Rawley finally let go of the rail, folding his arms over his chest in a posture that said he was done being polite. “You got anything else, Sheriff?”
Calloway gave a little shrug, more embarrassed than offended. “Nah. Just figured you’d want to know. It’s been a long year.”
He turned to me, and his voice went softer. “You look well, Jojo.”
I grinned, flashing the curve of my belly through the blanket. “Growing every day.”
He tipped his hat, then started down the steps. “If you need anything, you call. Even if it’s just to chat.” The last word held a gravity I didn’t want to think about.
The cruiser pulled away, taillights winking through the dark. I watched it until it disappeared, then let my breath out all at once.
Rawley was beside me in a heartbeat, his arms coming around from behind, one hand splaying wide across my stomach. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being safe,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
He pressed his lips to my hair. “You don’t have to get used to it. You just have to live it.”
The house behind us was alive: footsteps, laughter, Macon and Burke arguing over whether or not to bring the chickens in for the night (Burke: “They’ll get eaten by raccoons, Macon!” Macon: “Then let ’em learn.”), the distant thump of music from the barn. Every light was on, every door unlocked.
Rawley held me like he meant to keep me warm through the winter. He traced slow circles on my stomach, and I could feel the baby turn in response.
“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked, turning my face up to his.
He shrugged, smiling for real now, the lines around his eyes going soft. “Either way, it’s ours. And it’s going to be unstoppable.”
I leaned back against his chest, letting the last of the sun soak into my bones. For the first time, the sunset didn’t feel like the end of something. It felt like a beginning.
The porch door banged open, and Burke stuck his head out, hair wild and apron dusted with flour. “Dinner’s up! Don’t make me fetch you two, I’m not afraid.”
Rawley laughed, then swung me up—blanket, belly, and all—into his arms. I yelped, but didn’t protest. It wasn’t a rescue anymore, just a habit.
The kitchen was chaos. Macon had already carved the roast; Hooper and Jackson were arguing over whether “Midnight,” the newest chick, would survive her first night. Every inch of the table was covered in food, the good kind—rich, hearty, and just a little over-salted.
Burke poured me a glass of sparkling grape juice, then winked. “To the future.”
We all raised our glasses, the SEALs and me and Rawley, and for a moment the old wounds felt like nothing more than faint scars.
After dinner, the men drifted into the living room, boots off, voices low and content. I lingered at the table, hands tracing the grain of the wood, heart full.
Rawley found me there, sliding in behind to press his lips to my temple. “You happy?” he asked, but the answer was already in my smile.
“Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”
We stood there, together, watching the lamplight play over the walls. The ranch was alive, the world safe, and the war—finally—over.
I knew then, in my bones, that nothing could ever take this from us again.
Not in this lifetime.
On the night the Steeles returned to Black Butte Ranch, the driveway looked like the aftermath of a high-end demolition derby. Three Escalades, one Range Rover, and a hybrid Mercedes idled awkwardly between Burke’s dented pickup and Jackson’s ex-military Humvee, all of them shining under the porch lights with the anxious pride of a car show at the end of the world.
I stood in the entry, hands on my lower back, watching as Harrison stepped out of the lead SUV and scanned the house. He wore a suit, but had ditched the tie—a calculated nod to “casual Montana,” though his shoes were so polished I could see the porch railing reflected in them. Barrett followed, arms full of gift bags and flowers, his smile a masterwork of executive stress management. Carter and Vivian trailed behind, Vivian gripping Carter’s arm in a way that said she’d rather be anywhere else, but was determined to look like she belonged.
Inside, the house was warm and bright, every light on, every shadow chased into the corners. Macon and Hooper moved through the rooms with the kind of stage management that comes from years of prepping ambushes, but now their goal was comfort, not carnage. The table was set for twelve—an engineering feat that involved two old sawhorses, the leaf from the picnic table, and enough duct tape to make NASA proud.
I’d been prepping for this all week. There were two pies cooling on the windowsill, a roast in the oven, and enough sides to feed a battalion. I’d even made dinner rolls, though I wasn’t sure the Steeles were the carb-eating type.
As the Steeles ascended the porch, I saw Rawley shift in the entryway. He’d put on a button-up, ironed and everything, but kept his jeans and boots. He watched his father like a man waiting for the punchline to an old joke.
