Page 50

50

Jake

It starts on a quiet Tuesday evening inside a makeshift fort Violet built from couch cushions, feed sack blankets, and enough stuffed animals to launch a small expedition. The living room’s lit by one crooked flashlight balanced in a mason jar, casting shadows that dance across the quilt-draped walls.

She pats my shirt with sticky fingers and says, “Daddy, Piper need pink dress... and big kiss.”

I blink at the glitter sticker stuck to my thumb. “She needs what now?”

“Dress,” she repeats, very serious. “And kiss. Then she stay forever.” She spreads her arms wide—nearly smacks herself in the face—and finishes, “Like in princess book. You marry Piper now.”

I grin, because somehow, despite having a vocabulary made mostly of food, animals, and sass, she just pitched me a marriage proposal. From the mouth of a two-year-old in a tutu and mismatched socks.

The thing is, I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Ever since the Marnie mess eased off. Ever since Piper started showing up—not as the girl I thought I had to watch, but as the woman who keeps showing up even when it’s hard. I stopped counting days by how mad I was and started counting them by how much better they were when she was near.

I scoop Violet into my lap, her tiara sliding sideways as she giggles and pokes my nose.

“You want Piper in our forever?” I ask gently.

She nods with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict. “Uh-huh. She make stars. Reads big books.”

“And you think we should ask her?”

Her whole face lights up. “Draw it!” she shouts, then slaps her hands together with a squeal. “I draw forever!”

I chuckle, tugging the blanket up over her bare toes. “Absolutely, cowgirl. I need your help.”

She gasps and dives for her crayon box like we’ve just declared national art emergency.

Operation Stick Figure Forever is officially green-lit.

***

I don’t want a flash mob or fireworks, or one of those grand public spectacles that get posted with a hashtag and go viral by morning. Piper’s had enough of spotlights and staged smiles. This proposal—our proposal—needs to be quiet. Honest. Something as real as the dust under our boots and the way she laughs when she’s not performing for anyone.

So I pick the east paddock overlook. It's not postcard material—there’s a busted hinge on the gate, a patch of stubborn scrub brush, and some rust on the fence line—but it’s ours. It’s the spot where Piper took that picture of me lassoing a runaway steer last summer. It’s not perfect, but neither are we. That’s the point.

Of course, no Ice moment is complete without the entire circus pitching in.

Blaze sneaks a hay bale from the feed barn and drags it under the big pecan tree. He throws a saddle blanket over it and calls it ambiance. Emma climbs a ladder and strings warm fairy lights between two fence posts, borrowing them from the tack shed without bothering to ask. She says it’s for “festival promo shots,” but we both know that’s a cover. Sadie contributes a worn but soft picnic blanket and swears she won’t live-tweet any of it.

Dad—Jack Ice himself, legendary for silence and disapproval—quietly volunteers to keep watch from a distance. Savannah trails behind him with a basket of wildflowers from Annie’s garden and arranges them in mason jars like a Pinterest dream, saying something about making sure Piper gets her “storybook moment.”

And speaking of Annie, she’s watching Savannah and Blaze’s two kids, Luke and India. She made us promise to record the proposal for her to watch later.

Even Blake, who hates sentiment like cows hate fireworks, gets involved. He rigs a micro-LED projector so Violet’s stick-figure masterpiece can glow on the barn wall at full scale. The man won’t say the word “proposal” out loud, but apparently he’ll code an entire slideshow to make it happen.

Aubrey shows up with a thermos of something spiced and strong, saying it’s “for nerves or celebration—whichever comes first.” She winks and starts arranging tea lights along the fence line with total efficiency.

Madison brings homemade lemon bars—“just in case someone needs emotional carbs”—and casually positions herself by the camera setup, completely ready to go.

Evelyn sends her regrets. “Urgent charity luncheon in Milwaukee,” her RSVP reads. I translate that as: doesn’t want a front row seat to Piper’s upgrade . Honestly? That works just fine for me.

By sundown, the plan is stitched together—ragged but full of heart. Just like us.

***

Saturday morning Violet spreads crayons across the kitchen table. She sticks her tongue out in concentration while I nurse coffee. Twenty minutes later she lifts the page, triumphant.

Three stick figures: me tall and lopsided; Piper with bright-yellow spaghetti hair; Violet, a tiny swirl with a cowboy hat almost as big as her body. Above us she prints, painstakingly large:

“FOREVER”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “It’s beautiful, kiddo.”

She beams. “You show Piper. Then we give her cookies.”

Apparently cookies are step two. I can live with that.

***

We tell Piper it’s a family picture evening—Emma wants promo shots for next year’s festival brochure. Zero suspicion. Piper arrives in jeans, a soft burgundy sweater, camera slung across her torso. The second she spots the lone straw bale under the pecan tree lit by warm fairy lights, her stride falters.

“What’s all this?” she murmurs, eyes flicking to me.

“Picture spot,” I say lightly, taking her hand. My pulse pounds like ice drums. “Come on.”

The family disperses to strategic hiding posts—Blaze behind the tractor, Emma and Sadie behind the feed shed, Blake tinkering with his projector near the barn. Violet scampers ahead, clutching her rolled-up drawing.

We reach the bale. Piper’s gaze sweeps the horizon: sun bleeding pink over gold grass, lights twinkling like captured fireflies. “Jake,” she breathes, “it’s gorgeous.”

“Couldn’t let your camera have all the glory.”

She laughs softly. I guide her to sit; Violet climbs onto the bale between us, picture clutched to her chest.

“Piper,” Violet says, handing it over, “this is fur-ever.”

Piper unrolls the drawing. Her breath hitches; her free hand rises to her lips. Tears shimmer instantly. “Oh, sweet girl…”

I drop to one knee in the grass. Piper’s eyes snap to me, wide. Behind her the barn wall flickers to life: Blake’s projector enlarges Violet’s drawing, the word FOREVER glowing ten feet tall.

I swallow. Words never came easy, but I owe her plain truth.

“I’m not asking because we’re perfect,” I say, voice rough. “I’m asking because we’re real. We mess up, but we show up. You make me better. You make Violet braver. And I can’t imagine a future photo where you’re not in the frame.”

I pull the ring box from my vest pocket—simple white gold, tiny filigree stars, a nod to her night-sky photos. “Piper Abbott, will you marry me and be part of our forever?”

For a heartbeat everything is silent—no crickets, no distant cattle, no audience breath. Piper’s shoulders tremble; tears spill over. She nods once, twice, then manages, “Yes—God, yes,” half laugh, half sob.

Violet squeals and claps, nearly falling off the bale. Piper scoops her close. I slide the ring on—perfect fit—then stand and pull both of them into my arms. The three of us sway under the lights, while distant whoops break out from the hiding spots.

Blake and Blaze emerge first, mock-arguing who cried more. Emma barrels in and wraps Piper in a tearful hug, mumbling, “About time.” Dad smiles his rare, mighty-oak smile, clasping my shoulder.

Sadie hangs back a moment, watching the swirl of celebration. When Piper opens her arms, Sadie steps in, hugging her fiercely. Over Piper’s shoulder she meets my eyes, a quiet pride shining.

Later, after everyone drifts toward the house for celebratory chili, Piper and I linger by the fence. She turns the ring under the lights, admiration and wonder etched on her face.

“Not perfect,” she echoes, smiling up at me. “But real. I’ll take that forever.”

I brush hair from her cheek. “Our forever, spark plug”—I wink at Violet, who’s chasing a moth nearby—“starts now.”

Above us, the word FOREVER still glows on the barn wall—childish spelling, lopsided letters, truth bigger than any marquee. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly, impossibly right.