Page 20

I swear to God, he shrugs. Or shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Either way, I take it as a shrug. Stirring the sauce in the pan next to me, I reach down and turn the knob to start boiling the water for the noodles.
Beside me, Camdyn stares at the water. “Tanner told me if you put a frog in water, it doesn’t jump out.”
“Well—” I pause and reach for the box of noodles. “They like water, but if you’re asking, will he jump out of water you bring to a boil, the answer is yes. Morgan and I tried it.”
We both turn when we hear the door open and the rush of wind that follows.
“What did we try?” Morgan asks, opening the front door and setting his hat on the rack next to his coat.
“Boiling frogs.” Camdyn jumps down from the stool, her bare feet slapping against the old wood floors I milled down myself from a live oak that fell the year Sevyn was born. Took me two years to build this house, but I take pride in the fact that I did it. With the help of my dad and brother. It’s small, but it’s paid for. Everything I made went into building this place for the girls. It’s a three thousand square foot pole building. Half of it is living quarters, the other is a shop. With vaulted ceilings and an open-concept design (essential with two naughty kids. Nowhere for them to hide), the entire thing is built out of steel and concrete to withstand our wicked winds, and there’s a storm cellar for the occasional tornado.
Morgan reaches down and picks up Camdyn and then Sev. “Did you guys see it’s snowing?” I notice a coating of white flakes in his hair. I’d been so into making dinner with the girls I hadn’t noticed it started snowing. The weather reports were saying blizzardlike conditions for the rest of the night and into tomorrow afternoon.
“Can we play in it?” Camdyn asks, wiggling out of Morgan’s arms and to the large windows overlooking the pasture behind our house. She stands on her tippy-toes to peer out the glass covered in a thin layer of frost from the wind. “Where’s Lulu? Is she warm?”
Lulu is Camdyn’s grullo quarter horse. Yep. My five-year-old has her own horse. But when your grandpa has only two grandkids and raises horses, you’re bound to score on that level. They might not be attending private schools or have a personal nanny, but they have a pretty damn good ranch life and every man here wrapped around their fingers.
“She’s in the barn. I made sure to put a blanket on her, extra hay and,” he pauses, burying his face into Sevyn’s neck as she cackles with laughter. “Marshmallows.”
Smiling, I wipe my hands on a towel and watch my brother with my girls. I learned before I was old enough for a shot of whiskey that being a father and a dad hold entirely two different meanings. Being a dad requires you to be present, in the moment, and interacting with your kids.
Fathers yell out orders and demand respect.
Dads show them how to respect others, including them.
I can’t say I’m doing that great of a job with the girls by myself, but I’m trying. And that starts with our weekly spaghetti nights. Morgan joined not long after we started doing them because he loves spaghetti. It’s nice to spend some time with him where we’re not working.
“Did you cut the ice in the pond?” Morgan asks, removing his gloves and placing them near the fire I have going.
I nod. “Yeah, almost fell in too.”
He laughs, smiling at me. “Nothing like a polar bear plunge in a blizzard.”
“No kidding.” Morgan and I jump in the pond every New Year’s Day buck-ass naked, because we’re crazy. They say it means good luck, but I haven’t had much good luck in years, so it might be a crock of shit.
Peeking over my shoulder out the kitchen window, I notice the snow accumulating on the covered porch.
“Nut sac,” Sev mumbles under her breath, climbing onto a chair.
I turn and stare at her. Told you she was burning that word into her brain earlier today. I see her on a chair she’s pushed up against the stove, spoon in hand, ready to dip it into the sauce. The spoon she had on the ground earlier. “What are you doing?”
Her mischievous blue eyes focus on mine. “I’m stirrin’ the witch’s stew.”
I smirk. “Can I help you?”
Determination digs deep, her lips in a flat line. “No. I do it.”
“You’re getting it everywhere. And I don’t know if I want you stirring it. You ate veggie straws with your feet earlier.”
Beside us, Camdyn looks like she’s going to throw up. “And you let her?”
I glance at Camdyn. “Have you not met your sister?”
Morgan kicks his boots off near the door and makes his way into the kitchen area, sitting at the kitchen island. He sighs, the last few days written on his face.
Sev gets down from the chair she pushed next to the stove, carries the spoon with spaghetti sauce on it with her over to Morgan. “Are you tired from all your sleeping?”
He peers down at her. “I don’t get much sleep, sweetheart.”