Page 46 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“Hello? Is anyone here?” I call into Lawson’s house, stepping through the front door and waiting a beat before fully entering.

It’s a formality really. His siblings rarely come in without Lawson being here, but still, the old habit of asking sticks because one time I accidentally walked in on Cash and Rae having sex in the living room when Lawson was out of town.

Why didn’t they just do it at their own house a few miles away on the Marshall land you might ask? Because they said it was kinkier doing it here at the possibility that he might walk in.

I disable the alarm with a quick flick of my fingers, then toss my keys and purse on the kitchen counter, the clatter echoing loudly throughout the empty house.

The hall stretches quiet and familiar as I make my way to his office.

The door creaks open and, yep, it’s chaos in here.

Piles of unopened mail, notebooks half-covered in the doodles I know he makes when he's taking an important phone call, half written marketing plans printed off in Power Point format and his dirty cowboy hat sits on top it all.

It’s a mess that would normally give my Type A side an aneurysm, but somehow Lawson always knows exactly where everything is. Organized chaos, he calls it. I’ve stopped questioning it because he's always on top of things.

I crouch behind his desk and slide open the cabinet where he keeps the black iron safe. Just like he told me, I spin the knob and enter Beckham’s birthdate. A soft click. The door creaks open and I’m in.

Inside, there’s wads of cash. Neatly rubber-banded stacks of hundreds rest beside legal documents in clear sleeves, two passports, and a navy zip-up folder.

“Geez, Lawson. What the hell are you doing with this much money?”

I push the cash aside and unzip the folder. Social security cards, official-looking paperwork. My fingers pause on a birth certificate. I don’t mean to read it, I really don’t. But my eyes catch on the name printed there in dark, black ink like a message.

Lawson Daniel Miller.

Wait—what?

I blink and read it again.

Not Marshall, Miller?

My eyes dart to the rest of the certificate, my heart thudding.

Mother: Bethany Jane Smith.

Father: Joshua Frederick Miller.

Who?

I glance back at the name. Miller. Why does that last name sound familiar?

I know I shouldn’t keep looking at it, but it’s like I’ve opened Pandora’s box and can’t put the lid back on.

I slide Lawson’s certificate behind the others and carefully reach for Beckham’s. It lists Marshall as his last name.

Why the difference? Why is Lawson's last name listed here as Miller and not Marshall?

Panic swells slowly in my chest, tight and familiar. The kind I’ve worked years to manage, to hide. My fingers fumble to gather up the documents and shove them back into the folder like they’ve burned me.

I lock the safe with trembling hands, my mind spinning with questions I don’t even know how to ask yet.

You weren’t supposed to see that. He didn’t tell you. What does it mean, though? You invaded his privacy.

I bite my lip and try to breathe. There’s got to be an explanation. There always is with him. But still, why does the name Miller itch at the edge of recognition like something I should already know?

I keep turning it over and over on the ride to the hospital with Beckham’s health insurance ID, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. But the second I see Lawson outside Beckham’s room; it’s like someone cuts the cord on my anxiety and everything falls still.

He pulls me into a hug the moment that I’m close, his warm scent wrapping me in a hug and it takes me back to what we were doing this morning in the hotel room.

“Fuck, it’s good to see you. You smell so good,” he mumbles against my head.

He cups the side of my face and kisses me deeply, grounding. His lips on mine push the noise in my head to the background for now.

“Is he cleared to go home?” I ask when we finally break apart.

Lawson nods, already holding out his hand for me to lace my fingers with his. “Yeah. We were just waiting on the card.”

I pass it to him. If he suspects anything about what I saw in that safe while I was retrieving it, he doesn’t show. His grip is warm and steady as he squeezes my hand then leads me into the room. Beckham’s sitting up in bed, foot propped up in a soft cast, his portable game player in his hands.

“Hey Dani,” he says with a grin. “Dad told me you two are dating now.”

I arch a brow at Lawson. He shrugs, grinning. “It just came out. I figured it was best he knows now.”

I smile. “Well, what do you think? You okay with it?”

Beckham throws me a thumb-up.

“He's more than okay,” Lawson murmurs, pressing another kiss to my lips.

Beckham immediately groans, loud and dramatic. “Gross, dad.”

I laugh, turning just as Melissa walks in with her purse slung over one shoulder and Doctor Walker, Regan’s husband behind her. “Dani!” she says brightly, rushing over to wrap me in a hug.

I’ve always liked Melissa. From the moment I first met her, she’s been warm, easy to talk to and kind anytime that we've interacted. Lawson was up front about their past—the fact that they were never in love, weren't even together when she got pregnant with Beckham. Melissa remarried a few years after Beckham was born to a genuinely good man I’ve met at family events. She’s happy.

They all are. They're functional, in a way that's beautiful for co-parents. And she’s always accepted me.

“I’m so happy about this,” she says, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

“Mel,” Lawson groans.

She waves him off and hugs me tighter. “I honestly thought he’d be alone forever.

Or worse, he’d settle down with some nightmare who I’d have to pretend to like for Beckham’s sake.

But you ?” She beams. “You’re perfect. You two are perfect together.

I couldn't have picked a better person to join the family.”

My throat tightens. “That means a lot.”

She nods, eyes shining.

I glance at Lawson. He’s watching me with that look—that warm, open gaze that always makes me feel seen and chosen. And looking at him now, I realize that I’m in love with him.

But what I just uncovered accidentally in his safe presses heavily on my chest. I don’t want any secrets between us; I need to tell him what I saw. I can’t keep this inside. Not after the way he’s looking at me. Not when I’m starting to imagine a future together.

“Alright now, let’s get Beckham out of here,” Lawson says with a warm chuckle, slinging his arm around my shoulders and tugging me snug against his side.

Then he bends just slightly, his mouth brushing my ear as he lowers his voice.

“I’m jealous of everyone else getting to be close to you. Tonight, you’re mine.”

A smile spreads across my face as my hand finds his chest. I press a slow pat over his heart, feeling its steady beat under my palm.

“Possessive much?” I murmur.

“Only when it comes to you.”

"Alright," Doctor Walker says, breaking us out of our moment as he finishes typing on the computer. "He's all set to be discharged now. My nurse will get you situated to go. Are we still having family dinner this weekend?"

Lawson nods. "Yep, we'll see you there."

We leave the hospital wrapped in that quiet kind of joy—the kind you don’t want to talk about too loudly in case it slips away.

Two hours later, we’re full of spaghetti, the scent of garlic and basil still lingering in the air. Beckham’s propped up on the living room floor, controller in hand, shouting at animated monsters on a screen while I half-play along, tossing teasing jabs at his character every few minutes.

Lawson’s on the couch, my legs stretched across his lap, his big hands working lazy circles into the arches of my feet. It’s dark outside now. Soft lamplight warms the living room. I glance around and it hits me, not in some dramatic, lightning-strike way, but in a quiet, certain knowing:

This is all mine now too.

This moment. This man. This kid. This is my family now. And I’d do anything to protect it.

“I think I’m getting tired,” Beckham says, dropping the controller and rubbing his eyes.

Lawson’s off the couch in seconds. “Let me help you up to bed, bud.”

Beckham nods and stands, tucking one arm around his father’s shoulders and leaning into him, the other gripping his crutch. I watch them disappear up the stairs, and my chest squeezes at the sight. I can’t remember the last time I felt this soft inside.

Ten minutes later, Lawson’s back. He heads straight for me and grips my hips, guiding me gently until I’m straddling him, settled on his lap while he rests back into the couch.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he let me go.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, burying his face in my neck and inhaling my scent deeply.

I giggle as his stubble scrapes against my skin and his hands slide along my waist, trailing over my hips and squeezing my ass like he missed the feel of me.

“I missed you,” he says rough with need.

“I missed you too.”

“Want me to show you how much?” he asks, fingers tugging at the hem of my shorts.

God, I do. I really do. But—

“Can we talk first?” I say quietly, placing a hand over his.

He stills beneath me. His brows knit together, and he leans back to look at me. “Of course, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I’m not even sure what I’m asking.”

“Hey,” he says gently, “you can come to me with anything. Did something happen? Did that girl who interviewed you say something else?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “It’s not about her.”

He waits, patient and open, and I stare into his warm hazel eyes, hoping this won’t hurt him.

“So… earlier, when I was looking for Beckham’s insurance card in your office before coming to the hospital, I—I saw something in your safe.”

His expression shifts slightly. Not alarmed. Just… attentive.

"It was your birth certificate..."

“My birth certificate?” he asks softly.