Page 45

GRACE

“Again. Again.”

Eli grins up at me, waiting for me to catch my breath.

The evening is glowing with warm light and laughter.

String lights sway gently in the breeze overhead, casting soft halos over the blankets, overturned cake plates, and scattered lanterns.

The music that hums from Levi’s old speaker is something with a twangy guitar and lyrics about broken hearts and second chances.

I’m barefoot, my feet sunk into soft grass, the hem of my shirt tied across my belly as I spin Eli in wide circles, her high-pitched giggles making my chest ache with something so big and beautiful I don’t have words for it and can barely contain it.

My head is light, maybe from the punch, or maybe from the sheer joy flooding through me.

The air smells like toasted marshmallows, burning wood, and wildflowers, and for the first time in forever, I feel like the main character in my own story.

Levi’s doing a ridiculous lasso dance for the kids, tripping over his own boots and yodeling until Matty nearly pees himself laughing.

Dylan’s slow-dancing with Hannah standing on his boots, her arms stretched around his legs while he shuffles them in a circle, humming along with the music.

Jaxon surprises me most. He isn’t trying to dance.

He’s actually good. Graceful in a way that doesn’t fit with his usual quiet intensity.

He twirls Junie, lifting her high and steady in the air as she shrieks with delight.

I stop spinning and bend over, breathless, Eli clinging to my waist, giggling so hard she hiccups.

I glance around and take it all in; these unbelievable, complicated, good-hearted men, these sweet kids, and everything they’ve done for me. Is this what family is supposed to feel like?

Conway steps toward me, hand extended. “C’mon, city girl. Let’s see if that punch made you brave.”

I raise an eyebrow and slide my hand into his, laughing as he pulls me into a spin. He moves with surprising smoothness, guiding me across the grass like it’s an elegant ballroom.

“You’re lighter than a sack of feed,” he says with a smirk, “but you got more fire than all of us put together.”

I stumble, catching myself against his chest, dizzy with movement, sugar, and affection. “It’s the punch. Or the cake. Or the love. Maybe all three.”

The words spill from my lips without thought, but rather than looking surprised, he grins and twirls me again. And I let him.

The laughter tapers into soft giggles. The kids collapse in a tangled heap on a blanket, pink-cheeked and breathless with fun. The music shifts to something slower, softer, and I ease away from the circle with my drink cradled in both hands, needing a second to breathe.

The punch is warm in my stomach. The air is cooler now, brushing against my skin as I walk a few steps toward the edge of the clearing.

I pause near one of the fence posts, sipping slowly, watching the men settle onto blankets and logs, passing around bottles, smiling like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

Every year, I think, I used to wait like this. Just like this—watching, hoping. Birthday candles burnt out, cake getting dry, Mom trying to cover his absence with soft excuses that only made the silence louder.

I take another sip, the sweetness of the punch turning sharp.

Every year, I thought: this’ll be the one. Dad’ll show up. He’ll remember me.

But he never did.

A shaky breath escapes me. I glance back at the party; the kids curled together like puppies, their little faces lit up in the lantern glow. They deserve better than waiting and wondering if they’re enough to stay for.

There’s nothing Eli or Junie could ever do that would make their mom’s leaving make sense. Nothing.

So, why did I feel for so many years like my father leaving was all my fault?

There is nothing in the world, apart from death, that would keep these men from these children.

The ache sneaks up on me, rising so fast, I don’t see it coming. It burns behind my eyes and swells in my throat. I try to blink it away, to swallow it down, but the tears spill before I can stop them.

I turn my face from the light, away from the warmth of the fire and the hum of music and chatter.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to fall apart.

The heat of Conway’s chest is the first thing I register, and then the solid weight of his arms wrapping around me, pulling me in like it’s instinct, as his scent, woodsy and masculine, surrounds me.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady and close to my ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes for me to melt into him, burying my face in his shirt, my hands fisting against his sides like I’m afraid he’ll let me go if I don’t hold tight enough. The tears keep coming, louder now, ugly and raw. I can’t stop them.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “It’s stupid. This has been… I—” I swallow hard, trying to breathe. “I used to think it was my fault that he didn’t come back… that it was my fault he left.”

I know I’m babbling, but Conway doesn’t question anything as he strokes my back over and over.

“And now I’m here, and you all… you don’t leave. You stay. You make it work even when it’s so hard.” I lift my head, barely able to look at him through the blur. “You made me feel like I matter, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

His hand finds the back of my head, fingers weaving gently into my hair. He presses his cheek to the mine, voice gruff but tender. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. It never was.”

He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his rough thumb brushing a tear from my cheek.

“And you matter to us, Grace. You hear me? Not only tonight on your birthday but every damn day.”

I nod, swallowing a sob. I can’t speak, but I hear him. I feel his reassurance in every inch of my body, as he embraces me like I’m essential and someone worth holding onto.

Over his shoulder, I glimpse movement. Corbin and Levi quietly herd the kids toward the house, their eyes gentle, giving me space. Eli glances back at me, and Corbin dips his head to whisper something that makes her smile before scooping her into his arms.

They’re giving me this moment. Letting me fall apart without shame.

And that… that is a gift I won’t forget.

When the screen door closes, and the low hum of Corbin’s voice carries from somewhere in the house, the others gather closer. They don’t crowd me too closely, forming a kind of quiet half-circle around me and Conway, like they’re forming a wall against the rest of the world that I can hide inside.

Dylan steps forward first, pressing a cold bottle of water into my hand. “Sip it slow,” he says softly. “You’ve cried more than a person should in a year.”

Stoic and unreadable, Jaxon pulls a clean bandana from his back pocket and holds it out with a flick of his eyes that says, ‘Take it.’ Please. I do. Our fingers brush, and I use it to wipe my face.

Levi’s next. He takes my hand and presses a soft kiss on the back. “Birthdays should be about laughter, not tears,” he says. “What can we do to make you smile?”

Relief trickles through me like the cold water.

“I…”

“Give her space,” Conway says.

McCartney’s standing with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, eyes unusually focused. “That painting,” he says. “That’s what we want, Grace. And we want you to want it, too.”

I blink at him.

He continues. “Forget the article. Forget telling the world about this ranch and the eleven lonely cowboys who live here. We don’t need that anymore. We need you. Stay.”

Brody crosses his arms, his face half-shadowed by the firelight. His voice is low and steady. “Leave her be. Can’t you see she’s upset? She doesn’t need all this pressure.”

Then Jaxon speaks, rough as gravel. “We know we’re not perfect, Gracie, but we want to be for you.” His gaze flicks to mine, and his arms spread wide. “This here, it’s all we have, but you belong here… if you want to.”

The fire pops, sending up a tiny burst of sparks. I look at each of them in turn, knowing I should say something back, something meaningful and real, but the words get stuck somewhere between my throat and my ribs.

So I tell the truth.

“I didn’t know it was possible,” I whisper. “To be so fully accepted by so many people at once. And I sure as hell didn’t know it could be this easy to care for them all right back.”

No one moves. No one speaks. The air is charged with this thing these cowboys want to build between us.

I can’t give them a commitment. My life back home still calls to me with its safe routine and control. It’s hard not to panic when you’re presented with the exact opposite of everything you ever expect. The exact thing you always thought you wanted.

Instead, I take Conway’s hand and then Jaxon’s, and I lead them to sit on the blankets. I’m barefoot and emotionally wrecked, but having these men around me is all I need to feel better. McCartney drops down in front of me, wordless and warm, and I slide my hand into his, squeezing softly.

Conway sits on my other side, and when I lean into him, he doesn’t hesitate to lift his arm so I can rest my head on his shoulder. Jaxon places his broad palm on my leg, reassuring and strong.

The rest settle in around us. Quiet. Still. Together, letting the soft country music wash over us.

I don’t think about the article I have to write or the decision I have to make.

I listen as they share stories of growing up on this land, and when I’m relaxed and a little drowsy, I’ve decided what I need to do.