyes went full blue-sky. “Are those—?”
