Page 145 of 11 Cowboys
The kids scatter like wild things, attracting Beau's attention until he's off the porch and barking happily as he herds the chaos in loose, lazy circles. I watch them, one hand resting lightly over the slight swell of my belly.
It's still early, but I know. My body knew before the test confirmed it.
Dylan knows, too. He's been watching me more closely over the past few mornings, making sure I'm eating enough and getting extra sleep. He hasn't said a word, but his touch lingers longer when he passes me a plate or opens a door. A silent promise: I see you. I've got you.
I know he's more watchful because of what happened with Nora. He still blames himself for missing the signs of her spiral until it was too late. We heard news about her last week, and it wasn't good.
Three months ago, she'd checked into rehab. Dylan didn't say much about it, only that she'd finally agreed to go, and he hoped it would stick. The kids were her motivation, and he even went to visit to offer her the support he's so good at. When he returned, he said Nora looked clearer, like someone finding their way back through the fog. She sent Eli and Junie a drawing she'd done in art therapy. Awildflower in bloom. On the back, she wrote,I'm trying to be good soil, girls.
I cried when I read that. So did Dylan, but he did it quietly, covering it up by pressing a firm kiss to my temple and holding me close while he barely breathed. The respect I have for his care and consideration of the mother of his children is immense. He knows his girls will never be entirely at peace without a positive relationship with Nora.
Then, last week, the call came.
She was gone from the facility. Left in the middle of the night, and didn't tell anyone where she was going. A few days later, Cash Bradford saw her in a motel near the interstate and called it in, worried.
She was alone and drinking again, singing loudly.
Since then, Dylan holds Eli and Junie a little tighter at night and lingers longer at their door before he goes to sleep. I don't push him to talk about how he feels, but I sit with him in the quiet to let him know I'm here.
Nora isn't evil. She isn't broken beyond repair. She's… stuck. Caught between wanting to be better and struggling to live with the ache that comes in the sober spaces. I hope she finds her way, for all their sakes.
I suspect Corbin is also aware of the pregnancy. I've caught him regarding me as we make bread together, as though he can sense something he's had the gift of experiencing three times before. He has that remarkable intuition that tunes him to me so perfectly.
Behind me, the gravel crunches, and a battered old sedan pulls up and parks crookedly beside the barn. The engine ticks as it cools.
My heart jumps and then melts.
“Mama,” I breathe.
She steps out in a swirl of loose cotton skirt and a tired floral blouse, with three wide-eyed foster kids who spill from the car and trail behind her like ducklings. Two boys and a girl are nervous, clinging to each other, unsure of what comes next. They're new, but they won't be for long. WhatI've learned about kids in the system is that they learn to adapt quickly. The moment all the kids notice each other, their nerves are gone.
Junie runs to greet the girl, shouting, “Do you like sparkles? I have, like, a hundred!” and drags her toward the swing set. Matty offers the boys sweets from his pocket, and the twins plot some game that involves yelling and chasing each other with sticks.
They're immediately embraced into the joyful mess.
I meet my mom halfway across the yard and fold her into a grateful embrace. It's been hard to be away from her, and I miss popping in for pancakes and distracted conversation more. Now I have my own chaotic family, and the mess and noise are like my childhood home, it's familiar and welcome and no longer something I want to escape.
She pulls back and grips my face between her rough hands. “You look different. Did you change your hair?”
“Nope.”
I pull her into another hug that says what I can't: Thank you for always showing up. For showing me, even when I wasn't ready, that home isn't made of walls and silence but of people.
“I hope the new kids like noise,” I murmur against her shoulder.
She chuckles. “They'll learn.”
Behind Mom's old car, Brody pulls up in the truck we use for town runs. He strolls over, all easy swagger and an open expression that doesn't quite fit. He's dusty (because, hell, when aren't they), clutching a brown paper parcel with crushed corners and twine looped twice around the middle.
“Special delivery,” he says, holding it out to me.
I blink at the return address, my heart skipping a beat.
It's from the publisher.
My fingers fumble with the knot, my breath catching as the paper falls away to reveal the first print run of my novel, Rugged Love. The title, bold and romantic, arcs across the cover, and an illustrated cowboy leans against a fence post,as if he has secrets and a soft heart.
“Get out here,” Brody yells to his brothers, who are all currently inside, then moves to kiss my momma's cheek.
