Page 220 of Josephine and Clay

The word still feels too big.

I turn my head and look at her.

The moonlight catches the curve of her cheek, the dark sweep of her lashes, the crease between her brows that shows up whenever she's worried, even asleep.

She carried this by herself.

Doctor appointments, ultrasounds, and weeks of wondering what came next.

All while I was busy feeling sorry for myself in motel rooms and rodeo grounds.

I drag a hand over my face.

There's no version of tomorrow where I wake up and magically become the man she needs.

The last few months still happened.

She spent them learning how to prepare for life without me.

Hell, part of her still expects me to leave.

I can't blame her for that.

Trust isn't coming back because I said the right things on a porch swing.

It's going to take time, showing up, keeping my word when it's easier not to, being here next week and next month and six months from now.

The work of it feels intimidating as hell.

But when I look at Josie curled up beside me, I don't feel trapped or restless. I don't feel the urge to throw a bag in the truck and chase the next rodeo.

For years, every road out of town felt easier than staying. I'd blamed Buckhorn for that plenty of times. Blamed the ranch. The expectations. The feeling that everybody else had figured out where they fit while I kept coming up short.

Boone stayed.

Dallas stayed.

Nash stayed.

While they were building lives, I kept chasing the next ride, the next town, the next excuse to leave before anybody could expect more from me.

Maybe that's why they always seemed so sure of where they belonged.

They put down roots while I kept one foot aimed at the door.

But Mama's here, my brothers are here, Josie's here, and soon my kids will be here.

All this time I've been searching for a place that felt like home, and the whole damn thing's been sitting in front of me the entire time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Josephine

AUGUST 14TH

I wake before the sun has fully risen.

The room sits in that strange space between night and morning, washed in soft blue light filtering through the curtains. I blink against the unfamiliar ceiling before memory catches up.