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Both Destiny and Colt laugh, but also agree. I can see it in their smiles.

We go inside to eat, gettin' seated at a large booth by the window where the Tetons dare us to look away.

The inside of Rally's is confusing as hell. I can't decide if we're in a fast food joint that got too big for its britches or a steakhouse that's pretendin' to be casual.

The floors are polished concrete, but there's a hostess seatin' people. The walls are reclaimed barn wood, but they've got those industrial pendant lights hangin' over every table like we're in some Manhattan bistro.

The menu's laminated like a diner, but the prices read like we're at the Four Seasons.

It's Jackson in a nutshell, really. Everything tryin' to be authentic while costin' three times what authentic should cost.

Legion orders the Bison Burger—grass-fed Wyoming bison, aged cheddar, caramelized onions, and what they're callin' "campfire aioli" on a brioche bun.

When it arrives, the thing's massive, stacked so high he has to compress it with both hands before he can take a bite. The fries are hand-cut and dusted with rosemary salt, served in a little metal bucket like we're at a carnival.

"Jesus," he mutters, juice runnin' down his wrist. "This thing weighs more than my bike."

Colt went with the Elk Burger—local elk, Swiss cheese, wild mushrooms, and somethin' called "huckleberry mustard" that sounds made-up but tastes real enough. His fries are sweet potato, thick-cut and served with some kind of chipotle dipping sauce.

Destiny surprised me by orderin' the Fish Sandwich—wild-caught salmon, avocado, sprouts, and lemon herb mayo on sourdough. No fries for her, just a side salad with what looks like half a garden's worth of microgreens. She's pickin' at it delicate-like while bouncin' Marigold on her knee, the baby grabbin' at everything within reach.

I went simple—the Classic Burger, which is anything but. Wagyu beef, gruyere, arugula, and truffle mayo on what they're callin' an "artisan bun" but looks suspiciously like regular bread to me. My fries are regular cut but they've been tossed in duck fat, because apparently even the fries need to be fancy here.

The conversation flows easy as creek water. Destiny tells us about her Etsy dress seller, a Romanian woman named Anya who makes custom pieces for women all over the world. Colt talks about his development project—some luxury cabin community that sounds like it'll price out every local within fifty miles, but he seems genuinely excited about the architecture.

Legion asks about Marigold's schedule, and Destiny launches into the kind of detailed baby talk that would've made my eyes glaze over six months ago. Now I'm hangin' on every word about sleep patterns, and feeding times, and how she's already tryin' to crawl.

"She's got Colt's determination," Destiny says, wipin' mashed avocado off the baby's chin. "Won't quit until she gets where she's goin'."

"That's an Ashby trait," I tell her. "We're all stubborn as hell."

"Speak for yourself," Colt says around a bite of elk. "I'm perfectly reasonable."

Legion snorts. "Says the man who knocked up a seventeen-year-old."

The words hang in the air for exactly three seconds before Colt starts laughin'. Not defensive, not angry—just genuine amusement.

"Well," he says. "We might as well have this conversation now. But only once, Legion. You're legitimately allowed to think whatever you want. But I love her. And she loves me. And you know damn well I'm gonna take care of her and our baby."

Legion doesn't say nothin' for a moment. Just lets out a breath. Then he looks Colt in the eye and says, "I wasn't there and you were. I don't like some of the specifics, but she's grown. And a mother. And… I wasn't fuckin' there."

I glance at Destiny and find no contrariness in her expression. But she is frowning. It takes her a moment to find her words, but when she does, she says, "I feel like… like life has been hard, ya know?" She's lookin' at Legion now too. "And then this miracle happened to me."

I expect her to look at Marigold, but she doesn't. She looks at Colt.

They smile at each other. Then Destiny takes her attention back to Legion. "He's my Little Ashby Princess, OK? If you get one, then I do too."

Legion and I both laugh. And he says, "Fair enough." Then nods his head at Colt and continues eating.

The conversation shifts after that, easin' into safer territory. Legion and Colt start talkin' about trucks—Colt's got some kind of diesel situation he's been dealin' with, and Legion knows enough about engines to offer actual advice. Then they move on to hunting, which turns into a whole discussion about elk versus deer, and whether Wyoming hunting is better than Montana hunting, which is the kind of argument that could go on for hours without anyone gettin' upset about it.

I barely listen. My attention keeps driftin' to Marigold, who's dozin' in Destiny's arms like the most content baby who ever lived. No fussin', no cryin', just this perfect little person who trusts the world completely. Destiny shifts her every so often, keepin' her comfortable, and the baby just settles deeper into sleep.

Watchin' them together does somethin' to my chest. Makes me ache in a way I haven't let myself feel before. I want this. I want Legion's baby in my arms and that look on his face—the one Colt gets when he watches Destiny with Marigold. Like he built the whole world just to see her smile.

I can picture it so clearly it hurts. Christmas morning in the great room with a tree that actually means somethin' instead of the magazine-perfect decorations Eleanor always insisted on.

Mercy home from school, maybe teachin' a toddler to ride the wooden rocking horse Cash made when we were kids. Destiny and Marigold settled in the east wing, Colt back where he belongs. Legion across from me at the long oak table, passin' mashed potatoes and arguin' with Cash about cattle prices while our baby sleeps in my lap.