Chapter Forty-One
Jo
I’d never liked airports. Too many arrivals, too many departures, too many variables. But the tiny regional strip Tanner routed Roy to—one squat terminal, one narrow runway carved out of snow and pine—might have become my favorite place on earth.
If his plane actually landed.
If this wasn’t some last-minute reversal.
If someone, somewhere, didn’t change their mind.
Cold wind sliced through my coat and still I stood there, toes numb, hands jammed in my pockets, eyes pinned to the empty sky. Nate was a steady warmth at my back. I didn’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough for my nerves to burn out, rebuild, and fray all over again.
He slid a warm palm across the back of my neck, thumb rubbing slow circles at my hairline. “He’ll be here,” he murmured. “But we could wait inside.”
I huffed a laugh that sounded too close to a sob. “Not a chance.”
A distant shape broke through the low winter clouds. The small white jet sliced through the gray, descended, flared, and touched down in a puff of snow and smoke. All the air left my lungs.
I’d been afraid this moment would never happen. That I’d never see him outside a courtroom. That hope was a luxury for people whose lives weren’t duct-taped together with contingency plans.
The plane wheeled around and taxied toward us. My vision blurred, then sharpened in tight pulses, as if my brain couldn’t decide whether to capture every detail or protect me from all of it.
The plane stopped. The door opened.
Two men in suits descended first, scanning the area, conferring with Nate’s team. Then Dad appeared.
My father stepped into the doorway.
He was thinner. A little stooped. Lines carved deeper into his face, gray threading through his dark hair. But his eyes—sharp, curious, familiar—were the same.
For one suspended heartbeat, we simply stared at each other across the cold and ten thousand sleepless nights.
“Dad,” I breathed.
My body moved before my mind did. I was running, boots slipping on icy patches, breath burning in my chest. I took the stairs too fast and would’ve face-planted if his hands hadn’t come up, catching my shoulders.
“Jo.” His voice cracked around the name. “God, I missed you.”
I tried to answer, but what came out was a wet choke. I laughed to cover it—because of course that was my instinct. “I missed you too,” I said.
He barked out a laugh—rusty and broken and perfect—and then his arms were around me, pulling me in. He smelled like institutional laundry detergent and recycled plane air. I pressed my face into his shoulder and didn’t care that my tears were soaking his shirt.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, even though he didn’t let go. “You’re going to bruise my old-man ribs.”
“Shut up,” I said into his collarbone. “I need this.”
When I finally forced myself to pull back, my vision doubled. One part of me catalogued sunken cheeks and clear eyes. Tired, but not broken. The stronger part just kept chanting He’s here. He’s here.
Someone cleared his throat behind us. I remembered Nate. And that the world contained other humans. I swiped at my face with my sleeve and turned. “Dad,” I said, trying for steady, “this is . . . Nate.”
Nate stepped forward with calm, grounded steadiness, offering his hand. “Your future son-in-law,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. “You have to ask first.”
His eyes crinkled, shameless. “Oh, I will. I just want your father to know my intentions.”
Dad’s gaze flicked between us, assessing. Then amusement tugged at his mouth. “Hell of an opening line,” he said, shaking Nate’s hand. “Good handshake too.”
“That’s what she said,” Nate replied.
I groaned. “Do not corrupt my father with your dad jokes.”
“Pretty sure I need a joke or two about now,” Dad murmured.
They were smiling. And suddenly I remembered how to breathe.
The drive back to the farm was quiet in the way that meant there were too many feelings for words to keep up with. Nate drove, steady hands on the wheel. My father sat beside me in the backseat, shoulder warm against mine, watching the snow-dusted trees blur by.
“You’re a brunette again,” he said eventually.
I tucked a strand behind my ear. “Yeah. I got tired of hiding.”
He studied me, then nodded. “Good. It suits you.”
My throat tightened. I stared out the window, blinking fast.
“So,” he continued, like we were discussing weekend plans and not years of lost time, “you hacked a defense contractor and toppled a small corporate empire without me. I’m not sure whether to be insulted or proud.”
“At least I didn’t get myself arrested.” I snorted. “Besides, I had help.”
“So, I heard.” He went quiet again. Then, softly, “You chose well, Jo.”
I didn’t need to ask who he meant. Nate’s reflection in the mirror—his jawline, the familiar furrow between his brows, the tender glances he kept sending back at us—said everything.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I did.”
As we pulled up the driveway, I saw the farm with fresh eyes.
It looked like something out of a Christmas movie.
Snow blanketed the fields. Strings of warm white lights traced the roofline, wrapped around porch posts, and dipped along the fence rails.
The big tree by the steps glowed with mismatched ornaments and ribbons courtesy of half the town.
Nate parked and shut off the engine. We sat there for a beat. Then he went around the car and opened the door for us. “Ready?” he asked quietly.
I had never been less ready. “Not remotely.” I was about to introduce my old life to my new life and the idea of existing in both was unsettling.
Nate smiled and nodded. If anyone understood how confusing that could be it was him. He was straddling being a successful businessman and my garage think tank buddy.
We got out. The cold bit my cheeks, but my chest felt too warm. My father stood to one side, Nate held on hand on the other. Before we reached the steps, the front door flew open.
Aunt Claire came barreling out—coat flapping, scarf half-on, eyes already wet. “Roy,” she breathed, like exhaling a decade of dread.
He blinked. “Claire.”
She launched herself at him, hugging him so fiercely his knees dipped. “You got old,” she declared, cupping his face.
He actually laughed. “Good to see you too.”
Then Claire hauled me in next, smelling like cinnamon and wool. “I’m so happy for you,” she murmured into my hair.
I wanted to ask how she knew my father, but Claire was already hugging Nate.
Ethan stood behind her. He straightened when I turned toward him. “Ethan,” I said, feeling unexpectedly proud, “this is my father.”
I waited for him to signal he knew him as well, but he didn’t. Dad stepped forward, extending a hand. “Roy Ashby.”
“It’s an honor,” Ethan said, shaking it. “You’ve got an amazing daughter. I’m looking forward to the wedding.”
I groaned into my coat sleeve. “Nate has to ask me first.”
“Oh, he will,” Ethan said, confident and certain, sounding so much like Nate, I actually laughed.
Claire started ushering everyone toward the warmth of the house, chattering about food and rooms and how serious conversations could wait until after everyone was fed.
For a moment, all the voices faded, and I watched my father step over the threshold of a place that had somehow become home.
Behind me Nate asked, “Dad, although I’m glad you’re here, how did you know Roy would be?”
Ethan answered, “You think you’re the only one who works with Andre? I’ve had him on speed dial ever since he told me what you were getting yourself into up here.”
I held my breath and listened, trying to appear like I wasn’t. Andre’s name had come up a few times over the past few weeks, but I didn’t fully understand Nate’s connection to him.
“Hold on.” Nate stopped, halfway up the steps. “Andre said he didn’t want to get involved.”
“Did he?” Ethan murmured.
“He said it wasn’t his fight.”
“Perhaps I’m more persuasive than you are,” Ethan said smoothly. Then, with some humor, he added, “but I love that your friend Tanner believes he pulled this off on his own. Don’t correct him. He did the heavy lifting. All we did was make sure he didn’t get himself killed.”
I turned in time to see Nate hug his father. “Dad, I love you.” After a beat he asked, “But how did you get him to agree to help?”
“He had me call him,” Aunt Claire interjected. “After all the work we’ve sent his way over the years, it was the least he could do. You don’t get to throw your weight around, act like you have all the answers and all the right connections, then bow out when things get tough.”
“You told him that?” Nate asked in amused wonder.
I gurgled on a laugh when Aunt Claire puffed up and said, “That and more. He knows better than to mess with me ever since that day he showed up at Ethan’s place and caught me without makeup and in just a towel. You do not do that to a woman over forty. And if you do—you apologize, with flowers.”
Ethan added, “He’s been sending her flowers every year on the anniversary of the towel incident.”
I turned and linked arms with Nate’s aunt. “How does it feel to wield that kind of power?”
She chuckled. “Exhausting, but someone has to do it.”
With that, we all went inside. My father settled into one of the spare rooms for a rest and I floated around, marveling how my life had gone from nightmare to dream-like.
Later that evening, while giving a tour of my lab to my father, I said, “I grabbed everything I could and then rebuilt everything else.”
Dad walked slowly around the workbench, fingertips hovering over equipment like he was afraid touching anything might wake him up. “This is more than I dared hope for.”
My stomach had been doing flips since I asked him to come see the lab. Now the flips were doing full Olympic choreographies. “I did my best.”
He sat in my chair without asking, picked up one of my latest schematics, and started reading the notes I’d rewritten a dozen times. I tried not to hover. I failed.
He flipped a page. Then another. His brow furrowed.
Panic spiked. “Dad? If the math is off, just—”
“This will do,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
He looked up, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and bright and so familiar my knees nearly gave out.
“This stabilizer will hold the charge without degradation. You compensated for the ion drift better than I did. It’ll need testing—real cycles, stress loads—but, Jo”—he lifted the schematic—“you solved it.”
Goosebumps rippled over my arms. “You really think so?” I whispered.
“I know so.” He set the papers down carefully, then leaned back, studying me. “Do you plan to profit from it?”
Anyone else would have layered that question with suspicion or agenda. His tone was neutral. Curious.
“Of course not,” I said. “It’ll be open source. Just like we always planned.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Then let the world test it.”
I hesitated, old instincts clawing up—control everything, hold everything, trust nothing.
He saw it instantly.
“What you’ve done,” he said softly, “is more than I ever managed. A real achievement. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about what matters.” His eyes went distant. “When I couldn’t reach you, when communication wasn’t possible, when I didn’t know if you were safe . . . none of this mattered.”
My throat tightened again.
“You’ve got a good man out there,” he continued. “And people who care about you.”
I thought of Nate. Of Claire and Ethan. Of Martin, Bibi, Libby, Milo. Of a town that wrapped itself around us without even knowing what we’d been fighting.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I do. This place . . .” I looked around the lab, at the worn workbench and scattered tools, thought of the fields outside, the horses, the lights on the snow. “It feels like home.”
Dad stood and crossed to me, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Then do something I was never good at,” he said. “Share the work.”
A shaky laugh bubbled up. “You sound like Nate.”
His mouth curved. “I like him already. And I’m not just saying that because he got my ass out of jail.”
“We did that,” I said. “Together.”
He shook his head, half affection, half exasperation. “See? You’re already doing this better than I ever did. I wanted to control everything. You built a team. I’m proud of you, Jo.”
That undid me.
I blinked hard, failed, and let the tears fall. He pretended not to notice. His favorite mercy.
“Dad?” I managed when I found my voice again.
“Yeah?”
“I know you don’t really believe in holidays.”
He snorted. “Accurate.”
“But . . . would you celebrate Christmas with us?” I asked. “Here?”
He went still. His jaw worked once. He turned toward the faint line of golden light under the garage door—warm, threaded with voices and laughter from the house.
His eyes misted.
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” he said. “To be precise I also have nowhere else to go, but yes.”
I laughed at that and he joined in.
Outside, someone started singing loudly and off-key—Bibi, probably, or Martin after too much cider.
Inside, in this old garage, my father and I stood surrounded by schematics and tools and possibility. I met my father’s gaze and asked, “Should I just put it on the internet? Just like that?”
His mouth rounded. “Yes, but encrypt your name throughout. Make it so people can’t help but see who created this.”
“Our names. We did this, Dad. And no one can take that from us.”
He smiled and we sat down with a new goal, designing a method to share our work with our named embedded.
Our work.
Somehow—whether from heaven or just the universe—I’d received another of my Christmas wishes.