Chapter 21
Brookes
Storm’s gait is easy beneath me as Mason and I ride the final stretch toward the house after a long day beneath the sun.
Dust lifts softly beneath the hooves, and the whole ranch seems to exhale around us. The smell of hay and earth and home fades beneath the rich, savory scent of slow-cooked meat drifting from the kitchen. Beef stew, probably.
Janey mentioned wanting to make it that morning, standing barefoot in the kitchen with her hair falling loose over one shoulder, one hand resting absently on her belly while she pretended not to notice both Mason and me watching her like fools.
My chest tightens at the memory.
There are moments lately when I almost let myself believe we can have this.
All of it. Janey in our kitchen, her laughter in the halls, and her body curled warm between us at night.
Her help with the animals and maybe starting a business serving other local ranches.
A baby coming into a home already overflowing with love and hope.
Moment I try to force out of my mind because thinking them hurts already, and may hurt more at some point in the future. I turn to Mason, ready to remind him not to put any pressure on Janey tonight, when I notice the silver sedan slowly approaching the house. A sedan I don’t recognize.
I pull Storm to a stop so sharply the reins creak in my hands.
Mason comes up beside me on Bandit, his hat brim shadowing his face. “We expecting company?”
“No.”
The car looks wrong against the ranch house. Too clean. Too polished. Too expensive for the dust settling over its hood and windshield.
My gut twists.
The front door opens before either of us dismounts.
Janey steps onto the porch wearing thick socks, and an oversized flannel shirt hanging nearly to her thighs.
Her hair is twisted into a loose knot that looks like it has been done in a hurry.
One hand grips the doorframe. The other hovers near her stomach then drops as if she catches herself at the last second.
Her face is pale, her expression pained.
Mason swings down first. I follow, my boots hitting the packed dirt hard. We tie the horses quickly to the rail beside the steps, neither of us taking our eyes off the sedan.
The driver’s door opens and a middle-aged man climbs out, tall and carefully dressed in a pressed button-down that already looks uncomfortable in the ranch heat. His gaze moves from the house to Janey, then to us. Worry tugs at his mouth, but he remains tightlipped.
Then the passenger door opens.
The woman who steps out is elegant in a way that feels sharpened to a point: tailored pants, a silk blouse and jewelry tasteful enough to be expensive.
Her hair is smooth, her posture perfect, and her expression already pinched with judgment.
She looks around at the ranch with a sneer. Then she looks at Janey.
And I know.
Same nose. Same cheekbones. Same delicate shape of the mouth, but none of Janey’s warmth. None of her softness. None of the sweetness that makes a man want to take on every burden to have her by his side.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Mason’s jaw tightens. “That them?”
“Her parents.”
“You sure?”
I stare at Janey’s mother. “Positive.”
Janey takes one small step forward on the porch. “Mom,” she says, her voice already trembling. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
Her father shuts the car door carefully. “Honey, your mother was worried.”
“I called Joelle,” her mother says, cutting across him.
Janey’s body goes rigid. Her mother comes around the front of the sedan, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. Her eyes sweep over Janey’s bare legs, the flannel shirt, the porch, then flick to Mason and me with open contempt.
“You told me you were staying with Joelle,” she says.
“Mom. I’m a grown woman.”
“Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to call to speak to my daughter and realize that her friend is lying? Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to resort to following a phone tracker to find my own daughter, hiding out on some God-forsaken ranch?”
Mason moves beside me, slowly shifting his weight in a way that tells me he’s holding himself back by a thread.
I step toward the bottom porch step but don’t climb it yet. Janey is above us, framed in the doorway, looking down at her parents standing in the yard between the sedan and the porch.
Our queen.
“You tracked me? You have a tracker on my phone?”
“Of course. I’m your mother.”
“Oh my God.” Janey’s hand covers her mouth as though this is the realization that has shocked her above all others. “I’m a grown woman. Not a child.”
Her mother’s gaze drops again to the shirt. “Is that yours?” she demands, looking at me and dismissing Janey’s dismay without concern.
My hands curl at my sides, but I won’t intervene unless this gets out of control. This is Janey’s family and we haven’t even exchanged names and pleasantries yet.
Janey lifts her chin. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It absolutely matters.” Her mother’s laugh is brittle. “Look at you. Dressed like this. Shacked up in the middle of nowhere with two men I’ve never met. Have you lost all sense?”
“Eleanor,” Janey’s father says quietly. “Maybe we should go inside and sit down. Talk over a cup of coffee.”
“No.” Her mother doesn’t even glance at him. “I'm not going inside and pretending this is normal.”
Janey’s mouth trembles, but she holds her ground. “You shouldn’t have come here without calling.”
“I'm your mother.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to stalk me and ambush me. It doesn’t mean you get to invite yourself to someone else's home.”
The words seem to shock all of them.
Her father’s eyes widen. For one second, I hope he might step in and stand beside his daughter the way she deserves, but he only looks down at the dirt.
Eleanor stares at Janey as if she no longer recognizes her. “Ambush you? After you lied to us?”
“I didn’t lie to hurt you.”
“Oh, don’t try to dress this up.” Her mother’s gaze slides to Mason, then to me. “What exactly did they tell you? What promises did they make that they won’t keep? Men like this don’t stick around when the going gets tough.”
I step onto the first porch step and Mason follows. “Careful,” I say.
Eleanor turns her cold eyes on me. “Excuse me?”
“This is our home. You're standing on our land. You don’t even know our names and you’re making assumptions about us.
Janey is welcome here. She’ll always be welcome here.
” I keep my voice low, because if I raise it, I’m sure I won’t be able to stop.
“You can be angry. You can be scared. But you won't disrespect her or us.”
Her nostrils flare. “And who are you, exactly? Her protector? Her latest mistake?”
Janey flinches and Mason steps up beside me.
“Mom,” Janey says, “I need you to listen to me.”
“I've listened to your lies. And you’re making no sense. We have to drive all this way to find you dressed in another person’s clothing, looking like—”
“Like what?”
Her mother stops.
The evening light catches Janey’s face, and though her cheeks are wet now, her eyes are clearer and sharper than I've ever seen them.
“Say it,” she whispers. “Say what you think I look like.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightens. “I think you look confused.”
“No. That isn’t what you were going to say.”
“Janey,” her father murmurs.
“No, Dad. Please.” Her voice breaks, but she doesn’t back down. “Please don’t make this easier for her.”
The horses shift behind us at the rail, sensing tension. Somewhere inside the house, our dinner simmers on the stove, fragrant and forgotten. The whole world seems to narrow to the porch and the woman standing on it, trembling but still upright, holding her ground despite a lifetime of pressure.
Eleanor folds her arms. “Fine. I think you look like a woman throwing her life away.”
Janey closes her eyes.
Mason curses softly under his breath. I turn my head to watch Janey’s face as she opens her eyes again. Her features harden and I brace for her strength to reveal itself now, when she needs it most.
“My life,” Janey says. “Not yours.”
Her mother recoils as if slapped.
Janey descends another step. Mason and I both shift back at once, giving her room. She stands one step above us now, with Mason on her left and me on her right.
Her father stares at her hand.
At the way it rests over her belly.
His face changes first, and Eleanor notices it a heartbeat later.
The color drains from her cheeks. “No.”
Janey’s breathing hitches.
“No,” Eleanor repeats, sharper now. “Janey Marie, tell me you’re not pregnant.”
For one unbearable moment, Janey looks at me, her eyes bright with tears.
I cup her cheek in my big palm, letting her know that I’m here, whatever she decides to say.
She turns to Mason and he takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently.
From the outside, maybe it looks like she’s asking permission, but she isn’t.
She doesn’t need us to confirm we want this baby.
She knows. She isn’t asking us to step in.
She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for.
This pause is the last thread tying her to the life she was taught to want enough to compromise everything for.
Then she lets it go.
Janey turns back to her parents. “I’m pregnant.”
Her father makes a sound like the air has been knocked from his lungs. “Honey…”
Eleanor presses a hand to her mouth, then drops it as quickly. “Whose is it?”
Janey’s shoulders draw inward. The old fear rises in her. The instinct to apologize. To smooth herself down into a more acceptable shape. To make herself fit so no one else feels uncomfortable.
I wish I could tell her I would carry this part for her. That I would take the judgment, the shame, and the fury. All of it. But love isn’t about taking her voice away. Love is standing next to her while she finds it.
“I don’t know.”
Eleanor goes utterly still. Janey’s father closes his eyes.
“I don’t know which one of them is the father,” Janey says. “And I know what that sounds like to you. I know exactly what you’re thinking because I’ve heard your voice in my head every day of my life.”