Page 21
Story: Wrangle Me
Callum steps back, arms crossed over his still-unfairly broad chest, admiring his handiwork like he’s just installed a monument instead of a free little library. The late afternoon sun glows gold across his stubbled jaw, catching the faint lines that have deepened over the years—the kind earned through laughter, late nights, and a lot of love.
“I’ll leave it to you to fill it up,” he says, shooting me a grin that could still derail my entire day. “Hardbacks only.”
I look up at him in awe. Callum, my husband, my lover, he’s my whole world. He’s the safest place I’ve ever known. He took all the shattered, unsure, sharp-edged pieces of my past and helped me build a life that I can’t believe I get to live.
“I love it,” I say, voice quiet but sure. “It’s perfect.”
The newest free little library stands proudly at the edge of our front yard. It’s painted in cheerful blues and soft cream, with hand-stenciled wildflowers dancing across the sides. This is the final piece in a project Callum started the day our son read his first book cover to cover without help, or bribery, I might add.
Now there’s one at Kingridge Ranch, one downtown in Sagebrush Creek, and this one—right here, where bedtimestories are sacred and bookmarks are everywhere but where they’re supposed to be. Each little box is a promise:Take a book, leave a book. No judgment. No due dates. Just stories, shared freely.
It’s a small thing. But it means everything to me.
It’s Callum’s quiet way of keeping his promise that our children would grow up in a house full of wonder and drenched in knowledge. We want them to be free to ask questions and loud enough to demand answers.
And with four kids between Rosalie and me, this little library is going to see more turnover than a pie stand at the state fair.
Callum also managed to talk his brothers into investing in the strip of land that connects our home to Rosalie and Dawson’s. We built our home way out on the far edge of the ranch. It took some sweet-talking, but in the end, it was the best decision we ever made.
The fences are gone now. The land between our homes is open and well-worn. A trail cuts through it, packed with the pounding of sticky feet and barefoot summer sprints. The kids run wild and free back and forth between our houses, dragging popsicles, pool towels, and inside jokes in their wake.
We didn’t build a family. We grew one. It’s wild and unruly, but it’s rooted in so much love. And it’s everything I never dared to dream of.
Callum’s laugh still gets me every time. His rough hands are still the ones I reach for when the world feels too loud. And his kisses still melt me. The man might’ve traded rodeo boots for dad duty, but he hasn’t slowed down one bit. Not when it comes to the bedroom… or, let’s be honest, the laundry room, hayloft, or that one time in the barn shower.
He’s the kind of father I wish every child had. Patient. Protective. Goofy in the best way. He can wrangle toddlers and livestock with the same calm authority, and when he readsbedtime stories, he does the voices. Callum has built us a home filled with safety, silliness, and so many books that even the walls feel like they’re whispering stories.
As I watch him walk back toward the porch, one of our sons barrels toward him at full speed. His light hair is wild and sticky with lemonade. Callum scoops him up like he weighs nothing and spins him around while he shrieks with joy. He giggles and clings to his neck, and I swear, I fall in love all over again.
Watching Callum with our children, I feel that same flutter I did the first time I saw him. That smirk. His steadiness. That quiet strength that unraveled me and built me back better all comes rushing back. Once the kids are tucked in tonight, I plan to remind Callum exactly how much I love him.