Page 41 of Deck the Halls with Cowboys
I smiled to myself, continuing to play with Mase’s hair as my imagination ran wild. It always did during quiet moments like this. I knew that my husband would’ve been overprotective of me while pregnant. Even more so than usual. He would’ve fussed over me, put on my shoes every morning, held my hair back when the morning sickness became too much, and been with me at every appointment.
Tears pooled in my eyes, my vision growing blurry just before I blinked them away. They were warm and strangely comforting as they rolled over my temple, soaking the fresh cotton pillowcase beneath me. Grief was a fickle, never-ending thing. Some days, there would be no tears, and others…well, sometimes I couldn’t force myself out of bed. Mason and I were both mourning the life we could’ve had together while simultaneously building the one we had now.
Our miscarriage was the hardest battle we’d ever had to face together, and it was one we’d done in secret. In a way, I felt like a failure, like I’d let the love of my life down. Then, of course, when I expressed these feelings to Mason, he quickly erased them.
We hadn’t left the house that weekend.
We hadn’t told anyone, not even Denver or Valerie.
Wejust…processed.
Two years later, we were still processing it, but in our own way. As it turned out, I was unable to have children due to the physical abuse I’d suffered. When our team of specialists in Houston gave us the news, I didn’t even cry. I didn’t shed a single tear until Mason pulled his truck up to Eddie’s ranch and Jackie appeared on the front porch.
Mason had to carry me into the house, and again, I didn’t step outside for three whole days.
That was a year and a half ago.
Six months after that, I came to Mason with the idea of adoption. I didn’t need to convince him. He was on board before I could even hand him the brochure. Now, after endless amounts of paperwork and three foster fallouts, we were just a week away from bringing our son, Micah, home.
“I’m so ready,” I rasped, my voice cracking. Mason’s head shot up, his brow pinched with concern. My bottom lip trembled as my eyes met his. “I’m so ready to bring Micah home.”
“Come here,” he murmured, pulling me on top of him, his hand cupping my face. “These don’t look like happy tears, Little Song.” His thumb wiped them away quickly.
“They are,” I promised. “I just—I was just thinking about how far we’ve come. All we’ve been through.”
His features softened, realization dawning his stormy eyes. “Baby,” he rasped, his voice cracking. “You don’t—we shouldn’t—today is supposed to be—”
I pressed my lips to his, silencing him quickly. “I know, I know,” I assured, pulling back. “I was just thinking about Sammy and Baby L, then Micah.” I smiled, my body shaking with laughter as I sat up, straddling him. His large, rough hands went to my hips instantly, like they belonged there. I reached up and pulled out my scrunchy, letting my mass of red curls fall down around me, still laughing. “Our son is going to come home to a second Christmas.”
Mason’s lips twitched. “Yeah, he is,” he confirmed.
There was a small mountain of presents in Micah’s nursery, a room we’d been putting together since we’d gotten the adoption approval. I bit the inside of my cheek, shaking my head. “We’re going to spoil him, aren’t we?” I whispered.
His throat worked just before he nodded. “This entire ranch is going to spoil him, Harm.”
I brought my hands to his chest, curling my fingers through the golden hair dusting his tan skin. “Do you think we should tell them before dinner?”
His chest rose and fell with a long sigh. “I was thinking of doing it this morning. You know, during presents?”
My eyes flicked up, finding him. “Sounds like a plan,” I murmured as he squeezed my hips, flexing his own. “We should get ready—eek!”
I was on my back again, his mouth on mine. “I need to make love to my wife first,” he growled.
Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower, my legs sore, body humming. Mason looked me up and down before throwing on a maroon sweater. “Wrap that towel around you fast, otherwise I’ll take you back to bed,” he warned. When his head popped out, his hair was a disaster, making him look much younger. Like the picture of him leaning against the barn that was displayed on the mantel. Denver told me Mason had just turned sixteen in that photo. Every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of that boy, and it made me wonder how in the world anyone could’ve survived the monster that was John Langston.
You survived your own monster, Harmony. Don’t forget that.
“Valerie would kick down the door,” I warned back, wrapping a fluffy cream-colored towel around me.
“She would never.”
I raised a brow. “You don’t know Val, then.”
Valerie was a hostess at heart, and there was no way she would let my husband derail her Christmas schedule.
I studied him as he braced a hand on the vanity and ruffled his hair with his fingers, leaving it messy just the way I liked it. “I’m goingto head upstairs and get the ham started,” he announced, coming to me. I tipped my head back, tightening the towel around my chest. “Or do you want me to wait for you?” I stepped into his arms, my hand going to his chest.
“I like this sweater,” I noted quietly, feeling how soft it was.
