“Don’t worry, peanut,” I whisper, resting my hand over my stomach. “We can do this on our own. Sure, we might live in a drafty apartment that turns into an icebox in the winter, and we’ll have to skip the name-brand mac and cheese. But I promise I’ll be a cool mom and let you stay up past curfew on the weekends, and we’ll have dance parties in the kitchen.”
A scene flashes in my mind of a little girl with dark brown hair in two long braids hanging down her back, perched on a stool in the kitchen, peering over the stove while I make dinner. It’s so vivid I almost expect her to be there when I glance over.
“I can only imagine your dad’s reaction if you’re a girl,” I whisper to my belly.
Just thinking about Heath trapped in a sea of pink and frills has me biting back a grin.
That doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about doing this alone. At least not yet. And that’s what terrifies me the most—the fact that I’m even still entertaining the idea of becoming Mrs. Halstead.
Baby, One More Time
I’m going to be a dad.
The thought has been on a loop in my head since Charlie dropped the bombshell. Not only did she reject my proposal outright but she also left me standing there alone with life-altering news I still haven’t fully processed.
Asking her to marry me might’ve been an uncharacteristically impulsive decision, but that doesn’t mean it was strictly out of obligation like she thinks it was. I’ve always wanted a family, and now she’s the only person I can picture starting one with. If I had ended up in this situation with anyone else, I still would’ve stepped up, but not with a proposal. Charlie is the only woman I could imagine calling my wife.
I still remember that night at the saloon when my obsession started. After she danced on the bar, I had to stand by and watch her kiss some hotshot from the local rodeo circuit. My hand tightened around my whiskey, the glass threatening to crack under my grip as I watched him slip his hat onto her head like it belonged there, and every instinct in me screamed to cross the room, knock the damn thing off, toss her over my shoulder, and haul her out of there.
Even back then, we were like fire and ice—she was carefree and impulsive, while I stuck to routine and restraint. There was never a world where I’d be her first choice when she could chase a thrill seeker rather than settle for someone whose idea of a perfect Friday night is sitting out in the pasture with a six-pack, watching the sun sink behind the mountains.
After that night, it was easier to avoid Charlie, and when we were in the same room, to pretend she annoyed the hell out of me, than to admit the truth—that she was burrowed so deep under my skin that I knew I’d never get her out.
Sleep eluded me last night. By the time dawn broke, I was already leading the horses out to pasture so I could muck out their stalls and refill their feeders.
I’ve been at it for over an hour, a fifty-pound sack of grain slung across my shoulder as I haul it to the nearest stall. I drop it to the ground with a thud, flick open my pocketknife, and slice the twine, pouring the feed into the empty trough.
“Didn’t expect to find you doing ranch hand duties, son.”
I look back to see Pops leaning against the stall door, arms crossed, watching me closely.
As the dust settles around me, I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Weren’t you the one who taught me no task is beneath me when there’s work to be done?”
Once I finish filling the feeder, I move to the automatic water trough, crouch down, and check the pressure line for leaks. Asatisfied grunt escapes when it holds steady, and everything looks to be working right.
“That was when I was in charge, and the ranch was a hell of a lot smaller,” Pops counters. “You’ve got more responsibilities around here than I ever did, yet you still won’t delegate like you should.”
How do I explain that it’s easier to do things myself than to fix someone else’s mistakes later? Or that after Walker became sheriff, I realized just how big the shoes I had to fill were and how hard it’s been to find a replacement. Granted, mucking stalls and topping off feeders are things most ranch hands can do, but this morning I was looking for anything to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted.
I straighten to my full height, bristling at his accusation. “I let the guys do their jobs without much interference.”
Pops scoffs. “Even if that were true, you’re wearing yourself thin. It’s not feasible to manage an operation this big without a foreman. Even I know that.”
And there it is.
It confirms what I already suspected—that he and Walker have been discussing this without me. They’ve been pressing me from all sides to hire someone, and I’d been waiting for Pops to confront me outright after my latest conversation with Walker.
“Don’t worry, Pops. I have things handled just fine on my own.” I brush past him into the aisle to grab another bag of feed before moving into the next stall.
He follows, clearly not letting me off the hook that easily.
“If that’s the case, how come the feed order was short for the third time in a row this past month, and the south fence has been down for three days with nobody out there fixing it yet?” Pops calls me out as he inspects the automatic water trough while I fill the feeder.
I’ll admit I’ve dropped the ball on ordering supplies lately. Walker handled that side of the business, and we always had overstock because he was constantly finding excuses to stop by the local feed store where Birdie worked. Now that he’s gone, that responsibility falls to me, and it’s been hard to find time for inventory and calling in orders with how busy things are around here.
I blow out a long breath. “When did you notice the south fence was broken?”
“Your ma and I went for a ride earlier this week, and I noticed it was damaged. When I went out again yesterday, it still hadn’t been mended,” Pops answers.
