Page 24 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Ford grinned, the edge of tension melting. “Beer’s good.”

I drifted to the kitchen, where Sutton and Chloe were lining up plates. “Here,” Sutton said, thrusting a bowl of salad into my hands. “Put this on the table, then go socialize. You don’t have to help. Eryn threatened to murder us if we put you to work.”

I followed orders, placing the salad next to trivets waiting for the hot stuff. The table was massive, built for a family twice this size. I ran my fingers along the edge, feeling the ridges and nicks, the history etched into the wood.

Behind me, Ford and Walker were talking quietly near the window, voices low. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see the way Walker clapped Ford on the back, pulling him in with an easy smile. It was the first time I’d seen Ford look relaxed since he set foot inside.

Noah and Abby zipped past, arms outstretched, chasing invisible birds—I think. I watched them, my chest tightening in that weird way it does when you realize you’re happy and terrified of losing it at the same time.

The next half hour was a tangle of laughter, clinking glasses, and shouted questions about whose turn it was to set the table or wrangle the kids.

I mostly trailed after Noah, keeping him from breaking anything valuable or ingesting an entire bowl of potato chips before dinner.

At one point, Ford joined us in the living room and knelt down to help Noah and Abby build a “monster garage” out of blocks and plastic dinosaurs.

He didn’t treat the kids like distractions—he got down on their level and listened to their nonsense with the kind of attention that made them both light up.

Abby explained her theory of dinosaurs (“They went extinct because they didn’t have jackets”) and Ford nodded along, adding, “Makes sense. Montana winters are brutal.”

Noah clung to Ford’s arm, clearly convinced he was the coolest person alive.

As we wrangled the kids to the table, the last of the light faded and the overheads glowed soft and warm.

Eryn had set the big farmhouse table with mismatched plates and napkins, little jars of wildflowers in the center.

The room buzzed with a kind of energy I hadn’t felt since I was a kid—like something good might happen, and for once, it didn’t have to be earned with pain or effort.

A few minutes later, Eryn called everyone to the table. There was a brief, beautiful chaos as people herded the kids and found seats.

Walker called everyone to attention with a loud whistle. “Gray’s on his way in,” he announced, and something in the air changed. Not tense, exactly, but charged.

Caroline ducked her head. Mason took a swig from his glass, eyes on the door. Eryn smoothed her dress and squeezed my hand under the table.

Then the back door opened.

Gray Anderson entered, six-foot-three of pure Montana.

He wore a flannel shirt that was probably older than Noah, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his short hair stuck up like he’d just run a baseball mitt sized hand through it a dozen times.

He paused when he saw Ford, not moving, not blinking, just taking in the fact of him.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Even the kids stilled.

Then Gray entered the dining room slowly, setting the platter down on a trivet and turning to find Ford.

“I’m sorry it took me a minute to get used to you being back. Twenty years is too damn long without my friend,” he said, voice rough with emotion. He held out his hand, but when Ford took it, Gray pulled him in for a hug.

Ford slapped Gray’s back, something in his face softening. “Should’ve come back sooner,” he said.

Gray let go and looked Ford up and down, then nodded once. “We both could’ve done better. But we’ll do better going forward.”

Eryn had tears in her eyes, and I felt a soft happiness flood my chest. It was a simple thing, but it shifted the air in the room. Like a weight had been lifted.

It was over in a minute, but the effect lingered—like the house itself was relieved.

Walker crowed, “Now that we’ve had our cue-the-sappy-music moment, can we please eat before Abby starts gnawing on the furniture?”

Everyone laughed, and the last of the tension was gone.

The rest of us sat—Ford next to me—and plates were filled, and wine was poured.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, Walker telling a story about nearly burning down a hay barn; Eryn talking about yoga class disasters; Sutton bragging about Noah’s record for most muffins eaten in a single bakery visit.

Ford kept glancing at me, and every time our eyes met, I felt something warm flicker to life in my chest.

We dug in, plates loaded with steak and chicken, roasted vegetables, homemade bread.

Noah sat next to Ford, who cut his meat into perfect cubes and made up stories about each piece (“This one is a rocket ship. This one is a T-Rex, but he’s trying to be polite”).

I watched Ford’s hands, the way he poured me a glass of wine before I asked, the way he stole glances at me whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.

Conversation bounced around the table, sometimes serious, mostly not.

Eryn told a story about a yoga class gone wrong; Walker interrupted with jokes; Caroline chimed in with a hilarious story from her clinic about a farmer who tried to superglue his stitches shut but ended up gluing his hands together.

I mostly listened, feeling the hum of it all sink into my bones.

But the real surprise was how often Ford and I ended up in our own little orbit.

Every time our hands brushed, it was like a live wire.

When we talked, the rest of the table faded out.

He asked me about books, about what I wanted to do with my life, about my best memory from childhood.

I wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s attention, but Ford made it feel like the most natural thing in the world.

At one point, I caught Eryn watching us with a sly smile. She winked and mouthed, “Into you.” I rolled my eyes, but it sure seemed like she was right.

After the first round of food, Eryn raised her glass. “We never toasted. That seems like bad luck. Gray?”

He looked annoyed for half a second, but pinched Eryn’s side and gave her a kiss, before standing and raising his own glass. “Uh, to old friends, new family, and not letting the past dictate the future.” Everyone cheered and toasted.

“Damn, brother, that was weirdly eloquent for you.” Walker teased.

“I can be fucking eloquent when I need to be,” he grumbled.

I looked around, realizing how much had changed in just a few hours. I wasn’t the odd one out anymore. I was part of this.

Ford’s knee brushed mine under the table, and he left it there. I smiled, and he smiled back, like we were in on a secret.

As the night went on, the house got louder, the food more comforting, the laughter deeper. The sense of belonging, of finally being somewhere I didn’t have to hide, settled into me with a sweetness that made me ache.

And as Ford squeezed my hand beneath the table, I realized I wasn’t scared of hope anymore.