Page 79 of Welded Defender
“No, Mom,” Marcy says. “I appreciate you coming. You didn’t have to. I know it’s a long trip. But I’m not coming home. I have a home now.”
She turns slightly into me, her shoulder brushing my chest, and I understand she’s not hiding behind me. She’s standing with me. There’s a difference that makes my throat tight.
“I have a family,” she adds, touching her belly with a palm that knows too much about survival. “In Black Pine Ridge. With people who believed me when I told them I was scared—and who defended me. I’m not willing to give that up.”
Her mother shakes her head, tears spilling over. She doesn’t speak as she turns and walks away. Marcy’s father hesitates and looks at me. “Take care of her.”
“I will,” I say.
We push through the courthouse doors, and I squint as sunlight hits my face, warming one cheek while the early spring air bites the other. Marcy’s breath clouds between us. Behind her, the Rockies cut a jagged line of white against blue, their peaks catching light like struck matches. Three camera shutters click in rapid succession from the sidewalk across the street. Marcy’s fingers tighten around mine. We keep our eyes forward, descending the steps in silence until Wes appears at the bottom, flanked by Joon and Beckett. They fall into step around us without a word—Beckett’s broad shoulders blocking the reporters’ view, Joon’s hand briefly touching Marcy’s elbow, Wes scanning the parking lot ahead.
“You good?” Beckett asks.
“We’re okay,” I assure him. And we are. We’ve been good for a long time.
“Proud of you, Marce,” Wes says, hugging her carefully like she’s made of porcelain and dynamite—which isn’t far from the truth. “Come on, I made a lasagna the size of a transmission. We need to fatten you and that baby up.”
Marcy laughs, a real laugh that sends electricity up my spine. We head toward the truck.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing up at me through lashes that still knock the wind out of me.
“I am now.” My shoulders drop three inches, like something heavy has finally rolled off them.
She steps closer, the zipper of her coat catching against mine with a soft metallic whisper. For a moment, we just breathe together. The chalky scent of mint drifts between us—those Tums she stashes in every pocket since the baby started. Mixed with courthouse dust and sharp spring air, it smells like victory.
At the truck, she rises on her toes and finds my lips—quick, fierce. A camera clicks somewhere across the street. Her fingers tighten on my collar, holding me there a beat longer, her eyes locking with mine in pure defiance.
I pull open the passenger door. She climbs in, one hand gripping the handle, chin raised high. Before I close the door, she catches my jacket and tugs me down until her lips brush my ear.
“Let’s go home,” she whispers.
So we do.
Epilogue
MARCY
Five Years Later
The first day of kindergarten smells like crayons and wet leaves.
The school sits on the edge of Black Pine Ridge, a low brick building with a green metal roof and a playground shaped like a pirate ship. The parking lot is full of parents with coffee cups and nervous smiles. The mountains shoulder the horizon beyond the baseball field, soft blue in the September haze. It rained last night; the pavement is still damp. Someone’s playing “Here Comes the Sun” too loud from a cracked car speaker, and every time the chorus floats over, I blink back tears. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
“Do you think she’ll remember where her cubby is?” I ask, for the third time.
Landon nudges my shoulder with his. “She’ll organize the entire room in twenty minutes and start negotiating snack trades like a union rep.” His voice is steady, teasing, the way it gets when he knows I’m wound tight. “She’s got your brain and Wes’s wit. Those kids don’t stand a chance.”
I look down at the small hand in mine. Hazel’s fingers are sticky with the remnants of the cinnamon toast we ate on the porch this morning, because first days deserve sugar. She’s wearing the purple backpack she picked out months ago—the one with the sparkly shooting star—and a pair of yellow rain boots even though the sun’s trying hard to break through the clouds. Her hair is in two lopsided braids I redid twice and still couldn’t get even. After my third try she was out of patience and I didn’t argue. Some hills are for dying on. Braid symmetry is not one of them.
“Okay,” I say, crouching in front of Hazel so we’re eye to eye. My voice wobbles and I clear it. “Remember the plan?”
Hazel scrunches her nose like she’s been insulted. “Mama. I remember. I hang up my backpack. I put my lunch in the bin. I say hi to my teacher.” She lifts her chin and adds, “And I tell the teacher if my tummy feels funny.”
I smooth a stray wisp away from her temple. She’s all cheeks and eyelashes and fierce opinions, tiny and enormous at the same time. “Exactly. And if your tummy feels funny, you can also sit on the cozy rug and count to ten. Or do three dragon breaths.”
She inhales loudly just to prove she can, then giggles when Landon copies her, exaggerated and cross-eyed. He’s an expert at cross-eyed dragon breaths, mostly because they make our kid laugh hard enough to hiccup.
He crouches beside us, knees popping. He’ll pretend they didn’t. “And if anybody gives you trouble,” he says conspiratorially, “you tell them your dad is a very important mechanic.”
