Sighing, I curl my body around him. We stand like that, entwined, slowly swaying to “Blue Christmas” in front of the fire.
Our son has tufts of dark hair, long lashes, rosy cheeks. He’s precious and perfect and all ours. “Think he’ll sleep through the night?”
A chuckle rumbles out of Hank. “It’d be a Christmas miracle.” Those lines by his eyes crinkle. He’s besotted.
So am I.
We got pregnant a month after we remarried. We were ecstatic. Then terrified.
There’s no rulebook for losing a baby and getting pregnant again. For the first few months, I worried. To the point that I feared I was holding myself back from falling too deeply in love with what I could lose again.
But Hank was there. Through morning sickness and three-a.m. cravings and hormones, he never left my side. With each week that passed, with each doctor visit and flutter in my belly, I dropped the guards around my heart. I let myself be happy. Excited. Grateful. And when our son was born, I felt more at peace than I ever have.
Hank was my rock. My person. I appreciate and love him more every day.
I stare down at Jackson’s sweet, sleeping face, his thick onesie studded with blue and red cowboy boots.
“He’s the perfect gift.”
Hank swallows, a sheen to his sapphire eyes. “He is.”
Taking a step back, he carefully lays Jackson in the bassinet. Then he pulls me to his chest. “I want you to sit. Relax,” he murmurs into the top of my messy hair.
“Hank.” I pull back slightly, frown up at him. “You’re fussing.”
“I’m not.” His look is entirely unamused. Serious, even.
Bullshit. The man has followed me everywhere since we came home from the hospital. He makes me sleep any moment I can, and he has taken over all midnight diaper changes and feedings.
If I could marry him again, I would.
“Who’s coming tomorrow?” I murmur. In the firelight, my original wedding ring sparkles.
“Everyone,” he says, grinning. “My dad, your mom. Clint and Laura and their kids.”
I smile. We may have a full house now, but I still love our cozy nights where it’s just the two—now three—of us.
“That means we should trade our ornaments tonight.” I clap my hands, a thrill zipping through me. “Tradition.”
With a nod, he guides me to the couch. He picks up a glass of whiskey and gives me a sip before taking his own. “You ready, Bluebell?”
“Oh, yes. Very.”
Grinning, he pulls a bright-colored square from beneath the coffee table.
I laugh. It’s a mini version of my painting titledCowboy’s House.
“For all your success this year.” His voice is choked with emotion, pride in his eyes. “I’m so damn proud of you, Bell.”
I’m proud of myself. Hank taught me it’s never too late. I can chase my dreams anywhere; I only need confidence in myself. And a Montana cabin.
I clear my throat, my own voice warbling at the edges. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Our life over the past year has been a whirlwind. After marrying at the Silverwood courthouse the day after Christmas, I packed up my San Francisco apartment, quit my job and moved back home. I painted my heart out the second I got back, sold three paintings, and blew up on social media overnight, which led to an offer to display my work in a gallery in Bozeman.
When I’m not painting, I help Papa Blue and Hank with the tree farm. It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams, but the cherry on top of our lives is Jackson.
I glance over at the bassinet where our son sleeps, then look up at my husband. “Ready for yours?”
