Page 33 of Flint

“Me too,” Branson says so softly that I almost miss it.

Something nags at me, and I take a seat on the grass, forgetting all about my phone. I ignore the cat food that I’m crushing to focus on the boys. “Okay, why do you want to be cats today?”

The boys look at each other for a minute, neither of them speaking. I wonder if it’s a brother or a twin thing, the way they exchange those looks. I asked Ronnie about it, but she’s an only child like me.

I have a feeling I know what this is about, so I ask gently, “Is this because my friend called me cat dad?”

“We could be good cats,” Branson says.

“I meow good,” Brock adds.

My heart breaks for them, and I stand. “Come with me. I want to show you two something.”

I grab my phone. I send a quick text to Bronco letting him know that I’ll survey the valley later this week instead of today. Now that we know the dam is holding well, he wants to put a few barns down there, maybe even some barracks on that land. But some things are more important than double-checking property lines. Like being here with my boys.

Neither of them moves to follow me.

“You’re not in trouble,” I tell them.

That seems to get them in gear, and they trail after me to the house.

“Are we in time out?” Branson asks as they trail after me up the front porch steps and through the living room.

“You’re not in trouble,” I remind them. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A cat dish?”

“No, better than that,” I tell him and head into my bedroom. It smells like Ronnie in here. The sheets are still rumpled from where she slept, and her makeup products are scattered across the dresser top. If she’s found that ring box hidden in my top drawer, she hasn’t mentioned it. I bought it the weekend we met.

Brock tries to climb on the bed, but it’s too tall for his short frame. I grab him and Branson in my arms and plop them down on the bed. They bounce a little and giggle. “It’s like a bouncy castle!”

“Yeah, well, don’t bounce on it. Your mom sleeps there, and I don’t want you breaking the springs for her.” I open the door to the walk-in closet and reach for the boxes I stored on the top shelf. These were going to be future Christmas gifts, but I’m thinking now is a good time. “Here. I got you a present.”

“It’s not even our birthday!” Branson exclaims as I pass them each a white box.

The moment they open the boxes, they both start squealing with excitement.

“I’m a cowboy!” Brock shouts and shoves his hat on his head.

“Me too!” Branson does the same.

I kneel so I’m at their eye level. “This is what a cowboy dad does. He gives his sons hats, so everyone knows they belong to him. You’re not cats. You’re cowboys.”

“Cool!” Brock says.

“Does this mean I can ride Hilda now?” Branson asks, looking up at me from underneath the brim of his hat.

I chuckle and set it right on his head. “No, you’ll ride horses just like your old man.”

Ronnie

“And he built this?” Mira asks again, flicking through the photos on my phone of the boys’ T-rex bed. I snapped a few pictures of it last night to show her. “This man, who was your one-night stand, built your kids custom furniture, put a baby in your belly, and you’re just roommates with him.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, blowing out a breath. The two of us are in my office. After we met up at Sprinkles yesterday, we spent the night texting each other. She told me she wants to spend more time in Courage County, maybe even move here permanently. But there’s a lot to think about since she runs a successful company in Asheville. Cord is supportive of whatever she wants to do so for right now, they just alternate, spending time between Courage and Asheville.

There’s a knock on the door then the boys are barreling inside without waiting for permission. Flint is in the doorway, and he gives me a wave before leaving. I know he has a lot to do today on the farm, but he took time away to be with the boys. He promised them horse rides, and he’s never broken a promise to them.

“Hey, boys! How was your day?” I ask, noting their cowboy hats. Those are new, and I know I didn’t buy them.