Chapter Eleven
Harmony
The sun was rising. Even though I couldn’t see it, my body knew. I could never sleep during the day anymore, unlike my husband, who could sleep anytime, anywhere. Right on cue, as if he sensed my alertness, his rough morning voice filled my ears, heavy with sleep.
“Darlin’? Are you okay?”
I hummed and moved to roll over to face him. The arm draped over my waist lifted only to drop and tighten when my view was nothing but his bare chest. He pulled me close, groaning. “Too early for this shit, beautiful.”
I smiled, reaching up to run my fingers through his hair. “It’s Christmas, Mase,” I whispered.
He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply as his arm tightened around me. “Ho, ho, ho,” he grumbled.
I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, soaking up the heat of his body for a few more minutes before we both had to brace the cold.
My mind was racing, knowing that next Christmas was going to look completely different.
This was the last Christmas we would have together, just the two of us.
Husband and wife. Next year it would be Daddy and Mommy.
After Mason had taken care of Moonie—yes, after years of therapy, I was able to say his name (out loud and in my head) and Valerie’s mom passed away, we needed some time before thinking about the next step.
When I first told Mason about Sammy, the baby I’d lost when I was still under Moonie’s harsh grasp, my bull rider claimed Sammy as his own.
He loved her. Even though she wasn’t with us, he loved her fiercely.
Seeing that, hearing him say that Sammy was his daughter, I wanted to try again—with him. It would’ve been different, peaceful.
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.
We just…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 going to 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.
He smirked. “Thanks. My wife made it.”
My lips stretched wide as I beamed at him.
I made all the cowboys’ sweaters this year.
When I wasn’t writing songs, I was sewing or knitting.
It was a hobby I’d discovered while on the road with the Pbr last summer.
One of the other bull rider’s wives who was making her son a sweater was kind enough to modify the design for an adult sweater for me.
It took forever and required a mountain of patience, but I loved it.
When we were home, I was usually recording the songs I wrote while on the road before releasing them through a small indie label in Denver.
I didn’t make much money from it, but it brought me peace.
“It looks good on you,” I replied. “Your wife must be really talented.”
He chuckled. “She’s not really humble about her sewing skills.”
I clicked my tongue, shaking my head in disappointment. “Damn. What a fault to have.”
“Her only one,” he whispered before kissing me. When he pulled back, he told me he loved me, and then he was gone. Once our door closed softly, I heard, “Don’t fuck up my ham!”
A bubble of laughter escaped me as Mason replied to Mags. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed with your fiancée?”
“I’m two seconds away from throwing a Christmas tree at you.”
“If it’s the tree I busted my ass to put up last night, you will not be throwing it anywhere,” Beau’s voice boomed. I moved out of the bathroom, leaning against the bedroom door, my shoulders shaking with laughter.
On the other side, a door opened and closed. “All right, I’m throwing the tree at Mason and then shoving it up your lying ass, Beau Marks,” Mags declared.
“Who lied?”
“You didn’t put shit up yesterday,” Mags clipped. “I had to fix it for you.”
“Okay, but I was in there for a really long time—”
“You two bicker like an old married couple,” my husband drawled, and I could practically see him leaning against the wall with that cocky smirk plastered on his face.
“We don’t bicker,” Beau argued.
“Yes, you do!” Abbie and Diana both yelled.
I rested my head against the door, laughing and looking up at the ceiling. Today was going to be a perfect day. I just hoped Valerie knew it.