Page 143 of 11 Cowboys

“That would be awesome.” She sniffs. “I see you, Harrison, and I love you.”

I’ll never tire of hearing those words. “I love you, too, Gracie.”

I give her one more squeeze, then let go before I overstay my welcome in her magic space. She turns back to the screen, already typing again, the soft tap of keys filling the little cabin like the beginning of a song.

I head out, quiet as I came, letting the door click shut behind me.

Outside, the sky is streaked with pink and gold. The day’s slipping into evening, and the smell of dinner curls through the air, beckoning me. But I turn back, just once.

Through the window of the writing nook, I watch her.

Backlit by amber light, her silhouette is both sharp and soft at once, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, her lips curved in the smallest, most contented smile. She isn’t only writing a book.

She’s writing her future.

And somehow, it feels like she’s already written the stars in ours.

54

CONWAY

“Grace deserves an Olympic medal or something,” Levi says lazily, stroking her thigh.

We’ve taken our time tonight, stretching out our lovemaking like fairground taffy until we’re all spent and our girl is boneless and sticky between us. She’s lying on her belly with her head turned sideways on the pillow, hair spread out like a mermaid washed up on the shore.

The master bedroom we built for Grace is filled with the quiet rustle of bodies getting comfortable, pajamas soft against warm skin, laughter low and full-bellied. It’s our place now. Hers and ours. Pillows are piled high, limbs tangled, and someone’s already stolen half the covers.

“I don’t even want to think about the categories she’d qualify for.” Cody stretches like a cat, curling tighter around her.

“Gold medal for bareback riding for sure,” Corbin smiles.

“Bull ridin’, too,” Brody laughs.

“Barrel racing, for sure,” McCartney slaps her ass,earning a yelp.

“Conway and Dylan got a gold for team roping,” Nash says with a raised eyebrow. It’s the first time we’ve tied Grace to the bed, and it won’t be the last.

The room’s soft with a mix of lamplight and moonlight, and Grace smiles lazily like she’s got no energy left to respond to our joking.

It hits me then, hard and fast: how far we’ve come. From loneliness and hoping to this—all of us together, breathing in the same rhythm—and the thought I’ve been carrying for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment, burns so hot in my chest that I have to let it out.

I sit up a little, resting one hand on Grace’s thigh. The room quiets like my brothers and cousins sense my shift from relaxed to serious. The last time we talked about this was two weeks ago, but there hasn’t been a good moment to broach the subject, or a time when we’ve all been together without the kids.

“Gracie,” I say, meeting her lazy hazel eyes with my almost matching set. I swallow, my throat tight with nerves, even though I couldn’t be any surer about what I’m about to ask. “Are you ready to start calling this forever?”

Her head tilts, her smile faltering at the weight of the question. She turns over and sits up, naked as the day she was born, beautiful and perfect in a way I didn’t know to hope for. I reach for my jeans, discarded on the floor, finding the pocket, and curling my fingers around the velvet box I’ve kept close for days now.

“We all talked about it,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “We want this. All of us. We want to build something permanent.”

I flip open the box.

Inside is our grandmother’s ring, a simple, vintage setting made up of many small diamonds surrounding a center emerald, much like this family gathered around Grace. It isn’t flashy, but a legacy, handed down from a woman who lived and loved in the happiest marriage,perfect to show our woman exactly where she fits in our lives.

Grace’s eyes are glassy. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

I clear my throat, the kind of sound that rolls low and deep, cutting through the silence like a blade through rope. Around me, the other men are still, watching her with the same mix of reverence and hope. This moment? Every chore, every look, every quiet breath beside her has all been leading here.

“This might not look like the kind of love story most folks understand,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “And yeah, we know it’ll raise eyebrows. We’ll probably spend a lifetime answering the same damn questions, or telling people to mind their own damned business. But none of that changes what’s real right here. This—what we’ve built with you—is steadier than any vow, stronger than any fence line. You walked into our lives and turned this ranch into a home. Turned a bunch of stubborn, scarred-up men into a family.”