Chapter Sixteen
~ Carter ~
The last thing I ever wanted was to face my father alone. But there I was, on the front porch of the Black Butte Ranch, hands white-knuckled on the railing, as the Mercedes glided up the drive with all the threat of an incoming cruise missile.
I’d spent the morning making myself busy, which, at five months and change pregnant, meant shuffling between the fridge and the porch every twenty minutes, and reorganizing the nursery for the seventeenth time. I’d memorized the way the sun hit the trees in the yard, the way the dust caught in the wind.
I’d watched Macon in the shop, sleeves rolled to the biceps, finishing the last pass on the bassinet he’d started weeks ago. I should have called him, but I wanted—needed—to prove that I could handle this myself. That I wasn’t going to run, or hide, or fall apart just because the man who’d spent my entire life making me feel like an afterthought was finally coming to collect.
So I stayed put, watching the road, every muscle wound tight as piano wire. I saw the shimmer of heat on the highway, the flash of sun off the hood, and the slow, methodical way the car eased up to the fence. It didn’t fishtail or squeal—just rolled to a perfect, silent stop, like it had never once in its life been late for anything.
The door opened. Harrison Steele stepped out, immaculate as always, not a hair out of place despite the Montana wind. He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than the entire ranch’s livestock combined, and shoes so polished I could see the sky in them. He glanced once at the ground—disdain for the gravel evident in the pinch of his mouth—then started up the walk.
He saw me immediately, and for the first time in my life, I saw something like surprise in his face. It didn’t last long, but itwas there: a flicker, quick as a nervous tick, before the usual cold reasserted itself.
He took in the house, the yard, the half-finished construction in the distance. His gaze swept the horizon, catalogued every flaw, every sign of hard use, and then, finally, he looked at me.
And he stared.
It wasn’t the casual, appraising look I remembered from childhood—where he measured my posture, my handshake, my ability to recite the right answer under pressure. This was something else. Something that sliced right through the years and pinned me to the spot.
He was looking at my belly.
For a full five seconds, neither of us said anything. Just two men, separated by thirty years and the sum total of everything that had ever gone unsaid.
Finally, he spoke, voice perfectly neutral. “Carter, this has gone far enough.”
There it was. No hello. No “How are you?” Just a statement, delivered with the force of law.
I let go of the railing, though my hands left sweat prints on the wood. “There’s nothing to discuss, Father. I’m married. I’m having this baby. I’m staying in Montana.”
He didn’t even blink. Just glided up the steps, shoes clicking on the boards like a metronome. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, brushing a fleck of imaginary dust from his sleeve. “You’ve made your point with this little rebellion. Now it’s time to come home, where we can manage this… situation discreetly.”
I didn’t flinch. I’d practiced this part in the mirror, late at night, until I could say it without shaking. “There is no situation. This is my life now. I’m not coming back. Not even for you.”
For a moment, I thought he might smile, but the corners of his mouth only twitched with disgust. “You are a Steele,” hesaid, voice low and dangerous. “You have responsibilities to this family that you cannot simply abandon for some… farmhand.”
He said it like a curse. Like the very idea of Macon was so beneath us, he couldn’t even dignify it with a name.
“I’m an O’Reilly.” I felt the anger come up, cold and pure. “Macon is my husband. And this baby is—”
But the words never finished, because that’s when the first pain hit.
It wasn’t a polite warning. It was a full-body, white-hot spike of agony that started in my lower back and wrapped around the front like a bear trap. I doubled over, hands on my belly, sucking air. The world narrowed to a pinhole, then exploded back into focus with a brightness so intense I saw stars.
I heard my own voice before I realized I was screaming.
My knees gave out, and I hit the porch hard enough to bite my tongue. I tasted blood, heard my father say my name, and then it was just a blur of sound and sensation: the splintery press of the boards against my palm, the cold sweat on my forehead, the second contraction already building behind the first.
My vision swam, but I saw him move—still composed, still controlled, but for the first time ever, actually moving toward me. “Carter,” he said, and I could almost pretend there was worry in it.
I tried to stand, but the pain doubled me over again. I gasped, “No—don’t touch me—” but it was too late. He reached out, and for a second I thought he was going to catch me.
Instead, he stood there, hovering, one hand extended and then pulled back at the last second, like the idea of touching me was too much.
Somewhere, distantly, I heard the sound of the shop door slamming open. Heavy boots on dirt. A voice, rough and urgent: “Carter!”
I turned my head, sweat stinging my eyes, and saw Macon sprinting across the yard, all six-foot-three of him moving like he was back on a SEAL team, outpacing even the panic in his face.
