Page 8

Plates are passed. Bread is distributed.

Kids climb into chairs and silverware clatters like percussion.

The cowboys file in like a slow-moving tide with broad shoulders, deep voices, laughing and creating the hum of family.

There are no instructions or orders. People fall into their roles, ladling out huge bowls of heart soup and carrying them to the table.

The kids are served first, warned to blow on their spoons, or eat cornbread or crusty bread with lashings of butter first.

McCartney urges me to sit, and he supplies me with twice as much food as I would usually eat, but somehow, the portion looks just right. This has been one hungry day.

Corbin is the last to approach the impossibly long table, surveying it something akin to pride .

“Sit,” Conway tells him. “We’re good.”

He takes his place between Hannah and Caleb, watching Matty with fatherly concern as he pulls his bread into chunks, dropping it like spongy boats into his broth.

“Everyone, thank Grace,” he says. “For helping prepare this meal.”

“Thank you, Grace,” everyone says, and I blush like a tomato.

“I didn’t do much.”

“Wait till you find out what she made for dessert.” The kids stare at the counters, eyes wide and excited. “We might decide to never let her leave.”

Conway sits at the head of the long wooden table like it was built around him, with his spine straight and shoulders wide. He eats like a man who sees nourishment as just another job to get done.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t watching.

His gaze never lingers anywhere for long, glancing quickly at the kids, at the men. At me . Measuring. Weighing. Guarding.

His face gives nothing away. It’s handsome, in a less pretty and obvious way than Levi’s.

His features are hard-edged and lived-in.

The faint silver at his temples does something dangerous to my insides; the scar just above his right eyebrow is half-faded and a mystery I’d like to solve.

Bar fight? Errant animal? Something less impressive?

His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his forearms corded and tanned, veins rising like topography beneath his skin, and when he lifts his glass to take a sip of water, I watch the flex of his wrist, the way his thumb traces the rim afterward like he’s still thinking.

Like he never stops thinking.

I should be eating. I should be listening to the men swapping jokes and the kids arguing about who gets the last roll.

But I’m stuck on the man at the head of the table who seems to hold up the ceiling with sheer presence alone.

And that thumb tracing the glass. I bet he could do magic things with it.

He still hasn’t looked at me.

And yet, I know he’s aware of every breath I take.

We eat shoulder to shoulder, savoring Corbin’s efforts, exchanging stories, jokes, and ladles of second helpings. At one point, Levi grins at me and says, “Don’t get used to the light work, city girl. Day two’s coming for you.”

“And it won’t be gentle,” Cody adds from the end of the table with a wicked smirk.

“She did all right today,” McCartney throws in. “Kept the kids from mutiny and tangles.”

“Pretty hair,” Junie says, patting her already fraying braids.

“Still time for mutiny and tangles,” Dylan mutters, but there’s laughter behind it.

“Still bedtime to go,” Corbin adds, handing Caleb another slice of bread.

It’s loud, warm and overwhelming, but it feels like being pulled into a new orbit. Like I’m not just watching the story. I’m already sitting inside it.

***

When the bowls and plates are cleared, coffee is poured for the adults, hot chocolates are prepared for the kids, and Corbin returns to the table with a tray covered in a dish towel.

He sets it in the center of the table with all the reverence of a pirate presenting treasure, or a magician revealing the flourishing culmination of his trick.

“Warm brownies,” he announces. “Courtesy of our newest recruit.”

The kids practically levitate in their seats. Hannah gasps like she’s discovered unicorns are real, and I contemplate what it means to be a recruit in this household.

“They have chocolate chips,” I say, a little self-consciously. “And salt on top. That’s a thing now.”

“She’s fancy,” Levi says, already reaching.

“She’s dangerous,” Jaxon murmurs from somewhere down the table, but he takes one too. “To our waistlines. ”

There isn’t a man in the place with a waistline issue, but maybe that’s because there’s been a lack of brownies in this place.

They dig in with the enthusiasm of people who’ve never tasted sugar before. I blink, watching the expressions morph into pure joy, like the brownies are laced with more than basic ingredients.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Brody says, halfway through his.

His brothers turn to him, surprised. I guess his exclamation is out of character.

“We’re definitely letting down your tires,” Cody says.

“Excuse me?”

He grins. “So you can’t leave. You’re ours now.”

“You want to kidnap me over baked goods?”

“Sure,” Levi says, mouth full. “And for other reasons.”

Across the table, Conway’s watching me. His brownie remains beside him on a plate as he cradles his coffee cup like he can read the future in its depths.

When our eyes meet, something shifts. A flicker of heat in his gaze, or maybe something thoughtful.

I can’t tell. But it lands in my chest and stays there, taking root.

We eat. We laugh. Baby Rory is passed around like a hot potato, ending up in Levi’s lap and looking happier for it.

Junie ends up in my lap, sticky fingers and all.

Dylan nods at me like I’ve earned something I didn’t know I was working for, and even though my back hurts and I smell like sweat, butter, and onions, I feel… included.

As a guest, but also as part of this home.

By the time we finish and start clearing dishes, I overhear Corbin mutter to McCartney, “We should let her sleep in tomorrow to be nice.”

“Nope,” McCartney says. “Tomorrow, we will show her the true meaning of hard work.” Like he doesn’t believe I know it already.

And yet, somehow, I’m smiling because, as crazy as it seems, I don’t mind the idea at all.

Feeling at home is another matter.

Manure, I can deal with. Attachment, not so much.