11. Not Alone Anymore?
Not Alone Anymore?
~WILLA~
T he house reveals itself to me in the slowest, cruelest increments—like an old wound that forgets to scar over but still remembers how to ache.
Every hallway is a palimpsest, layered with the ghosts of my childhood and the new, more vivid ghosts of the men who’ve made it theirs.
The walls are the same soft blue, but the gallery of faded family photos now shares space with crisp new prints: horses running, mountains in stormlight, the four of them grinning over blackened steaks at the summer barbecue pit.
There’s a scratch on the banister that I remember blaming on a cousin, but now it’s been buffed smooth and stained a richer brown, as though someone’s gone through erasing even my mistakes.
I trace the banister with my fingers anyway, daring myself to remember—and to admit that I don’t recognize what’s become of my own ancestral home.
I carry Luna against my chest, her breathing warm and rhythmic, and try to map what’s changed by scent alone.
Underneath the familiar sharpness of pine cleaner and the high desert’s mineral tang, a new chemistry dominates: four distinct notes, woven together by time and proximity, all of them so obvious I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t notice right away.
Cole’s campfire smoke and cedar, Mavi’s spice and tobacco, Austin’s sun-drenched wheat, River’s rain and cut grass.
It’s not just a place they’re occupying—it’s as if their pack has left a living imprint on the walls, the floors, every surface I touch. Even the air tastes different.
The kitchen is both shrine and battleground.
The stone countertops and battered cast iron pans are as I remember, but the old breadbox is gone, replaced with a fancy espresso machine and three different kinds of protein powder lined up on the cowboy checkered tablecloth.
Someone’s left a baby bottle in the dish rack, next to a thermos marked “River” in blocky Sharpie.
I can almost hear the echo of my grandmother’s laughter in the space, but when I open the fridge, it’s stocked with energy drinks and chicken breasts and half a dozen jars of whatever organic nonsense Austin must be experimenting with for Luna’s “enriched brain development.” I close it quickly, not sure whether I want to scream or cry or just start pitching things onto the floor until it looks like my memory instead of someone else’s future.
I keep moving, Luna’s weight anchoring me to the present.
The hallway leading to the living room is a corridor of old certificates—grandpa’s rodeo trophies, grandma’s volunteer awards—and right at the end, pinned to the wall with a tack, is a childish drawing of a barn and a stick-figure family.
Someone has added a fifth stick figure in a different colored marker.
Underneath it reads: “Home is wherever we all are.” The handwriting is lopsided and obviously Austin’s, a detail that alternately infuriates and devastates me.
And still, every step feels like a trespass.
I feel the urge to apologize aloud to the furniture, to the floorboards, to the ghosts of my own past selves who must be watching from the shadowed corners and wondering how I let it all slip away.
But Luna is awake now, peering over my shoulder, small hands tangled in my hair, her scent of milk and talcum oddly grounding.
The living room still has Grandpa's ancient recliner, worn leather shaped by decades of evening rest. But now there's also a playpen in the corner, baby toys scattered across a rug that's definitely newer than my last visit.
The mantel holds his collection of carved horses, but between them sit framed photos—the four men at various ranch tasks, Luna at different stages of tiny, and one that stops me cold.
All five of them together, Luna maybe two months old, passed between them like the world's most precious football. Their faces are soft with exhaustion and wonder, the kind of bone-deep contentment that comes from surviving something difficult together.
New fathers, clearly. But no mother in sight.
"Where did you come from, little one?" I whisper to Luna, who's gumming contentedly on my collar.
She offers no answers, just drools with impressive volume.
The kitchen tells more stories. Grandpa's cast iron skillet hangs in its place of honor, but the refrigerator is covered in feeding schedules, pediatrician appointments, and a hand-drawn chart tracking who's on night duty. The mundane intimacy of it makes my throat tight.
This is a family, unconventional but real.
I heat a bottle according to Austin's instructions, testing the temperature carefully on my wrist. Luna takes it eagerly, her heterochromatic eyes fixed on mine with unnerving focus. The weight of her trust settles over me like a blanket—warm but suffocating.
Upstairs, I find my grandfather's room untouched, like they've made it a shrine.
His reading glasses still sit on the nightstand, bookmarked Western novel waiting for him to return.
The other bedrooms bear clear signs of their occupants—Cole's military-neat, River's with plants on every surface, Mavi's spartan except for an extensive knife collection, Austin's cheerfully chaotic with medical journals stacked everywhere.
But it's the room at the end of the hall that stops my heart.
Luna's nursery is a masterpiece of careful love.
Soft sage walls with hand-painted wildflowers climbing toward the ceiling.
A white crib with carved details that I recognize as Cole's handiwork, mimicking the style my grandfather taught him.
A rocking chair positioned perfectly to catch morning light.
Shelves full of books, toys, stuffed animals that look both new and already loved.
"They did this for you," I tell Luna, emotion thick in my throat. "Four Alpha cowboys turned their lives upside down for one tiny girl."
The changing table has everything organized just so—Austin's influence clear in the labeled containers.
A mobile hangs above, handmade with felt animals that look like River's patient work.
The window has bars installed at exactly regulation height—Mavi's security consciousness.
And everywhere, in every detail, such profound care it makes my chest hurt.
Who was she? This Omega who gave them Luna and then... what? Died? Left?
The questions burn, but there's no one to ask.
I settle Luna in her crib after checking her diaper, proud of managing basic baby care without disaster. She fusses briefly, then settles, tiny fist clutching a stuffed horse that smells like all four of them.
My own bed— Grandpa's bed —feels strange and too large. I lie awake listening to the house settle, trying to distinguish normal sounds from threats. Every creak could be an intruder. Every whisper of wind sounds like smoke.
My body stays rigid, waiting for danger that doesn't come.
When Luna's cry splits the night, I bolt upright so fast my vision spots. The clock reads 2:47 AM. Her cries escalate quickly from fussy to frantic, and by the time I reach her room, she's red-faced and screaming.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." I lift her out, bouncing like I've seen Austin do. "Shh, sweet girl. What's wrong?"
She arches away from me, shrieking louder. Not hungry—she just ate a few hours ago. Diaper's clean. No fever that I can tell. But the crying intensifies until it's the kind of sound that drills into your skull and makes rational thought impossible.
I try everything.
Walking. Rocking. Singing—which makes her cry harder, possibly from aesthetic offense. The baby books on the shelf offer suggestions that all seem to require equipment I can't locate or techniques I don't understand.
"Please," I beg, tears pricking my own eyes as her distress feeds mine. "I don't know what you need."
Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. My arms ache from bouncing, and Luna's cries have taken on a desperate quality that speaks of real distress.
I need help. Need someone who actually knows what they're doing.
But I don't have a phone. Don't have their numbers. Don't have ? —
The ranch phone.
Austin mentioned it autodials the bunkhouse, but he also left his cell number. I carry a screaming Luna downstairs, finding the sticky note still on the counter. My hands shake as I dial.
He answers on the second ring, voice alert despite the hour.
"Willa? What's wrong?"
"She won't stop crying." The words tumble out in a rush. "I've tried everything, but she's getting worse, and I don't know?—"
"I'm coming." Already I hear movement, boots on floor. "Is she pulling at her ears? Arching her back?"
"Arching, yes. And her face is so red?—"
"Gas, probably. I'll be there in two minutes. Try laying her on her back and bicycling her legs gently."
I follow his instructions, but Luna's too worked up now. Her cries echo through the house, and I'm struck by how thin the line is between caretaker and catastrophe.
True to his word, Austin appears at the back door in under two minutes. Hair mussed from sleep, wearing flannel pants and a henley thrown on backward, but his hands are steady as he takes Luna from me.
"Hey, moon girl," he croons, already working her legs in a practiced rhythm. "Got a tummy ache? Let's fix that."
He shows me how to hold her, how to apply gentle pressure to her abdomen, how to recognize the different cries. Luna settles gradually, hiccupping through the last of her tears while clinging to his shirt.
"Gas drops are in the medicine cabinet," he says quietly, aware of her drowsing state. "Second shelf, blue bottle. Sometimes she just needs help working things through her system."
I retrieve them, watching him administer the drops with easy competence. Luna's eyes drift closed, exhausted from her ordeal. When he offers her back to me, I take her carefully, mimicking his hold.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I'm sorry for waking you?—"