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brODY

From the barn, I catch the tail end of Conway’s argument with Grace and her SUV kicking up dust as it pulls away down the long driveway, back tires fishtailing a little where she punched the gas harder than she should. I don’t blame her. After what Conway said to her, leaving was her only option.

I lean against the fence post; jaw clenched, hands filthy from morning chores, eyes gritty with tiredness and dust. My focus should be on the cattle or what needs fixing today: the busted gate, the irrigation line Conway wanted checked.

But all my focus is on her brake lights fading like a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.

From the start, Grace felt wrong to me. She was too polished, too fast-talking, too city girl.

I didn’t believe she belonged outside of her concrete world of quick words and glamor.

I thought she’d flinch before she got any dirt under her nails and lose her mind at the muck and the smells and noise and the work.

But the longer she was here, the more I had to work to convince myself she was wrong for us.

She found a way to fit in with every man in this place and had the kids smiling and happy whenever she was near.

I found myself wanting to believe in her and in the whole stupid dream, but I’m never the one who jumps in headfirst. I was never going to be the one to say she’s the one we need to fight for.

Doubt is always the strongest voice in my head.

Stronger than the words spoken by my own heart.

But now that I’ve heard what she said to Conway, the way her voice cracked in a way it’s impossible to fake, all my doubts have quieted. She didn’t defend the article—hell, she was ashamed of it. That wasn’t a performance. That was heartbreak.

And now she’s gone, and it’s too fucking late for me to believe in her, to believe in what my brothers and cousins have been searching for.

I kick a rock with the toe of my boot, watching it skitter across the dirt. I should be relieved. I say, “I told you so,” to the whole damn house when I walk in for breakfast. But the thing sitting heavy in my chest doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like a loss.

And it’s not only mine. They’re all gonna feel it. Every single man who let her in and who let themselves hope. They’ll feel it like a gut punch when they find out.

I wait until I’ve counted them all back into the house and follow them into the kitchen, the familiar scent of coffee,, frying eggs, and bacon greeting me.

The usual clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation seem muted.

Corbin stands by the stove, flipping pancakes with mechanical precision.

His shoulders are tense, and his usual easygoing demeanor is replaced with a tight-lipped focus.

Conway sits at the head of the table, his hands clasped together, eyes fixed on a spot on the tablecloth.

The others sit, one by one, each sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

A heavy silence, the kind that settles in when everyone knows something’s wrong, but no one wants to say it, takes over the room.

Even the kids must sense it. Eli and Junie bound into the room, their laughter momentarily breaking the tension, but they look around and stop dead, their gazes skirting over everyone.

Corbin turns to them, forcing a smile. “Why don’t you two watch some cartoons in the den and leave the daddies and uncles to talk? ” he suggests.

The girls exchange surprised glances. “Really?” Junie asks, her eyes lighting up but then narrowing with suspicion.

“Really,” Corbin confirms, handing them each a plate of pancakes.

They scamper off, plates in hand, leaving the adults in the kitchen. The silence returns, heavier than before. I take a seat at the table, the chair creaking under me. My gaze shifts to Conway, who finally looks up, his expression grim.

“Grace is gone,” he announces, his voice flat.

A collective intake of breath follows. Corbin’s spatula clatters on the stovetop. Jaxon flops against the chair back like the wind got knocked out of him.

“I told her to leave. She had to go. She betrayed us,” Conway continues. “Used us for her story. Everything we shared, everything we trusted her with, is all out there now… published in that damned magazine.”

I remain silent, the weight of his words settling over me even though I knew they were coming.

The room erupts into a cacophony of voices, each expressing their anger, disappointment, and hurt.

Phones are found, and the article is brought up to read.

I sit back, absorbing it all, the image of Grace’s tear-streaked face as she drove away, replaying in my mind.

By the time the coffee’s brewed and the bacon is hitting plates, Lennon’s reading parts of the article from his phone.

Dylan’s jaw is tight enough to fracture teeth.

McCartney leans over his shoulder, his expression grave.

“What the hell is this? This isn’t the article she wrote. I read it from start to finish.”

Dylan scrapes his chair back, standing and pressing his hands to the table. “She wrote about Nora, about my kids. Like I’m some joke who can’t keep his family together. This… this is bullshit.”

Corbin puts his phone down slowly, his eyes dark with something deeper than anger—betrayal. “She wrote about Sadie,” he says quietly. “Things I told her in confidence.”

Conway doesn’t say a word as he stares out the window like it’s taking everything in him to restrain himself.

“She didn’t write this,” McCartney says again. “It has her name and picture next to it, but this isn’t her voice. Not even close.”

“She wrote the first draft,” Conway says.

“And the notes that someone else has used to craft it. Doesn’t matter if she typed the final words or not.

This got out through her. Period. She’s the Editor-in-Chief.

There’s no way she didn’t know what was getting printed.

This was all about finding the best possible clickbait stories and nothing about helping us. ”

The silence that follows is leaden. Heavy. The final nail in a coffin.

And that’s when I speak.

“She didn’t want this,” I say, my voice cutting through the air like a whip crack. “I saw her face when she left. That wasn’t someone proud of a hit piece. She was gutted and betrayed. I don’t believe she knew about the switch in the content of the article.”

All eyes turn to me.

“She made mistakes,” I continue. “Writing things she wasn’t intending to share in the article.

Trusting colleagues who put their own interests ahead of Grace and ours.

But we’ve all made mistakes and forgiven each other time and time again.

And if we throw Grace away because of one misstep, one she didn’t even control, we don’t deserve what we’ve been asking for. ”

“Daddy,” Eli says, dashing into the kitchen, clutching something in her hand.

Dylan holds his arms out for her as she barely stops before crashing into her. “We’re talking, sweetheart,” he says .

“But look.” She holds a bundle of papers fixed together with string.

Dylan takes it and glances at the front. “The Adventures of Cowboy Chicken. What is this?”

“Grace must have made it. Look inside. It’s our story. She wrote it all out and even drew some pictures.” She screws up her nose. “The pictures aren’t very good. Uncle McCartney could do better, but the story is the one we all made up.”

Harrison reaches out for the bundle, shaking his head and smiling at first, then growing solemn.

“She brought so much to all of us,” he says. “We won’t find anyone to rival her. We have to get her back.”

The makeshift book, a sweet memento created for the kids in this house, inspired by their imaginations, passes from man to man, and I lean back, arms crossed, waiting, because what comes next will decide everything.