"Harper."
"You know I hate surprises."
"You love surprises. You hate waiting for them. Different thing."
She huffs and rests her hands on her bump, and I drive us out across the east side of the property as the sun starts dropping. Golden hour. The whole ranch is glowing. I take the track that winds up toward the ridge, not just any ridge, our ridge, and I watch her clock where we are. Watch the smile start.
Then we come around the bend, and she sees it.
The foundations.
Concrete poured and cured, footings laid out across the flat stretch of land facing east. Timber stacked and waiting. String lines marking out rooms that don't exist yet. And at the front, framed up first because I told the crew it mattered most—the skeleton of a wrap-around porch.
This is the home I always promised her.
She goes completely still.
"Ace," she whispers. "What is this?"
I park. Walk around. Open her door and help her down, her hand in mine.
"This," I say, "is the kitchen. Big windows, facing the sunrise, 'cause you like your coffee with a view." I walk her along the string lines. "This is the living room. Fireplace there. This is April's room—closest to ours, for now, till she's older and wants to be further from her embarrassing parents."
Harper's hand is over her mouth.
"And this whole stretch here—" I lead her to the framed porch. "—is the wrap-around. Porch swing goes right there. Facing east. So the sunrise wakes us up."
"You remembered everything," she breathes. "Every word."
"Goldie, I've been building this house in my head since I was eighteen. The crew's just catching up."
She's crying now. Happy crying—I've learned the difference this year. I tip my head toward the paddock fence beyond the foundations.
"One more thing."
Seven is standing at the rail, ears pricked, watching us like the nosy old man he is. And beside him—a mare with a beautiful Palomino coat.
Harper grips my arm. "Ace, who is she?"
"She’s yours."
"Mine? But Penny?—"
"Penny's Wyatt's now, and we both know she'd never forgive either of us if we broke that boy's heart. This ain't a replacement, baby. This is something new. Something that's just yours. For the new life. The new house. The new everything."
She walks to the fence slowly, the mare comes straight to her—of course, she does, everything comes straight to Harper—and pushes her nose into Harper's hands. They were meant to be.
"She's beautiful," Harper whispers. "What's her name?"
"That's your job. You're good at naming things. April Harriet's proof."
She laughs through the tears, stroking the mare's neck, the sun setting gold behind her, my hat on her head, my baby in her belly, standing on the land where our house is rising out of the dirt.
“Well, we both chose her name.”
My heart is thrashing like I'm in the chute. Gate about to swing. Eight seconds from everything.
The ring box in my pocket weighs about four thousand pounds.
