Chapter Three
The waiting room is too bright.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that glaring illumination that makes the world feel sterile and makes it impossible to decipher the time. The air smells like antiseptic and burned coffee, and the vinyl chairs squeak every time someone shifts their weight.
It’s nothing like the bonfire.
Nothing like the laughter and music and smoky Wyoming night we left behind.
Everything now feels … paused.
Like the whole world is holding its breath.
I sit curled in one of the stiff chairs, my knees pulled close to my chest, my phone clutched loosely in my hand even though it hasn’t buzzed in nearly twenty minutes.
Twenty long minutes.
Not that I’m counting.
Okay, I’m counting.
Beside me, Shelby is crying.
Again.
Not loud crying. More like quiet, sniffly crying that keeps sneaking up on her every few minutes, causing Waylon to pull her close and tuck her into his chest.
She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his flannel.
“I’m fine,” she insists to no one in particular.
Charli snorts from the chair across from us. “You keep saying that.”
Shelby glares at her. “I am fine.”
“You lost it on the vending machine.”
“Of course I did. I’m hungry, and the stupid thing ate my dollar. That was frustrating!”
Charli opens her mouth to respond, but then her own eyes fill with tears.
She presses her lips together.
“Oh my God,” she groans. “Now I’m doing it.”
I laugh. “We’re a mess.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cabe says, popping sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“Where did you get those?” Shelby asks.
“My truck,” he says.
Then she immediately starts crying again.
“Okay, geezus, here,” he says, tossing the bag at her.
Across the waiting room, Daddy paces.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Albert Storm is as steady as they come, but I guess awaiting the arrival of his first grandchild has even his nerves on edge. He hasn’t sat down once since we got here.
His boots thud softly against the tiled floor with each turn, his hands are jammed into the pockets of his jeans, and his brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to solve one of his newspaper crossword puzzles.
Every few minutes, he glances down the hallway toward the labor and delivery rooms.
Then he resumes pacing.
Grandpa sits near the window with his arms crossed, looking mildly annoyed by the entire concept of waiting.
Grandma sits beside him. Still. Quiet. Patient as a saint.
Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, her eyes closed, and her lips move silently.
Praying.
The sight of it makes my throat tighten.
Because if Evelyn Storm is praying this hard, it means she’s talking to God about something important. Something precious.
Not that any Storm she’s conversing about wouldn’t be, but this baby is precious to us all. And I know we are all thinking the same thing.
We wish Mom were here.
The sound of a door down the hallway opens, and every head in the room snaps up.
It’s just a nurse pushing a cart down the corridor.
We all slump again.
Shelby sniffles. “I hate waiting.”
“Welcome to childbirth,” Grandpa mutters. And he would know. He’s been a witness to the building of two generations.
My phone buzzes.
All three of us sisters lunge for it.
“Update?” Shelby gasps.
I glance down.
It’s a text from Uncle Boone.
Unc B: Bonfire’s out. Food’s packed. Guests sent on their way. Ranch still standing.
I text back.
Me: Thank you for handling everything.
Unc B: No problem. Any news?
Me: Nothing yet.
Unc B: Well, it is Matty’s baby we’re talking about.
I smile.
Boone, Irene, Axle, and Royce stayed behind at the ranch to finish cleaning up the party aftermath.
Which means they’re now settled in the ranch house’s comfy living room, awaiting happy news.
Lucky them.
The waiting room door suddenly bursts open.
“Did I miss it?!”
We all jump.
Imma Jean storms into the room like a tornado of excitement, her bright floral blouse fluttering around her as she carries a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a giant bundle of balloons in the other.
Pink.
Blue.
Yellow.
One balloon says Welcome, Little Cowboy and another says Welcome, Little Cowgirl.
“Did you buy out the entire gift shop?” Charli asks.
Her eyes dart around the room.
“Almost,” she says breathlessly. “Still no baby?”
Charli laughs. “Nope. Still cooking.”
Imma Jean exhales dramatically. “Oh, thank the Lord.”
She marches over and drops the flowers on the coffee table.
“The elevator was taking too long. I ran up the stairs like a bat out of hell.”
“Imma Jean,” I say, laughing, “the gift shop is only two floors down.”
“That’s two floors too many.”
She sits beside me and grabs my hand. “Any word from Caison? How’s Matty doing?”
“We don’t know yet,” I admit.
Her eyes soften. “Oh. Well, no news is good news.”
The door opens, and we all hold our breath until Holland Ludlow—Waylon’s father—steps into the small room with Caison’s mother clutching his arm.
Daddy walks over and shakes Holland’s hand.
“Thanks for picking Marcia up for us,” he says.
“No problem. Priscilla wanted to come, but thought it best she keep Ruby at home.”
Caison’s father and Holland were best friends, and he and Waylon’s mother, Priscilla, consider Caison family. They’re the ones who brought Caison to Wildhaven by offering him a job at Ironhorse when his father passed away.
Grandpa suddenly clears his throat loudly.
We all look over to where he sits.
He jerks his chin toward Grandma. “Evelyn,” he grumbles.
She opens one eye. “Yes?”
“I hope you’re over there asking the Lord for a baby boy.”
Grandma arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
Grandpa gestures vaguely toward us girls. “Because we need some extra testosterone in this family with all these weepy women. That house has been nothing but a tornado of female emotions for over twenty years.”
Charli gasps. “Excuse you.”
Shelby throws a sunflower seed shell at him.
Imma Jean cackles.
Grandpa shrugs like he’s just stating a basic scientific fact.
Daddy laughs. The sound bursts out of his chest and thunders around the stuffy room.
“I’ll take either,” he booms. His voice cracks.
Which makes my chest squeeze.
Because Daddy doesn’t crack very often.
Grandma pats his hand. “That’s right; we’ll love that baby to bits, no matter what,” she says.
He nods.
And then he resumes pacing.
Time crawls as we all watch the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes pass. Then forty.
Charli makes a second trip to the vending machine. Bryce on her heels.
Imma Jean tells a story about the time Matty was five and tried to mount a sheep to ride into town like it was a horse.
Grandpa falls asleep.
Grandma keeps praying.
Daddy keeps pacing.
And I sit there, thinking about Matty.
My big sister.
My protector.
The one who taught me how to read, and braid my hair, and ride a horse, and throw a knee if a boy ever got too handsy.
The one who gave up so much to keep Wildhaven Storm Ranch alive and raise us girls.
And now she’s in a room down the hall, doing the hardest thing a human body can do.
Bringing a new life into the world.
For a moment, the weight of it hits me so hard that I feel breathless.
My sister is becoming a mother. For real this time. Not just assuming the role she was never supposed to have when she was a teenager after our mother passed.
And we’re becoming …
Aunts.
My eyes fill with tears again.
“Not you too,” Charli groans as she walks back in and tosses a package of Hostess CupCakes into my lap.
“I can’t help it,” I whisper. “We’re gonna be aunts soon.”
Shelby grabs my hand. “We’re getting a baby.”
“We’re getting a baby,” I repeat.
The hallway door suddenly swings open.
Footsteps echo toward us.
Daddy comes to an abrupt halt.
Grandpa opens his eyes.
Every single person in the room stands as Caison steps inside.
For a second, no one breathes.
Because the look on his face?
I’ve never seen anything like it.
He looks completely wrecked.
Exhausted.
His hair is a disaster, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed.
But his smile?
His smile is enormous, and he opens his arms wide.
“It’s a boy!” he yells.
The room explodes.
Shelby screams.
Charli starts jumping up and down.
I launch myself forward, and we all rush him at the same time.
Arms wrap around him from every direction.
He laughs breathlessly as we practically tackle him to the wall.
“A boy?” Shelby shouts.
“A baby boy with ten fingers, ten toes, and a healthy set of lungs!” he confirms.
“Oh my goodness,” Marcia, Caison’s mother, sobs.
Daddy stands frozen for a moment.
Then he strides forward and grabs Caison in a crushing hug.
“A grandson,” he says roughly.
Caison laughs. “Yes, sir.”
Grandpa slaps his knee triumphantly. “Finally, the good Lord came through.”
Grandma swats him. “Oh, hush.”
But she’s smiling through tears.
Imma Jean wipes her eyes dramatically. “A little cowboy,” she says.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
Caison’s expression softens. “AJ.”
“AJ?”
“Albert James Galloway.”
The name settles over us like something sacred.
“Albert, after you,” he says to Daddy, then turns to Marcia. “And James.”
“After your father. Daniel James,” she finishes for him. “It’s perfect.”
“He’s perfect,” Caison says hoarsely.
Shelby grabs his arm. “How big?”
“Seven pounds eight ounces.”
“Does he have hair?” Charli asks.
“A full head.”
“Dark or light?” I ask.
“Dark.”
“Does he look like Matty?”
He laughs. “Right now, he looks like a tiny, wrinkly red version of Grandpa Earl.”
We all laugh.
A nurse steps into the waiting room. “Wow. I don’t think we’ve ever had a crowd quite this large waiting before. You can come meet him now.”
That’s all it takes.
We surge toward the hallway like a herd of emotional cattle.
“Easy,” the nurse calls after us. “Maybe you guys should take turns.”
We stop and look around.
Grandma walks forward slowly. Grandpa offers her his arm.
“We’ll go first. Come along, Albert and Marcia,” she instructs.
Charli, Shelby, and I look at each other. Our barely contained eagerness rolling off of us. She glances over her shoulder as she reaches Matty’s door.
“Well, come on, girls. Stop dragging your feet,” she adds.
And together, we take off running.
Caison following us down the hallway.
Toward the tiny baby boy who just changed everything.