“You’re up early,” I offered, slicing the loaf. The blade caught, stuck on a walnut, and for a second I thought it might snap.
Rawley reached around me, one huge hand bracketing the loaf, the other guiding the knife with surgical care. I relaxed against him, letting the heat of his chest soak into my back.
“You could let me do it,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
I elbowed him lightly. “If you take over every chore, I’ll lose what little muscle tone I have left.”
“You’re growing a person,” he said, matter-of-fact. “That’s enough work for anyone.”
I spun in his grip, facing him. For a second, I forgot we weren’t alone in the kitchen. “If you coddle me any harder, I’m going to have to find new ways to rebel.”
His smile was half threat, half promise. “Try me.”
We’d reached an understanding, post-siege. The ranch was his fortress, but the kitchen was mine. Even the SEALs respected that line, though every now and then Macon would stage a mutiny over how much butter I used in the mashed potatoes.
Rawley took the bread, sliced it into perfect pieces, and set them on a plate. He made a production of it, as if he’d invented the concept of breakfast.
Burke watched us with a smirk, eyes twinkling. “You two want a room, or you want to help me wrangle the livestock?”
Rawley didn’t bother to answer. He just placed the bread in front of me, then bent to kiss my neck, his hands bracing my hips. I could feel the mark he’d left there—light, fading, but still real.
“You got it covered,” he said, to Burke, and I was so dizzy with affection it almost hurt.
I settled at the table, bread and jam in hand, while the baby did slow, lazy laps inside me. The rest of the SEALs trickled in—Jackson first, then Macon with a pile of mail and a grimace that said he’d already checked the perimeter twice. Decker came in and went straight for the coffee pot. Hooper appeared last, hands black with grease and wearing a smile like he’d just robbed a bank.
“Tractor’s running,” he announced, sliding into a chair. “Also, there’s a possum living under the deck. Looks rabid, or maybe just ugly.”
Rawley shrugged. “If it doesn’t touch the garden, it lives.”
The morning passed in a series of micro-missions. Jackson ran logistics for the farm, cataloguing every tool and piece of equipment. Macon handled the fences, always returning with a report on which post had rotted, which wire needed tensioning. Decker kept track of everyone and everything, cataloging it all in spreadsheets that made my eyes cross. Hooper did mechanical,while Burke rotated through whatever task needed brute force or a sense of humor.
Me, I did the only thing I was really good at: I baked, I cooked, I made the house into a place where nobody expected to die.
At 1100 sharp, Macon returned from the mailbox with a package addressed to “The Mother of Black Butte Ranch.” It was a set of knit baby hats—every one in a different shade of SEAL-team blue.
Burke put one on, stretching it over his enormous head, and pronounced it “battle ready.” I laughed so hard I almost wet myself, which was par for the course these days.
By noon, the house smelled like cinnamon and hope. I’d made a pie, which was forbidden under doctor’s orders, but what the doctor didn’t know couldn’t raise my blood sugar.
Rawley found me in the pantry, kneeling to reach the canister of sugar, and made a sound halfway between a growl and a groan.
“Don’t,” I said, wagging a finger. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
He crouched beside me, hands gentle on my arms. “Let me spoil you a little.”
“You do,” I said, and meant it. “But if you really want to help, get the apples from the root cellar.”
He obliged, returning with a basket so full I wondered if he’d just upended the entire crop. We peeled and sliced together, the rhythm so domestic it bordered on parody.
“Think the baby will like apples?” he asked, arranging the slices with military precision.
“If they don’t, I’ll trade them for a better model,” I joked.
He raised a brow, then kissed my forehead. “Not a chance.”
By evening, the whole crew gathered around the table, the pie cooling at the center like a peace offering. The only lightwas the amber wash from the antique lamp, which Macon had rewired to avoid another “domestic terrorist blackout,” as Hooper called it.
Dinner was loud, messy, and perfect. The SEALs ribbed each other, told stories from places nobody wanted to go back to, and for once nobody checked the windows or reached for a weapon when a branch tapped the glass.
