Page 30 of Auctioned to the Cowboy

Christmas Day. A little over a year since my brothers brought Shay into my life and turned everything upside down.

I glance down at the tiny bundle nestled in the crook of my arm. Our son sleeps soundly, his little face tucked against my chest, wrapped in a soft quilt Shay made. He’s perfect, this little boy of ours, all rosy cheeks and dark hair. His breath is soft and steady, a reminder of everything good and right in this world.

Through the frosted window, I see Shay bustling around the kitchen. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts over her leggings, her hair a messy halo of red curls as she pulls a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven. The sight makes something in my chest loosen and melt. A year ago, this house was a shell filled withghosts and memories I didn’t know how to face. Now it’s warm and alive, a home in every sense of the word.

The door creaks open, and Shay steps out onto the porch with a steaming mug of tea. “There you are,” she says, her smile bright despite the cold air biting her cheeks. “I was wondering where my two favorite people disappeared to.”

“Just taking a minute,” I say, my voice low. I shift Max slightly, careful not to wake him. “Trying to let it all sink in.”

Shay steps closer, her free hand brushing over Max’s quilt before finding mine. Her fingers are cold, but her touch settles me like it always does. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

I nod, my gaze drifting out to the snow-covered pastures. “I wouldn’t have believed any of this was possible a year ago. You, him… all of it.”

She leans into me, her head resting against my shoulder. “Funny how life works, isn’t it? How it can change in ways you never saw coming.”

I glance down at her, the woman who’s made this house more than walls and a roof. “Speaking of change,” I say, my tone soft, “how’s your mom?”

Shay’s smile falters slightly. “She’s doing better. I still can’t believe she left him, you know. Finally packed her bags and moved into that little apartment near the library. She’s been calling a lot, asking about the baby. I think she’s trying.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“She’s lucky to have a second chance,” Shay replies, her voice steady. “It’ll take time, but we’re working on it. She’s starting to see what life can be like without him.”

I nod, a quiet pride swelling in my chest. Shay’s strength amazes me every day.

“And your dad?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Shay’s lips press into a thin line. “Still the same. Still angry, still blaming everyone but himself. I haven’t spoken to him since Mom left.” She looks up at me, her green eyes unwavering. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Good,” I say, my voice firm. “You don’t owe him anything, Shay.”

She nods, a flicker of relief crossing her face before her gaze drops to our son. Her smile returns, softer this time. “But this?” she says, brushing a finger gently over Max’s tiny hand. “This is what matters. Us. Our family.”

“Damn right,” I agree, leaning down to kiss her soft lips.

We stand there for a while, watching as the snow falls in soft, lazy flakes. The world is quiet, still, like it’s holding its breath for us. It’s simple, this moment, but it feels like everything.

“Merry Christmas, Shay,” I murmur, my voice low and full of gratitude. “I love you.”

“Merry Christmas, Henry,” she replies, tilting her head to look at me. Her smile warms me from the inside out. “Love you too.”

Bonus Epilogue

Shay

Five Years Later

Christmas Eve

The ranch house is a symphony of joyful chatter that only comes when family fills every corner of a space. Laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the occasional squeal of a child chasing a dog through the living room blend with the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Christmas music plays softly in the background, almost drowned out by the chatter.

I pause in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame as I take it all in. Ben is seated in his favorite chair near the fire, holding our one-year-old daughter on his lap while he tells her one of his famous tall tales. Her tiny giggles spill out like a melody, and my heart swells at the sight of her nestled in her grandfather’s arms.

Across the room, Tom and Angus are deep in conversation with their wives, both of whom are trying (and failing) to corral their kids into some semblance of order. It’s a losing battle, and thekids’ delighted shrieks make me smile as they race around the Christmas tree.

And then there’s Henry, standing by the fireplace with a cup of coffee in hand, his gray eyes scanning the room like he’s memorizing every detail. His gaze finds mine, and a slow, secret smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Even after all this time, that look still sends heat rushing through me.

“Mom, the cookies are done!”

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