"I did rearrange the pantry again, but that's not it."
Turning to face her, I lean against the porch rail. She's nervous. Lena Cordero doesn't do nervous. She does loud, confident, hands waving, talking through every thought at full speed. Right now her hands are still, wrapped tight around her mug, both thumbs tapping the ceramic.
"Lena."
"Okay." She sets the mug on the railing. Takes a breath. "Okay, so I drove to town yesterday while you were doing the south pasture check."
"The pharmacy?"
"How did you know it was the pharmacy?"
Because Patty Cole texted Josie, who texted me, because nothing happens in Whisper Vale without Patty Cole knowing about it within the hour. The woman has a sixth sense for reproductive news.
"Lucky guess."
She reaches into the flannel pocket. Pulls out a photograph. Not a print from her camera. A photograph of something small, taken on her phone, printed at the pharmacy kiosk.
The image shows a pregnancy test on my blue flannel shirt, two pink lines clear as sunrise.
My mug hits the porch rail. Coffee sloshes over the side.
"Seven weeks," she whispers. "I took the test yesterday morning. Drove to Doc Morrison after to confirm." Her eyes are bright, wet, searching my face for a reaction. "Tucker, say something."
The porch boards creak under my boots as I close the distance. One step. Two. My hands find her face, thumbs on her cheekbones, fingers in her hair. Those brown eyes look up at me with everything she is. Loud, bold, generous, scared.
"You're sure?"
"Two tests. Plus Doc Morrison, who said congratulations before I even sat down because apparently Patty called him."
A laugh cracks out of me. Then another. Then my forehead drops to hers.
A baby. On this ranch. In this house. A fifth generation Brant on the land my great grandfather cleared with a mule and a crooked back. My father's grandchild running through the pastures where he walked fence line after supper. My mother's nursery, the room upstairs that's been closed since I was seventeen, finally with a purpose again.
"Tucker." Her hands grip my wrists. "You're crying."
Am I? Yeah. Apparently I am.
"Good tears," I manage. "These are good tears."
"Thank God, because I've been holding my breath for like thirty seconds."
Pulling her against my chest, I hold on. Just hold on. Her arms wrap around my waist under the flannel, her face pressedto my heart. The sunrise keeps climbing. The cattle are lowing in the east pasture. Hank nudges my knee like he knows something's happening.
"We're gonna need a bigger kitchen," Lena mumbles against my chest.
"We're gonna need a bigger everything."
"Your mother's room upstairs. Can we make that the nursery?"
The question lands somewhere deep. Somewhere that used to hurt and now just aches with a sweetness I didn't know grief could turn into. My mom would've loved Lena. Would've put flowers in every room and taught her to make biscuits and driven my father crazy the same way Lena drives me crazy.
"Yeah. That's the nursery."
She looks up. Tears on her cheeks, smile so wide it could light the whole valley. "Josie's gonna lose her mind."
"Josie already knows. Patty texted her."
"Oh my God."
