Page 43 of The Foreman

Their honeymoon was two nights in a Hill Country hideaway. They ate fried chicken in bed, tied ribbons around wrists, and laughed until they ached. Trace learned he liked her cold toes against his calf. Macy learned he would always give her the last bite. They called it compromise. It felt like home.

Months later at the Iron Spur, Trace watched Macy command the floor as she instructed the newbies. On Thursdays she taught a women’s self-defense block with padded suits and clean drills. Once a month she coordinated range days with acertified instructor and ran safety briefings herself. Members listened because she made the rules feel like survival, not scolding. She corrected knots, calmed nerves, and gave orders sharper than Reed’s. Members cheered when she walked in. She pretended embarrassment and then told them all to get back to work. Trace knew then she didn’t just belong in his life—she anchored it.

That night he marked her again in wax, worshiped every line, and held her until dawn broke over the ranch. She whispered against his throat, “Thank you for not letting go.”

“Letting go was never an option,” he said. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened three years ago when you got banned?”

She nipped his jaw. “Not a chance.”

Trace looked at her and then slowly smiled. “I can respect that, but for what it’s worth, I believe you.”

She grinned. “Finally.”