Page 22 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
He looks up at me with Josiah's gray eyes, his chubby face smeared with dirt, and grins. "More carrots, Mama! Big carrots!"
I can't help but laugh. Josiah Stone Jr., or “Little Josiah” has his father's determination and my stubborn streak, a combination that means our days are filled with both joy and challenges.
"The boy's got vision," Big Josiah comments from the next row over, where he's helping our five-year-old daughter, Ellie, carefully space out pea seeds. Eleanor Stone takes her gardening as seriously as she takes everything else. So much like her father it sometimes makes my heart ache.
"Vision and no patience," I reply, easing myself down onto the garden bench as another cramp tightens around my enormousbelly. At nearly nine months pregnant with our third child, even the simplest movements have become a challenge.
Josiah's eyes track the movement, concern flashing across his face. "Another one?"
"False contraction. Just practice," I assure him, rubbing slow circles over my swollen stomach. "Your son or daughter is just reminding me they'll be making an appearance very soon."
His expression softens, that mixture of pride and wonder that still appears every time he looks at my pregnant belly. Five years and three pregnancies later, and Josiah Stone still seems amazed that we've created this family together.
"Daddy, look!" Ellie calls, drawing his attention back to their row. She's carefully arranged her pea seeds in a perfect line, each one exactly the same distance apart. "Is this right?"
"Perfect, little bear," he praises, his large hand gentle as it rests on her dark head. "Just like I showed you."
The contrast between his massive frame and her tiny one never fails to tug at my heart. For all his gruffness, Josiah has proven to be the most patient, loving father I could have imagined. He approaches parenthood with the same quiet competence he brings to everything, steady, reliable, and completely devoted.
"Mama, see!" Little J abandons his carrot massacre to toddle over to me, presenting a worm with the reverence of a priceless treasure. "Friend!"
"Very nice," I say, taking his dirt-covered hands in mine. "Why don't you put your friend back in the soil where he can help our garden grow?"
He considers this suggestion with adorable seriousness before nodding and carefully placing the worm back in the earth. "Bye-bye, friend. Grow carrots!"
A sharp kick from inside has me gasping, momentarily stealing my breath. "Goodness! I think we have a future hockey player in here."
Josiah is beside me in an instant, one hand on my shoulder, the other coming to rest on my stomach. The baby obliges by delivering another solid kick right against his palm.
"Strong," he observes, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Like their mama."
"Or stubborn like their daddy," I counter, leaning into his solid warmth. "I swear this one is more active than the other two combined."
He helps me to my feet, his movements careful but never making me feel fragile. That's one of the many things I love about him—the way he supports without smothering, protects without controlling.
"We should get these two cleaned up before dinner," he says, eyeing our thoroughly dirt-covered children. "Looks like we've got two garden trolls instead of kids."
"I'm not a troll, Daddy!" Ellie protests, her serious expression making the statement even funnier with the streak of soil across her cheek.
"No? Could have fooled me," he teases, scooping her up with one arm while corralling Little J with the other. "Come on, garden trolls. Bath time."
As they head toward the cabin, Little J riding on Josiah's shoulders and Ellie chattering about the vegetables we'll harvest later, I take a moment to absorb the scene: my family, our home, the life we've built together.
Five years ago, I crossed half the country on nothing but hope and determination, chasing a dream everyone else would have called foolish. Now I stand in the garden of our expanded cabin, watching my husband and our children, feeling our third babymove inside me, surrounded by the tangible proof that some risks are worth taking.
Inside, I hear water running for the children's bath, Ellie's serious voice instructing her little brother on proper bathtub behavior, Little J's delighted squeals, and Josiah's low, patient responses. The sounds of home. Of family. Of love.
I waddle my way inside, one hand supporting my lower back, the other resting on my stomach. In the bathroom, I find a scene of cheerful chaos—water splashed across the floor, bubbles floating in the air, and two squeaky-clean children being wrapped in towels by their father.
"Mama's big!" Little J declares as I enter, pointing at my stomach with innocent honesty.
"Very observant, son," Josiah says dryly, exchanging an amused glance with me over their heads.
"The baby needs room to grow," Ellie informs her brother with the authority of her five years of wisdom. "Like the plants in the garden."
"That's right, sweetheart," I agree, leaning against the doorframe. "Though I think this one's about ready for harvest."
Josiah's lips twitch at my choice of words. "Let's get these two to bed, and then we can talk about... gardening techniques."
