Chapter 11 Cyrus
Cyrus
It takes too damn long to get Jerry on his way. As great as it was to see him, my face hurts, and I’m tired of worrying that he’s still considering whisking Millie away. There’s nothing better than watching his vehicle disappear behind a cloud of dust.
“He should’ve called.” Grumbling, we both watch as his car makes its way down my driveway.
“He tried, I just missed it.” She looks my way and grimaces at my face. “I want to say that went better than what I expected, but you still took a hit to the face. I know he didn’t say it, but I’m sorry he punched you. He’s just… really caring.”
Shrugging a shoulder, I know I won’t hold it against him.
Not when we’ve tussled before. Back then, we were young enough to endure the injuries.
Doesn’t make it ache any less. “We used to get in fights all the time during our younger years. While I knew he was a force to be reckoned with, I never thought I’d be the one to take a hit. Good to know he’s not completely soft.”
Rubbing my jaw, I can’t help but be a little dramatic about my pain. Especially when she gets this fussy about it.
“How about you kiss it better, and I’ll get over it?”
She takes the offer, but squeaks when I turn my head just in time to kiss her instead.
I’ve been wanting to kiss her all damn day. If it weren’t for the daggers being glared at me, I would’ve.
Slapping my chest, she pauses when I wince. Getting her again, she scoffs at the realization. Rolling her eyes, she sighs against my mouth when I kiss her again.
“You weren’t serious about the wife stuff, were you?”
Lifting a brow, I can’t help but smile a little. “If I were, does that mean you’d say no?”
Blushing so pretty, she shakes her head. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy for wanting to say yes. Seems you’re as bad as me.”
“Oh, angel…” Scooping her up, I bring her inside. “Why don’t I show you just how bad I really am, and then we can compare?”
Wiggling in my grip, she lets out a small groan. “We’re going to have to save that for tomorrow. Today is a rest day.”
I knew we shouldn’t have gone another round. Cursing under my breath, I nod. “Then how about another murder documentary and some non-handsy cuddling?”
Lifting in my grip, she teases me with a kiss. “Deal. But a little touching is okay.”
With that, I whisk her away with a smile big enough to cause an ache, ready to see where this new life is going to take us.
* * *
Epilogue
The barn smells of fresh straw and the simple, honest sweat of this morning’s work. Still, it’s nowhere near done. Still plenty of work to be finished.
“Easy,” I say, my hand over my son’s smaller one on the cow’s teat. “It’s not a tug-of-war. It’s a rhythm. Squeeze, pull, release. Like this.”
Beside me, Asher’s little face is a portrait of fierce concentration, his brow furrowed exactly like mine when I get worked up. He’s got my stubborn chin, currently set in determination as he mimics my motion. But his eyes—wide, expressive, and the color of summer honey are all his mother’s.
“Squeeze… pull… release…” he mutters under his breath, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. A thin, steady stream of milk hits the pail with a soft ping.
“There you go,” I say, hands moving to my hips as I watch him make his way toward being a pro. “You’ve got it.”
I let him take over, my hands hovering nearby just in case. He’s still a little nervous around the animals, but once he realizes they don’t bite too hard, he’ll be just fine.
That’s when I feel it. The shift in the air. The prickle on the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the morning sun cutting through the barn boards.
I lift my gaze, and there she is.
Millie is leaning against the barn entrance, backlit by the fierce Montana light, so she’s all silhouette and grace. She’s holding two glasses of lemonade, beaded with condensation.
I bet she juiced fresh lemons, just because that’s how I like it made. My wife, man.
She’s wearing a simple sundress, the color of buttercream, and her hair is piled up in a messy knot with little wisps escaping to curl at her neck. Every morning, she tends the chickens and then cleans up, wrapping her body in my weakness.
“Mom!” Asher abandons the cow’s teat, the rhythm forgotten, the pail and all his hard work instantly irrelevant in the face of her presence. He scrambles to his feet, scattering straw, and bolts toward her.
“Hey, cowboy!” she laughs, bending down to hand him a glass. He takes it with both hands, gulping noisily, his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. He’s used to being spoiled by her, too. Like father, like son.
I rise more slowly, wiping my hands on my jeans, my own smile feeling like it’s permanently etched into my face these days. I cross the barn, eliminating the space between us instantly.
She meets my eyes over the rim of Asher’s head, her smile turning cheeky. I stop in front of her, drink in the sight, and have to convince myself that we’re not alone. But I don’t have to press her against anything to release a little steam.
I don’t say a word. I just cup her cheek, my thumb stroking that soft skin, and lean down to kiss her. It’s not a hungry kiss, not here in the daylight with our boy watching. It’s a silent thank you. Her lips are cool and sweet, tasting faintly of lemon and sugar.
She sighs into it, a little hum of contentment that vibrates straight through me.
“Ewwww!” Asher’s voice, thick with disgust, breaks the spell.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against Millie’s. “Drink your lemonade, son,” I say, my voice rough. A kiss has to be enough for now. It has to be.
She giggles, amused by my struggle. “I was getting worried you two were overheating out here.”
“I think you just wanted to see me after a couple of hours,” I murmur, my lips brushing hers again.
She doesn’t even try to deny it. Her eyes sparkle against the sunlight. “Maybe.”
I kiss her again, because I can. Because she’s mine and I’m hers and every damn day still feels like a reminder of the fact.
“Good luck,” she whispers against my mouth when we finally part. She gives my chest a gentle pat, right over the heart that beats only for her and the boy now trying to give the cows a little bit of juice to share in their tub of water.
It still needs to be cleaned. This is fine. I just need—
Millie turns away to leave, already knowing she’s a distraction.
As she makes her escape, she sways those hips.
Just a little. Just the way she knows drives me wild.
The buttercream dress swings with the motion, a reminder of what waits for me when the chores are done, when our boy is asleep, when the house is quiet and just ours again.
My breath catches. I force myself to take a long, cold drink of the lemonade. It’s tart and sweet, just like her.
I remind myself, with a grit of my teeth and a fond surge of pure want, that I will have to punish her later for teasing me while I’m in the middle of something. The thought sends a thrill of pure anticipation through my veins.
For now, I watch her walk back to the house, the sun loving every curve of her. I turn back to my son and clear my throat to catch him in the act.
“C’mon, little man,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s finish up. Your mom’s waiting.”
And she is. Always waiting. Always here. This ranch, these animals, this life we’re building—it’s the dream. But she’s the reason I get to dream at all.
Even when I wake up and still question myself if this is all true, these two will always be right there, waiting to prove that I’m stuck with them for the rest of my days.