Wild Country – Last Season

Blaze’d been slowin’ down for a while now. Nothin’ dramatic. Just the kinda quiet wear‑and‑tear a man don’t wanna see on somethin’ he loves.

Mornin’s were the worst. Old boy’d step outta his stall stiff as a fence post left out in a freeze, joints poppin’ like bubble wrap. Took him a good ten minutes to loosen up, and even then he moved careful, like he was thinkin’ through every step.

He was in his mid‑twenties now. Hell, that’s ancient for a workin’ stallion. But Blaze had never acted old a day in his life… ’til he did.

And Patches — that patchy little shithead — noticed. He already looked like trouble, a bay tobiano paint, all rich brown, black, and white patches like somebody brushed him together out of three different horses. Some would call him piebald; nobody knew what he was supposed to be, except trouble.

One mornin’ I walked out and thought I couldn’t trust my own damn eyeballs when I saw Blaze gettin’ pushed off the hay pile. Not nudged. Not argued with. Flat‑out run off, tail low, head lower, movin’ stiff like every joint was remindin’ him he was in his mid‑twenties now.

And Patches — that big, loud‑colored piebald bastard with more attitude than sense — strutted around like he’d just been elected mayor of the damn county.

My jaw locked so hard it damn near cracked.

Blaze had been king of this ranch longer’n Beau and Briony’d been alive, before I was married for the very first time. Seein’ him back down like that felt like watchin’ a mountain crumble.

Then Patches swung his head toward Blaze again, ears pinned, neck snakin’ like he was fixin’ to rub it in. Full of testosterone and bad ideas.

I didn’t even think. I was already stompin’ across the pasture.

“HEY!” I barked, loud enough to make the barn cats scatter. “Knock that shit off!”

Patches froze mid‑swagger, ears flickin’ back at me.

“Oh, don’t you start this with me,” I warned, pointin’ a finger at him like he was a teenager caught sneakin’ out. “I will turn your patchy hide into dog food faster’n you can think ‘oh hell, I done gone too far.’”

Patches puffed up, snorted, tossed that big piebald head — stallion attitude on full display, like he was considerin’ whether he could take me in a fight.

I stepped closer, boots hittin’ the dirt hard.

“Try me,” I growled.

He backed up. Not much — just a step — but enough to show he knew exactly who the hell ran this place.

If that would’ve been it, I wouldn’t even have mentioned it. Just life with two stallions among a herd of mares. And don’t get me wrong, those mares have moods somethin’ fierce. Horse ranchin’ ain’t for the faint o’heart and horses are just overgrown toddlers with a death wish on any given day.

But things just kept happenin’ that I just couldn’t swallow.

Another day I walked out early morn’ and Blaze stood off to the side, breathin’ heavy, legs stiff, eyes tired in a way I ain’t never seen on him before. Just… old.

And that hit me harder than Patches ever could.

I was about to call him over when he shifted his weight — and damn near stumbled. That’s when I saw it.

Blood.

Fresh.

Drippin’ down his right foreleg, matting the long hair above his hoof. And on his shoulder — clear as day — a set of teeth marks, deep enough to bruise, shallow enough to bleed.

My stomach dropped clean through the dirt.

“Aw, hell… Blaze, c’mere, boy.”

He limped toward me, slow and apologetic, like he thought he’d done somethin’ wrong. That hurt worse than the blood.

I crouched beside him, hands gentle, checkin’ the bite, the leg, the joints. He flinched once — just once — and that was enough to make my throat tighten.

“Easy, old man. I gotcha.”

I cleaned the wound best I could right there with the kit I kept in the barn aisle, talkin’ to him low and steady. Gave him an apple. Then another. Then wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my forehead to his mane.

“Shouldn’t’ve happened,” I muttered. “Ain’t right. Ain’t fair.”

When Blaze was settled in a stall with fresh shavin’s and a flake of hay, I stomped back out to the pasture, mad enough to spit bullets.

Patches stood there bold as brass, piebald hide gleamin’ in the sun, tail swishin’ like he owned the damn place.

“Oh, I know it was you,” I growled, marchin’ right up to him.

He tossed his head, snorted, strutted sideways — full of piss and vinegar and victory.

I grabbed his halter, yanked his head up, and pried open his mouth.

There it was.

Blaze’s liver‑colored fur stuck between his teeth. A smear of dried blood on his gums.

My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Patches jerked his head, pawed the ground, snorted like he was ready for round two.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I snapped. “I oughta turn ya into a pair of boots! But you wouldn’t know what the hell I was punishin’ you for, and you’re just doin’ what stallions do.”

He blew out a breath, ears flickin’ back, not sorry one damn bit.

I let go of him with a shove and walked off before I did somethin’ stupid.

Oh, I was mad. I knew better, I knew this was just horses bein’ horses, but damn, it was personal and I was mad.

Dinner

Dinner was quiet. After, Amy and I had coffee, the kids did their homework at the table, pencils scratchin’, Beau tappin’ his foot, Savannah hummin’ under her breath. Amy kept glancin’ at me like she could feel the storm brewin’ under my skin, even though I hadn’t said a damn word.

She moved slower these days — not fragile, just… careful. Six months along, belly roundin’ out under one of my old shirts she’d stolen, hand driftin’ to her back every now and then like she was tryin’ to hide the ache from me.

When the house finally settled, I stepped outside with my cup of coffee, starin’ out over the dark fields. Night felt heavy. Still. Like the whole ranch was holdin’ its breath, waitin’ on me to admit somethin’ I didn’t wanna say.

After a while, the screen door creaked open.

Amy stepped out, holdin’ a bottle of whiskey by the neck like she’d known exactly what I needed before I did.

She lifted it a little. I couldn’t help smilin’, grateful as hell, and held out my cup.

She poured generous — bless her — then eased herself down onto the porch rail with that slow, practiced grace she’d learned these past months.

“Kids are done with homework,” she said. “I’m letting them watch TV.”

I nodded, sipped, stared out into the dark where Blaze should’ve been grazin’ if the world made any damn sense.

She stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “Jackson… talk to me. What’s going on?”

I took a long drink, the kind that burns all the way down and sits in your chest like a hot stone. Took my time swallowin’. Truth felt too damn big to say out loud.

Finally, I exhaled.

“It’s Blaze,” I said, voice low. “He ain’t… he ain’t holdin’ his own no more.”

Amy’s face softened, worry meltin’ into somethin’ warm and human.

“What happened?”

I sat down in the old rockin’ chair, reached for her hand, and tugged her gently into my lap. She huffed at me — “Jackson, I’m huge” — but settled in anyway, belly pressin’ warm against my ribs, her weight familiar and right.

Then I told her.

All of it.

The limp. The blood. The bite. The way Blaze didn’t even try to fight back. The way he’d looked at me — tired, apologetic, like he thought he’d let me down.

And the way that scared me more than anything.

She lifted her head. “Because of Patches?”

“Because he’s old,” I muttered. “And he’s hurtin’. And that loud‑mouthed paint knows it.”

She frowned, brows drawin’ together, that sharp little crease she gets when she’s tryin’ to solve a problem she ain’t got the background for.

“So, what are we gonna do about it? Build a separate fence and split up the mares between the two boys?” She paused, then added, completely serious.

I stared at her.

Just… stared.

“Amy,” I said slow, like I was explainin’ gravity to a toddler, “they’re horses, not apples and oranges. Ya can’t split up the herd jus’ like that. Jus’ don’t work like that. Patches is the alpha now. All the mares are his now. If I were to try and tell him otherwise he’d go breakin’ fences or his bones tryin’ to reclaim what’s his.”

She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know! Everything else on this ranch listens to you. Maybe there’s a horse version of ‘no, bad boy, stop that.’ I don’t know, is there a thing like a rolled‑up newspaper or a spray bottle for horses?””

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Sweetheart, if spray bottles and rolled up newspapers worked on stallions, every ranch in Chestnut Ridge would be paradise.”

She huffed. “Well, excuse me for trying to help.”

And that’s when I knew she was worried. Really worried. Because Amy Lynn Kershaw, nee Mercer didn’t joke when she was scared — she grasped at solutions like she was tryin’ to hold the whole damn ranch together with duct tape and hope.

“I know, darlin’. Afraid it ain’t that easy.”

“So… we build a retirement‑home pasture for Blaze? Is that the plan? I know you have something already brewing up there.”

I hesitated. Shouldn’t’ve done that. Amy could smell hesitation like a bloodhound.

“Nah, ya can’t,” I said finally. “I been talkin’ to a stud farm out in StrangerVille. Soft ground. No hills. They take older stallions sometimes. Might be a good place for him to live out the years he got left.”

I left out the part about what happened to the ones that weren’t stud material anymore — the cheap auctions, the meat buyers, the things ranchers whispered about but never said out loud. I didn’t wanna think about it, and I sure as hell wasn’t gon’ breathe a word of that to Amy.

Amy sat up so fast I damn near dropped her — belly and all.

“You’re SELLING him?” she snapped, twistin’ around to stare at me like I’d turned into a cockroach crawlin’ across her Sunday roast on the kitchen counter.

“Amy—”

“No. Absolutely not. Blaze is family. I veto that! No freaking way! I am your wife, I get fifty percent say and that is NO!”

“Amy, this is a workin’ ranch, not a petting zoo. I can’t keep feedin’ a horse that ain’t earnin’ his keep, who’s gettin’ bullied by the younger stallion. Ya know we ain’t got that kinda money.”

Her eyes went wide, then narrow, then hotter’n a skillet left on high.

“Oh, right. So if I get old or sick, you’ll sell me off too? Since I’m not earning my keep? Man, hopefully Jack knows how lucky he is to have Izzy!”

“Amy, that ain’t—”

She stood — or tried to — and I had to grab her elbow so she didn’t tip forward. Six months pregnant and madder’n a wet hen, she was a sight to behold.

“I swear to God, Jackson Kershaw, if you send that horse away, I will— I don’t even know what I’ll do, but you won’t like it! It will be rough. Awful. You will regret every minute of every day!”

She stormed off — well, stormed as much as a six‑month‑pregnant woman can — and I muttered a curse, got up, followed her inside.

Caught her in the doorway to our bedroom, hands gentle on her arms as I guided her in and shut the door. Kids were glued to the TV, thank God — I preferred to keep it that way.

“Amy. Look at me.”

She didn’t.

I tipped her chin up.

“Ain’t sellin’ Blaze. Ain’t sellin’ you. Ain’t sellin’ my Pa, nobody. I’ll talk to Pa. I’m sure Blaze can stay up there with him, take it easy with the other old Kershaw and his creaky bones. Maybe Pa’ll let him stud when he feels like it. He earned that. And he’s barely five minutes away.”

She sniffed, eyes narrowin’ like she was inspectin’ something highly suspect. “Really?”

I nodded.

She looked at me, then gave me that look. “Or am I gonna go up there one day and find out…”

Then she lifted both hands and made the most dramatic little air‑quotes you ever saw, changin’ her voice into this high, fake‑sweet tone that did not bode well for me.

” that he ‘went to live on a big farm upstate’?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Have I ever lied to ya.”

“…No.”

“Ain’t startin’ now.”

She melted into me, belly and all, and that was that.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Next mornin’ I hauled Blaze up to Pa’s place. Old man was already outside, leanin’ on the fence like he’d been waitin’ on us since dawn.

Blaze limped out of the trailer, stiff and sore, and Pa’s whole face changed. Not shock — just that quiet, heavy understanding only horsemen get.

He walked over slow, hand out, lettin’ Blaze sniff him before he laid a palm on the old boy’s neck.

“Damn,” Pa murmured, runnin’ his hand down Blaze’s shoulder. “He got ya good, didn’t he?”

He crouched, checked the bite, the swelling, the stiffness in the leg. Let out a low whistle through his teeth.

“Five years ago,” he said, patting Blaze’s neck, “you’d’ve taught that patchy brat how to fly if he’d even dreamt about doin’ this, huh, old boy?”

Blaze leaned into him, breathin’ soft, tired.

Pa stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and looked at me — not judgmental, not smug, just… Pa.

“Damn son! ’Bout damn time you let this old boy rest,” he said. “I was gon’ say somethin’ couple times, but it ain’t my ranch no more and I won’t tell a man how to run his business. But if ya had asked me…”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah. He’s earned it.”

Pa nodded once, firm and final, like that settled the whole world.

Blaze nudged my shoulder, soft and familiar. I pressed my forehead to his neck, breathin’ in dust and sun and twenty‑five years of my life.

I remember him bein’ born. Stormy night. Breach birth. Bottle feedin’ him cos his momma wasn’t well. Our first ride. Our first win together in the arena. Him haulin’ me home when that damn cougar got me. Him being there when Bri dropped out of college to live with me. Every mile between then and now.

This hurt. More than I’d let anybody see.

Amy cried, she didn’t really have no dog in this fight, maybe because she knew it was hard on me or because of her hormones. Beau pretended he wasn’t affected, even though that horse had been around longer than he had. And me? I cried on the inside, where men like me keep things that break us.

Damn horse was just up the hill — if he walked to the edge he could spit on my head — but it wasn’t the distance.

It was the symbolism.

This was the end of somethin’. Felt like I was handin’ over my best friend. My brother. A chapter of my life I wasn’t ready to close.

New Ride

Back home, I tried pickin’ me a new horse. Patches was Beau’s — wasn’t no way I was takin’ him from that boy. Not to mention, I knew it was wrong for me to think it, but I still couldn’t forgive that loud‑colored menace for the way he’d hurt my Blaze. There’s knowin’ what’s right, and then there’s the heart. Mine was yellin’ louder than my brain.

Juniper was Amy’s, and while she wasn’t terribly attached, she’d have let me have her if I’d wanted. But that mare never felt like the kinda horse that’d sit right under me, plus she wasn’t too much younger than Blaze. In five, six years I’d be right back where I was now — havin’ to retire her and cry into my coffee about it.

Belle was too damn calm — pretty thing, sure, but she had that if I don’t get there today, I might get there tomorrow attitude that drove me up the walls. I’d nudge her and she’d look back at me like, Why? Where are we goin’ in such a hurry? If she’d been any more laid‑back, I’d have had to check her pulse.

Daisy had that typical chestnut‑mare temper; every time I swung a leg over, she’d twist around and try to bite my boot like she had a personal vendetta. After a few rounds of that, I got tired of establishin’ dominance every time I mounted that damn horse. Felt like we were in couples therapy and she was losin’ patience.

And that little sorrel mare? Lord. She acted like the taxidermist had already gotten ahold of her. Turned into a giant stuffed animal the second my ass hit the saddle — stiff, hollow‑eyed, and about as responsive as a bear mount in a roadside museum. Took so much coaxin’ to get her to move, I’d have been faster on a damn rockin’ horse. At least the rockin’ horse wouldn’t glare at me for interruptin’ its eternal rest.

One bay mare kept tryin’ to scratch her face on my knee while we were movin’, nearly knocked me clean outta the saddle. Another one had this habit of sighin’ real dramatic every time I asked her to trot, like I was ruinin’ her whole day. And that tall roan? She’d pin her ears and side‑eye me the entire ride like she was takin’ notes for HR. Jeezes H. Christ.

Truth was, these mares were just fine. There was absolutely nothin’ wrong with any of them. It was me. I was bein’ grinchy, grumpy, and pouty, and the horses picked up on it. Would you want me up on your back, haulin’ my long face around? Right. I wouldn’t either, and neither did they.

I was not happy with this situation and everyone got that memo, with me carryin’ on like a teething toddler who’d missed his nap and lost his favorite toy — whiny, cranky, and fit to throw myself on the floor. With that attitude, nobody was gonna turn into Seabiscuit under me. Hell, they were doin’ good just toleratin’ my sulkin’. You can’t expect a horse to give you their best when you’re ridin’ like Eeyore with a hangover.

Blaze had gotten too old to ride — that was a fact — and I hated it. Every time I looked at another horse, I’d catch myself comparin’ ’em to him, and none ever measured up. Hell, sometimes I’d glance over at Patches and start rollin’ movies in my head about plantin’ a boot in that stallion’s ass — not that I ever would, and it wouldn’t fix a damn thing anyway. Blaze was slowin’ down in a hurry. That was that.

By day three of tryin’ out mares, I felt like the prince in Cinderella, tryin’ to fit a glass slipper on a damn hoof. Nothin’ fit. Nothin’ felt right. And every horse on the ranch seemed hell‑bent on remindin’ me I’d lost my perfect match.

At some point I’d practically sat on the back of every damn horse in my herd, save the ones likely in foal. Some younger, some more seasoned — none felt like the perfect fit. I figured it was just somethin’ I needed to get used to, and one of ’em would stand out eventually. Had to. I bred great horses — that’s what I told everyone, that’s what folks across the Ridge and beyond believed, and what I truly believed too.

So why in the hell was this so damn hard?

“Damn, Pa,” Beau hollered across the yard, “ya look ’bout as comfortable as a man sittin’ on a saddle made of sandpaper. Graceful as a monkey on a millstone.”

“One more word outta you,” I growled, “and I’ll remember that stallion yer ridin’ is mine.”

“You don’t want Patches,” Beau said cheerfully, sittin’ tall like the human embodiment of a prickly pear. “Patches and you don’t get along. That’s why I got him. We jive.”

“Jive? Been talkin’ with yer sister again?”

Beau cackled. Amy rolled her eyes. I suffered.

“Oh Pa,” he said, grinnin’ like the lil shithayed he is, “ya needa do somethin’ ’bout somethin’, ’cause right now ya look like yer ridin’ a giant cactus, not a horse.”

Doin’ Somethin’ ‘Bout Somethin’

Few days later, Beau insisted we ride out with him.

I complained the whole damn way.

“Too much to do. Ain’t got time for this nonsense. Amy needs to rest.”

“No, Amy is fine,” Amy called back, sittin’ tall in the saddle like she wasn’t six months pregnant.

We reached a little horse show on the edge of town — dusty arena, trailers lined up, kids runnin’ around with ribbons.

Beau led us to the far end, toward a quiet corral.

“There,” he said.

I squinted.

A Saddlebred stallion stood alone — solid dark bay coat shimmerin’ like red and brown smoke, black mane, black markin’s, steady eyes that missed nothin’.

My heart did a weird little lurch I will never admit to.

“Mare’s fine,” I muttered. “I ain’t buyin’ no damn horses! Ya forgot I ain’t yer grandparents with their mansions and all?”

“That ain’t a mare, Pa.”

“I can see that!”

Amy was already tryin’ to dismount. I panicked.

“Woman, wait— you’re gonna fall—”

Helped her down. She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the corral.

Up close, the stallion lifted his head, ears forward, calm as a preacher on Sunday.

I reached out, touched his neck, shoulder, jaw. Solid. Sound. Perfect.

Seller wandered over, drawl thick as molasses.

“Best stallion you’ll ever sit on. Brave as they come. Learns fast. Got sense.”

“If he’s so great,” I said, “why you sellin’ him?”

Seller sighed. Drought. Medical bills. Taxes too high. Bills even higher. Downsizin’. The usual sob story.

Beau nudged me. Amy glowed.

“Sit on him,” she said.

Everyone stared at her.

You don’t do that. Normally. But normally men ain’t married to Amy at six months pregnant.

So, I did.

And the moment I settled into that saddle?

I knew.

I knew.

I knew.

This was my horse.

I asked the price.

Seller told me somethin’ outrageous. Five damn digits. Price tag looked like a damn phone number. That’s what folks pay for a racehorse or some fancy show‑ring prancer — not around here, not for a workin’ horse. More than I paid for my damn truck!

Most of us breed our own stock. Always have. You trade with neighbors when you need new blood, swap a colt for a mare, that kinda thing. I couldn’t tell you the last time I bought a horse outright.

And I sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. ‘specially not at that price.

I whistled low. “Damn, ain’t ya proud of that horse? Nope. Nah, thank ya kindly. You’re confusin’ me with royalty. Or you’re confusin’ that horse with royalty. Either way, thanks but no thanks.”

Beau tried to haggle. Bless him. Failed spectacularly.

Then Amy stepped forward.

And the woman who once worked the corporate world in San Myshuno came out swingin’.

“So,” she says all sweet, “you need to downsize. And you need to do it fast. And you need cash flow. And you need fewer mouths to feed.”

She starts listin’ off every reason he’d given us, then piles on more I didn’t even know were options. Bam, bam, bam — talkin’ circles around that poor man in a voice that sure as hell wasn’t her usual soft one.

“…and now you want to lose a sure sale — literal money in your palm — over foolish pride? You take that horse back home, nobody wins.”

Seller cracked like a dry twig. Head probably spinnin’. I know mine was. Beau looked no better.

I’ll cut to the chase: she got him down to half. A price so reasonable I was already reachin’ for my wallet. So was she. Hell, so was everyone in this family, tired of my sulkin’.

I stared at her like she’d parted the Red Sea. Seller shook hands, deal was made.

I ain’t never thrown money at nobody that fast. Never bought a damn horse that fast neither — especially not when I was “jus’ takin’ a ride with my boy.”

Dammit, Beau. Ya had a plan and I didn’t pick up on it.

Beau leaned in while the seller was signin’ papers and whispered, “Damn, Amy.”

Amy just shrugged from the back of her mare, sittin’ pretty and smug. “What my husband wants, my husband gets. Includes horses.”

I rode that stallion home — horse still carryin’ the world’s most idiotic name, Ruckus Rick, which I was never callin’ any horse of mine — so we started tossin’ around names that sounded close enough he’d still answer. He was five, maybe six, already set in his ways.

My posture went loose, grin soft and stupid. Couldn’t help it.

I leaned over in the saddle, reached across the space between us, grabbed Amy by the back of the neck, and kissed her hard.

“You’re somethin’ else, woman.”

She smiled up at me from her horse, smug and glowin’, like she’d just negotiated the whole damn world into my hands.

The stallion flicked an ear back, like he approved of the whole scene.

Then I nudged him over toward Beau, reached out, and rubbed the kid’s neck rough but affectionate. “Thank ya, kid. Great eye.”

“Thanks, Pa.” Beau grinned from Patches’ back, tradin’ a look with Amy — one I pretended real hard not to see.

Romeo & Juliet

Once I got him home and settled, got him used to my herd and that shit‑stirrin’ Patches, I learned real quick that my new stallion had picked me right back.

I was bent over fixin’ somethin’ by the fence when Patches snuck up behind me, fixin’ to remind me he was still the boss around here. Next thing I hear is hard hooves hittin’ dirt. I turn around and there’s that new stallion, ears pinned, eyes lit up like he’d swallowed lightning, rearin’ up over Patches like he was about to send him to Jesus.

Patches backed off, puffed up like he meant business, and the two of ‘em went right into sortin’ out who was who. Wherever that horse came from, he wasn’t anybody’s second. He still had that boss tag hangin’ on him. I had two damn stallions fightin’ for the top spot before breakfast. Broke it up before somebody needed stitches.

Couple days later, I’m ridin’ fence lines. Got off him to clear some branches blockin’ the access road. I’m mindin’ my own business when he shoves me so hard I eat dirt. I spin around ready to cuss him six ways to Sunday— and that’s when I see the rattler slidin’ off into the brush. Big bastard, too.

That horse didn’t spook. Didn’t bolt. Didn’t scream. He saw it before I did and put me on the ground to save my hide.

And then there was the day he decided he didn’t give a damn about gates, fences, or my opinion. I’d barely latched the south pasture gate when he jumped it. Clean. Didn’t even hesitate. Just looked at it, sized it up, and went right over like he was born with wings.

Took me an hour to catch him, and he stood there lookin’ proud of himself, like he’d just won the damn Olympics.

He didn’t run off. Never even glanced at the road. Just stayed on the property, makin’ a game out of it — tag with me, apparently — like he’d decided we weren’t done spendin’ time together.

And that wasn’t the only time he made his opinion known.

More than once I came out in the mornin’, coffee in hand, ready for chores, and he was standin’ right outside the damn door.

Sometimes he’d be lookin’ in the kitchen window, ears pricked, like, “You comin’ or what? You’re late.”

Better than any alarm clock I ever owned.

Fences and locked barn doors were mere suggestions to him, and I was startin’ to see why the seller was willin’ to part with such a beautiful, perfectly built, clearly intelligent stallion — one most folks would keep for stud.

There was no containin’ him. He stayed ’cause he chose to.

Imagine him bein’ somewhere he didn’t want to be.

That’s when it stuck.

Horse wasn’t wild, not exactly. Just… his own creature. Didn’t follow, didn’t wait, didn’t ask. But from what I saw? Loyal as hell.

He was no goddamn Ruckus Rick. He was—

Maverick.

He earned it.

It was close enough to that original stupid name, so I tried it, and he flicked an ear back, turned his head, answered like he’d been waitin’ on it. Came straight to me. I rubbed his neck.

And right then I knew I had myself a very special horse again. One I could rely on with my life.

But I ain’t catchin’ no break.

Blaze’d only been gone a week when the hollerin’ started.

First morning, I thought coyotes were gettin’ bold. Second morning, I thought maybe Beau left the damn gate open and something was dyin’. Third morning, I realized it weren’t coyotes or death — it was Juniper.

That mare stood at the fence line, neck stretched, lungs workin’ like a church organ, callin’ her heart out toward Jack’s ranch. And the worst part?

Blaze answered.

Clear as day, echo bouncin’ off the ridge like two lovesick teenagers who’d just discovered their voices. I swear the whole valley vibrated with their tragic romance.

Amy tried to pretend it was sweet. Beau tried to pretend it wasn’t funny. I tried to pretend I wasn’t losin’ my damn mind.

By day four, Juniper had worked herself into a full‑blown midlife crisis. She paced the fence, tail flagged, whinnyin’ like she was twenty‑one and drunk at a honky‑tonk. Blaze hollered back every time, his old man voice crackin’ like a rusty hinge.

And the crankier she got, the more she took it out on the rest of us — especially Patches.

That old mare started marchin’ around the pasture like she was the sheriff of Heartbreak County, snappin’ at anything that moved. Poor Patches caught the worst of it. One minute he was struttin’ around like the big, loud‑colored king of all horses, and the next he was gettin’ chased off by a twenty‑one‑year‑old banshee with a grudge.

He’d whirl around, eyes wide, lookin’ at me like, Pa, what the hell is this? A mare comin’ after me? Me? He didn’t have a single file in his brain labeled “angry old lady,” and he sure as hell didn’t know how to make one.

Juniper snapped at him again, teeth clackin’, and Patches took off like she’d pulled a gun on him. Beau laughed so hard he nearly fell off the fence. Amy tried to hide her smile. I just rubbed my face and prayed for mercy.

By day six, I was ready to move to Del Sol Valley and become a barista.

On day seven, Pa showed up.

Jack came drivin’ up the drive with truck and trailer lookin’ like a man who hadn’t slept since the Clinton administration — hat crooked, shirt half‑tucked, eyes bloodshot.

The three of us started walkin’ up slow, like we were approachin’ a crime scene. I hung back a little, arms crossed, waitin’ to see what in the hell this was gonna be. Amy kept pace beside me, hand on her hip, brows up like she already knew this was about to be somethin’. And Beau? That boy scrambled right up onto the top rail of the fence, sittin’ there like a damn vulture waitin’ for drama to unfold.

Without commentary, Jack hopped out and started unloadin’ the light dappled mare — soft eyes, patient look, the expression of a creature who’d seen some things and decided not to judge any of it.

Jack didn’t even say hello.

He pointed at Juniper — who immediately started scream‑cryin’ at Blaze’s distant reply — and said:

“I am takin’ her.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Tell yer wife I am takin her horse,” he repeated, each word its own funeral bell. “Sorry Amy, but I ain’t goin’ home without that goddamn hollering Juniper. I’m takin’ her off your hands. Blaze won’t eat just paces there hollerin’ back at her hollerin’ dawn till dusk and beyond. And we can’t take it no more. Izzy says if she’s gotta listen to one more sunrise duet, she’s movin’ in with Cody and that Tansy’. And I’m considerin’ goin’ with her.”

Juniper shrieked again, long and dramatic, like she was auditionin’ for a soap opera. And like clockwork, Blaze’s reply echoed back.

Jack flinched. “See? See?! That ain’t normal. I was born to horses and I ain’t never, not once, ‘xperienced nothin’ like this!”

Amy covered her mouth, tryin’ not to laugh. Beau failed entirely. Kid sat up there cacklin’.

Jack jerked his thumb at the dappled mare. “I’m tradin’ ya back this one. She’s one of the mares ya gave us when we moved back last year. Young, sound, quiet, a looker, and she don’t scream across county lines. You give me that banshee, and I’ll let her retire with Blaze so they can holler at each other in the same damn pasture. Yer wife is becomin’ a decent rider, needs a decent horse!”

Juniper hollered again, louder.

Jack snapped, “Ya old nag, I HEARD YOU. Everybody on the damn continent has!”

Amy lost it. Beau nearly fell off the fence. I just sighed, because the truth was… it made sense. Juniper was twenty‑one, steady, sweet, not really old for a horse but not a spring chicken either. And while she played a key part in Amy and me meetin’, I could tell she wasn’t Amy’s hearthorse. None of mine were. And Juniper had decided. Wasn’t unusual for mares her age to bond, especially when they’d been kept alone for as long as she had been. Blaze was her man. Let ’em have their golden‑years romance.

So we traded.

Juniper loaded herself into Jack’s trailer like she’d been waitin’ for the Uber she ordered. He turned to me, expectin’ the usual push‑and‑shove drama most horses required, but no — she would’ve shut the hatch herself if she could’ve. Blaze’s distant whinny echoed back, and she answered, the sound bouncing extra loud inside that metal trailer, and I swear the whole ridge sighed in anticipatory relief. He slammed the hatch shut into her vibratin’ hollerin’.

Jack tipped his hat. “I love ya, son, but I’ll tell ya what: don’t ever send me another lovesick horse, kid. I swear to God, I’ll haul you off that porch, yank down yer breeches, face ya southbound, and spank that northbound end o’ yours like you were ten years old and caught stealin’!”

Beau was now reduced to snorts and wheezes, nearly rollin’ across the ground.

Then Jack drove off with Juniper, still hollerin’ so loud that Pa honked at her, and the dappled mare blinked at us like she’d just been adopted by the circus.

Amy walked up to her, stroked her neck, and the mare leaned in gentle as a prayer.

“Oh, hello gorgeous,” Amy whispered, eyes soft. “You are so perfect.”

And for the first time in a week?

Silence.

Blessed, beautiful silence.

The First Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving at the ranch felt like the first real holiday in a long time — the kind where the walls hum with warmth and the air smells like butter, sage, turkey, biscuits, and too many cooks in the kitchen.

Amy and Izzy had been up since dawn, clatterin’ pans and laughin’ in the kitchen while Tansy and Cheyenne chopped, stirred, and taste‑tested like they were runnin’ a five‑star restaurant. The whole place smelled like cinnamon, roasted turkey, and a little bit of chaos.

Every so often, one of the women would holler:

“Who left this here?” “Where’s the good knife?” “Beau, if you steal one more roll—”

And Beau would holler back from the living room, mouth full, “I ain’t stealin’, I’m quality‑checkin’!”

The men lingered around the TV, flappin’ their gums, watchin’ football, pretendin’ they weren’t avoidin’ chores. Cody kept yellin’ at the screen like the quarterback could hear him. Jack kept mutterin’ about how football ain’t been the same since ’98. Pa kept fallin’ asleep and wakin’ up swearin’ he wasn’t asleep, just restin’ his eyes. We all heard him snore while restin’ them eyes.

Chores got done, but only the bare minimum — feed, water, check the fences. Everything else could wait. Today was about family. About bein’ together. About breathin’ easy for once.

Dinner was loud, messy, and perfect. Too much food. Too much laughter. Too much love.

When everyone finally helped clean up and pack leftovers, the house settled into a warm, sleepy quiet. Savannah went to bed without a fight. Beau disappeared to his room muttering something about “food coma.” Both collapsed into their beds like little drunks.

I shut off the last light, crawled into bed beside Amy — very pregnant now — and wrapped myself around her.

“Best Thanksgiving of my entire life,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Yeah, same. Thank you, darlin’.”

Spring Fever

By the time Easter rolled around, I’d already broken my New Year’s resolution about not eatin’ my weight in food until next Thanksgiving. Hell, we all had. Christmas had been a straight rerun of Thanksgiving — same food, same noise, same men bein’ useless — and by New Year’s every one of us was walkin’ around with our jeans unbuttoned, swearin’ we weren’t hostin’ another feast till next winter. Hard to ride herd when you’re one biscuit away from bustin’ a seam.

But then Easter showed up with ham and casseroles and pies, and we all fell right off the wagon again. I joked that findin’ the perfect woman and finally havin’ a real family came with some downsides — namely, Amy becomin’ a damn good cook and me bein’ in danger of earnin’ myself a dad bod wearin’ my gut over my belt if I wasn’t careful. Truth was, I loved every minute of it. Domestic bliss tasted like butter and cinnamon, hearty food after a long day’s work and second helpings and curlin’ up with my woman every single night.

Blaze was doin’ well up at Pa’s place. We went up there often, and every time I saw that old boy grazin’ in the sun, tail swishin’, ears flickin’, lookin’ peaceful as a saint, Juniper never far, it settled somethin’ in me. He’d earned his retirement. I just hadn’t earned bein’ okay with it yet.

But today wasn’t about any of that. Today was Easter. Today was family.

The house was warm and loud, windows fogged from the oven heat and the women chattin’ in the kitchen. Amy and Izzy were tag‑teamin’ the ham and the deviled eggs like they were runnin’ a cook‑off. Tansy was fussin’ over the rolls. Cheyenne was stirrin’ somethin’ on the stove with that deep, settled calm she and Winona inherited straight from their daddy’s people — the same quiet strength their grandma Hateya and grandpa Ahanu carried. Young as she was, she had a steadiness no chaos could shake, and not even their mama’s Caucasian influence had managed to tame it.

Meanwhile, the men had achieved peak holiday uselessness again.

Boots off. Belts loosened. Plates piled high. Beer bottles clinkin’, the spring rodeo livestream blarin’ on the TV.

Cody was leaned so far forward he might as well’ve been ridin’ the bronc himself, shoutin’ advice like the riders had him on a headset. Pa was holdin’ court from the recliner, explainin’ how “these boys don’t sit deep no more” and how the whole sport had gone soft since the nineties. Beau was starfished across the rug, half‑asleep, half‑eatin’, tossin’ out quiet little comments here and there — the kind that let you know he actually did understand what he was seein’. Boy’d won gold in Western Pleasure on Patches not long ago, so he had every right to look smug about it. Somehow made him even more annoyin’ than Cody, who by now was just about jockeyin’ my TV in his mental arena.

And me? I was sunk so deep into that couch I might as well’ve been part of the upholstery, but still pointin’ at the screen and givin’ advice like the riders could hear me.

“Sit back! No — not like that, son, keep that ass in that saddle, Lord have mercy…”

Amy swept in, kissed my cheek, plucked the empty beer bottle right outta my hand, replaced it with a fresh cold one — bless that woman — and said, “You know they can’t hear you, right?”

I just grunted, “I can see that by the way they’re ridin’. Someone needs to get that judge a seein’‑eye dog or somethin’. Man couldn’t find his own ass with a flashlight and a map. Had no business givin’ that last guy one single point, let alone seventy‑eight. Boy rode like a sack of laundry fallin’ off a fence.”

Savannah perched on the armrest, rollin’ her eyes at all of us, but smilin’ anyway.

I leaned back, hands behind my head, belly full, beer bottle wedged between my thighs ’cause Lord knows I wasn’t about to exert myself by reachin’ for the coffee table today, savorin’ the rare luxury of doin’ absolutely nothin’. Amy waddled in from the kitchen, wiped her hands on a towel, and gave me that look — the one that said she adored me but also knew I was glued to that couch like a barnacle for probably the rest of the day.

“Everybody good out here? Any of you boys need anything?” she asked.

“Never been better, darlin’,” I said, poppin’ another bite of pie into my mouth.

Pa snorted awake beside me, blinkin’ like he’d been deeply involved in the rodeo the whole time. “Thanks, sweetheart. If I were any better, I’d have to spank mah boy’s momma.”

Izzy barked a laugh from the kitchen. “Oh, I’d like to see ya try, Jack Kershaw!”

“I meant his,” Pa pointed at me.

Chucklin’ and shakin’ my head, I pulled Amy into my lap. She fought it, but I held on, kissin’ on her.

“Jackson, I am still doin’ stuff in the kitchen.”

“Nope. Yer done doin’ stuff now. All yer doin’ is sittin’ on my knee, darlin’. The man of the house has spoken.”

The roar of laughter that followed was loud enough to rattle the windows — and almost insultin’. Almost. I laughed too, then immediately began explainin’ to Amy why every cowboy on that TV was a disgrace to the sport. Pa, Cody, and Beau all chimed in like a pack of overfed experts, and even Tansy shouted her verdict from the kitchen like she was judgin’ the finals.

The room hummed with warmth — the kind that sinks into your bones. The kind that makes you think, Yeah… this is it. This is the life.

And then—

A scream cut through the spring air.

A mare.

The sound sliced through the living room like a knife.
Every seasoned horse breeder knows that sound.

Pa froze mid‑chew. Cody dropped his fork. Beau sat up like someone slapped him. Savannah whispered, “Uh‑oh.”

We all held still for half a second — that stunned, suspended moment where your brain tries to pretend you didn’t hear what you just heard.

Then another mare scream.

Then another.

It was like the whole herd had held a secret meeting and decided, Tonight. We all go tonight. That’ll be hilarious.

Of course, no ranchhands anywhere to be found — they were home with their families or live at the rodeo, either watchin’ or makin’ some extra cash.

Pa groaned. “Aw hell.”

And then the ranch exploded into motion.

We sprinted. Cody grabbed towels. Pa barked orders like a drill sergeant. Beau ran for the barn like his life depended on it. Savannah tore after us, boots half‑tied and hair flyin’.

Amy tried to stand, but she was eight months and change pregnant and glowin’ like a lantern, belly round and tight, breathin’ a little heavier these days.

“Sit,” I told her, wrestlin’ my damn boots on — harder now that I was so full I could barely bend in half. “You worked all day in that kitchen, ya ain’t goin’ nowhere. Make sure nothin’ here catches fire, darlin’. And keep them cowboys in that rodeo straight for me.”

I kissed her quick — half apology, half promise — then grabbed whatever towels, ropes, and sense I had left and tore out the door like the barn was on fire.

She sat — reluctantly — whispering, “But those are my first horse babies. I wanted to be there.”

Izzy leaned in, voice warm. “Sweetheart, you’ll have plenty more springs to help with foalin’. It’s rough and a hard work, so not for you right now. This spring you need to take care of you.”

Tansy nodded. “You’re carryin’ a little one of your own. That’s the only baby that needs you right this second. The men can do all the mares need in their sleep.”

Cheyenne squeezed her hand. “Let the men handle the mares. You rest.”

Amy blinked fast, then nodded.

The barn was a war zone.

Warm bodies steamin’ in the cool spring air. Hay flyin’. The metallic tang of blood and birth. The frantic shuffle of hooves. The sharp, panicked cries of mares in labor.

We were elbow‑deep in the third foaling when Beau shouted from the next stall:

“Oh no — we got the palomino over there in full labor now too!”

“Dammit,” I growled, “we’ll get to her.”

Pa pointed across the barn. “Looks like ya got two more fixin’ to push over yonder…”

“Yup,” I snapped, “add ’em to the list. We’ll get there when we get there—”

And that’s when Savannah came tearing across the yard, breathless, wild‑eyed.

“Daddy! She’s havin’ a baby too!”

“I know, honey,” I grunted, focused on the mare. “They all are. We’ll get to her. First this one — she might be breech.”

Savannah grabbed my sleeve, trying to pull me. “Daddy, no — she’s havin’ a baby! NOW! Ya gotta come!”

“Savannah,” I snapped, “you’re a ranch kid. Ya know better. I can’t do them all at the same time, I am one man. Go calm her down or go get more towels and stand back—”

And then she burst into tears.

Savannah. The tomboy who never cried. The kid who once broke her wrist and said, “It didn’t even hurt.” while I was havin’ a grade A heart attack ’bout it.

She sobbed — big, terrified sobs.

And that’s when it hit me.

She didn’t mean some mare.

She meant Amy!

My heart stopped.

I jumped up and I ran. One of the others needed to handle the horses. They all knew how, even Beau. I had bigger fish to fry right now.

Approachin’ the house, I heard the wailin’.

Ah, shit.

Chestnut Ridge was too far from San Sequoia, where the nearest hospital was. We didn’t even have a doctor in town. Too late for anything but prayer and instinct. That baby was gonna be born here at home. Oh boy.

Amy was already on the bed, breathin’ hard, face flushed, hair stuck to her cheeks. Izzy was barkin’ orders. Tansy was steadying her. Cheyenne was boilin’ water like we were in the damn frontier days.

“Amy—” I choked, kneelin’ beside her.

She grabbed my shirt and growled, “Don’t you dare panic, Jackson Kershaw. I am panicked — we can’t both— AAAAAAHHHH!”

She launched into a bloodcurdlin’ wail. I never felt so useless in my life.

“I ain’t panickin’,” I lied, voice crackin’.

We called Connor. Didn’t even feel that bad about it once he picked up — man said he was workin’ anyway, holiday or not. He told me he was on his way, calm as ever, and to keep her steady till he got here. Said to time the contractions, keep her breathin’, and not let her panic.

But Amy didn’t give a damn about timing.

She was already pushin’.

And I — a man who’d delivered a hundred foals — suddenly couldn’t remember a single thing about birthin’ anything. Drawin’ absolute blanks.

But the women did.

Amy tried to flop back on the bed, but Izzy caught her shoulders mid‑fall.

“No, no, sweetheart — not on your back,” Izzy said, firm as a fencepost. “Up. Hands and knees. Let gravity help you.”

Tansy was already buildin’ a mountain of pillows in front of her — big ones, small ones, mismatched ones — anything she could grab.

“Savannah!” she barked. “Go get more pillows. All of ’em.”

Savannah tore out of the room like a shot.

Amy groaned as another contraction hit, dropping to all fours, her breath hitching, her whole body bowing like a mare in hard labor.

“Jackson Kershaw,” she snarled, voice low and murderous, “you did this to me. I hope you’re real damn happy— AAAAAAHHHHH!”

Her scream ripped through the room.

Savannah came skidding back in with an armful of pillows — the guest room pillows, the couch cushions, the kids’ decorative ones, even her own tiny night‑night pillow she’d had since birth.

“Here! Here!” she cried, dumping them in a heap.

Tansy shoved the whole pile under Amy’s chest so she could lean forward, brace herself, bury her face if she needed to.

Cheyenne steadied her hips. “Good. Stay forward. Let your body open.”

Amy lifted her head just long enough to glare at me with murder in her eyes.

“Get out,” she hissed. “Get out of my sight. I swear to God, Jackson—”

Another contraction slammed into her.

She yanked me forward so hard I nearly face‑planted into the pillows.

“Don’t leave me!” she sobbed, clutchin’ my shirt in both fists. “Don’t you dare leave me now, don’t you dare—”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” I whispered, holdin’ her tight, lettin’ her crush my ribs. “I’m right here, darlin’. I’m right here.”

Izzy nodded sharply. “Good. Stay with her. Amy, breathe. Lean into it.”

Amy pressed her forehead into the mountain of pillows, breathin’ like she was tryin’ to outrun the pain, her whole body tremblin’.

Cheyenne murmured, calm as a river, “You’re doin’ perfect. Let it come. You’re strong.”

Amy let out a ragged cry, pushin’ with everything she had, clingin’ to me like I was the only solid thing left in the world.

And the room moved with her — the women guiding, steadying, anchoring — while she rode the wave of pain and fury and fear and instinct all at once.

Amy bore down with a strength that made the whole world hold its breath.

One push. Two. Three.

And then—

A cry.

A sharp, furious, perfect cry.

Our daughter slid into my hands, tiny and warm and louder than any foal I’d ever delivered.

Laney Jo Kershaw was born.

Amy sobbed. I sobbed. Savannah sobbed. Beau burst in and froze, eyes wide, then whispered, “Holy crap.” He stumbled back out — this was not a sight for a teen boy, no matter how rugged.

Two hours later, Connor arrived lookin’ like he’d driven through Armageddon.

He stopped in the doorway, breathless, coat half‑buttoned, hair wind‑whipped like he’d sprinted the last mile. And Laney greeted him with a scream that rattled the windows.

Connor stared at her, then at us, then back at her.

“Well,” he said, “she’s got lungs, your Laney Jo. Guess you two didn’t need me after all.”

Amy laughed. I laughed. Laney screamed louder.

But Connor was already movin’ — that quiet, efficient doctor mode he slipped into like second nature. He washed his hands, rolled up his sleeves, and checked Amy first, gentle but thorough. Pulse. Bleeding. Uterine firmness. Her color. Her breathin’. Her pain.

“You did beautifully,” he murmured to her, voice softening in a way he didn’t use with anyone else. “Everything looks good. Let’s keep an eye on your bleeding, but you’re stable.”

Then he turned to Laney, scooping her up with practiced hands. She protested with another furious wail.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “I know. I ruined your evening.”

He checked her reflexes, her color, her breathing, her temperature. Counted fingers and toes. Listened to her chest. Examined the cord stump. All business, but with that quiet reverence he always had around new life.

“Strong heartbeat. Good tone. Good cry. No signs of distress.” He nodded, satisfied. “She’s perfect.”

He handed her back to Amy, then pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket — because of course he kept one on him even on Easter — and jotted down the time of birth, estimated weight, Apgar scores, maternal vitals, and whatever else doctors scribble without lookin’.

“Alright,” Connor said, snapping the notebook shut. “I’ll file this properly when I get back. For now, both of you need rest, fluids, and absolutely no heroics.”

He shot me a look.

“Jackson, that includes you.”

I held up my hands. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ heroic. I’m barely standin’.”

Izzy snorted from the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “Ah sure, look at him — poor man just had a baby, didn’t he? All that hard labor, the strain of holdin’ her hand and gettin’ yelled at. Someone fetch this fella a cold cloth before he faints dead away.”

Tansy cackled. Cheyenne hid a smile. Even Amy managed a breathless laugh.

Connor didn’t even blink. “Yes, well… I’ll add ‘severe sympathy fatigue’ to his chart.”

He checked Amy one more time, adjusted the blankets around her, then brushed a thumb over Laney’s tiny fist.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” he murmured.

And for the first time since she’d been born, Laney went quiet — just long enough to stare up at him like she was decidin’ whether she approved.

Then she screamed again.

Connor sighed. “Yep. Definitely your daughter. Has opinions to boot and a loud voice to let everyone know about them, and looks ready to rumble. How very Kershaw.” he winked at me, and I knew he was referring to the long road it took for me to let go of Bri and accept she belongs with Brad. Well, had I met Amy years ago, we could have saved ourselves all that. Blame fate and timing.

And in that tiny bedroom, with spring wind rustlin’ the curtains and newborn foals cryin’ in the barn, our family — messy, loud, chaotic — felt whole.

With my wife, my Amy, my whole world, and our little Easter miracle.

Oh — and for those wonderin’: All the mares and foals are fine too. Wouldn’t ya know it, we had a bunch of chicks hatch as well. Lots of Easter babies at the Kershaw ranch this year.

But none as special as my sweet Laney Jo.

Exhale

Connor finally slipped out, leaving the room dim and warm, the spring wind rustlin’ the curtains. The women drifted off one by one, soft‑footed and smiling, leaving us in a cocoon of blankets and low lamplight.

Amy lay propped up on pillows, Laney asleep on her chest, tiny fist curled against her collarbone. She looked exhausted and radiant all at once — flushed cheeks, damp hair, eyes still glassy from everything she’d just survived.

I eased onto the bed beside her, careful as a man handling glass. She shifted just enough to lean into me, her head finding that spot under my jaw like it always did — like her body remembered even when her mind was wrung out.

For a long moment, we just breathed. Slow. Shaky. Together.

“Jackson…” she whispered, voice thin and trembling. “Can you believe we’re parents now?”

I swallowed hard. Couldn’t get a single word past the knot in my throat. Somehow, this felt like the first time bein’ a dad all over again — only heavier, deeper, like my heart had been cracked open and rearranged.

So I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her in close, and kissed the top of her head.

She sniffed, tears sliding into her hairline. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For givin’ me this life. For bein’ the best damn husband I could’ve dreamed up. For givin’ me her.”

My forehead dropped to hers. Eyes burnin’. Breath uneven. Still couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust myself to.

She brushed her thumb over my cheek, soft as a prayer. “And I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all the things I said. I don’t even remember half of it. But thank you for not leavin’ when I told you to go.”

I shook my head, voice rough as gravel. “Darlin’, I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.”

Silence settled again — warm, heavy, holy.

Then Amy cleared her throat, wiped her eyes, and said, dry as firewood:

“…Sorry I called you a motherfucker.”

I choked — then burst out laughin’, buryin’ my face in her neck so I wouldn’t wake the baby. She giggled too, shoulders shakin’, Laney snufflin’ in her sleep like she was in on the joke.

When I finally caught my breath, I kissed her slow and soft and whispered against her lips:

“Well… as of tonight, ya know you ain’t wrong. Anything you and I do in this bedroom once you’re healed up and want me like that again is gonna be just that.”

She laughed again — that tired, delirious, joy‑soaked laugh that only comes after survivin’ somethin’ big and comin’ out the other side still holdin’ each other.

And there, in the quiet glow of our bedroom, with our daughter sleepin’ between us and the whole world finally still, we held each other like we’d been remade.

Because we had. All three of us.