Chapter Six #2
He had the uncanny ability to move through the world like he weighed nothing, even almost six months pregnant and shaped like a lowercase “b.” His hair was down today, caught in a loose braid that kept falling forward into his face.
He wore a faded pink hoodie that said “Emotional Support Baker” and it looked like he’d slept in it, which I guessed he had.
“Hey,” he said, voice as gentle as a lamb. He hovered at the threshold, arms tucked around his own middle, like the baby might try to make a break for it if he let go.
I braced myself, not sure if this would be one of those awkward “so you married my boyfriend’s best friend” moments or if he’d just ignore me entirely and head for the chickens.
Instead, he smiled. It was small, but it took the sting out of my shoulders.
“Morning,” I offered, like I actually knew how to talk to people before noon.
He came closer, picking his way around the feed bins, and knelt to scratch the ears of the oldest goat. “You survived the night,” he said, not quite a question.
“Barely,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, yeah. It was… good. We slept, mostly.”
He snorted, a sound so quick and bright that Beyoncé whipped her head around in suspicion. “That’s a first around here. Macon usually wakes up at three and does push-ups until sunrise.”
I laughed. “He was gone before I woke up.”
Jojo nodded, rolling his eyes like this was standard operating procedure. “He’ll be back for second breakfast. He always is.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, so I patted the side of a goat who’d climbed onto the hay bale beside me. “You need help with chores?” I asked, desperate to fill the air with anything but silence.
He shrugged. “I was coming to see if you needed help.”
I blinked. “I think I’m good. Unless the goats are plotting another jailbreak.”
“Always,” he said. “But you’re doing great.” He reached for a handful of hay, scattering it across the pen for the littler ones. “You seem… happier. Like you belong here.”
The compliment hit me in the sternum. “I don’t know about that,” I said, but my voice was softer than I wanted.
He tilted his head, watching me with a calm I’d never managed. “I’ve never seen anyone take to them so fast. Most people are scared of getting butted.”
I looked at the goats, then at Jojo. “Maybe I’m just good at being ignored by people and animals alike.”
He shook his head, smiling. “You’re not invisible here, Carter. Trust me.”
There was something in his tone, a quiet authority that shut down my usual impulse to argue. I glanced at his belly, at the way his hand cupped the underside instinctively.
“How are you?” I asked. “You look—well, you look ready to pop.”
He grinned, teeth showing for the first time. “Rawley says it’s like waiting for a landmine. Any day now, but you never know which one.”
I winced. “He would say that.”
He leaned back on his heels, dusting his hands against his thighs. “You’re almost halfway, right?”
“Eighteen weeks, give or take. I keep expecting it to go sideways.”
“It might,” he said, then shrugged. “But you’ve got help. Macon’s the best, and Rawley won’t let anything happen to you. Or me. Or even these miscreants.” He nodded at the goats, who were trying to untie my shoelaces in a coordinated attack.
I stared at him, trying to find a trace of judgement or pity, but there was none. Just an acceptance so complete it made my eyes sting.
“I don’t know how to do any of this,” I said, lower now.
Jojo’s hand covered mine, warm and dry. “None of us do. The first time I held a goat kid, I thought I’d drop it. Rawley had to show me three times how to bottle-feed.” He laughed at himself, then squeezed my fingers. “You’re already better than you think.”
We stood there for a long minute, letting the sounds of the barn fill the space—the scrabble of hooves on concrete, the soft hum of the lights, the slow, rhythmic breathing of two men trying to build something out of nothing.
I felt the knot in my shoulders loosen, just a little.
“You ever think about starting your own herd?” Jojo asked, as if he’d just remembered it.
I blinked. “Like… breeding goats?”
He nodded. “You light up when you’re with them. I think you’d be good at it.”
The idea was so absurd I laughed, but then I saw that he was serious. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“We could teach you,” he said, and it wasn’t an empty offer.
I considered it, for the first time. Me, running a bunch of stubborn animals, getting dirt under my nails, learning to repair fences and birth kids and maybe, eventually, not need a manual to do it right. The thought made my chest expand, just a little.
“Maybe,” I said. “Someday.”
He grinned, then stood with a groan. “I need coffee before this baby decides to make an exit. You coming inside?”
I looked at the goats, still orbiting me, then at the light through the barn windows, gold and sharp and full of possibility.
“In a minute,” I said, and meant it.
Jojo left, footsteps soft as always, and I watched him go. The barn door closed with a click, and I was alone again, but it didn’t feel empty.
For the first time, I let myself imagine the future: not the one my father mapped out, but one built on hay bales and sunrises, on the laughter of people who didn’t need me to be anything but myself.
I knelt in the straw, scooped up a baby goat, and held it to my chest. It snuffled at my chin, warm and alive.
“Yeah,” I whispered to it. “Maybe.”
* * * *
It was the smell that drew me—clean and sharp, somewhere between Christmas and the inside of an old guitar case. Macon’s shop wasn’t much to look at from the outside, just a converted tractor shed with windows clouded by a decade of nicotine and sawdust.
But inside, it was a different country: a universe of tools, each in its assigned place, pegboard bristling with chisels and screwdrivers, the workbench an altar lined with shavings as thin as onion skin.
I hovered at the threshold, not wanting to break the spell. Macon stood with his back to me, bent over the bench, hands moving slow and precise over a curved piece of wood. The sun angled through the high window, catching flecks of dust in the air and painting his shoulders gold.
He was working on a cradle.
Not a flat-pack, Target special. A real one, solid and old-fashioned, every edge sanded to a gentle round.
The body of it was all pale, raw maple, but he’d inlaid a band of cedar around the rim, the colors soft and warm together.
His hands dwarfed the thing, but he handled it like a relic, turning it slow, running his thumb over each groove, checking for anything that might catch a child’s skin.
I watched him for a minute, maybe longer.
He wore a plain t-shirt, no logo, the kind that showed off the muscles across his shoulders without trying.
The light found every scar on his forearms, every place a bullet or blade or piece of shrapnel had left its mark.
But those hands, the ones that could break bone or splinter a door, were soft with the wood.
It made something in my chest ache.
He must have heard me—maybe the boards under my boots, maybe the shift in the air—because he turned, setting the cradle gently on the bench.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough from not talking all morning.
I swallowed, tongue thick. “Hey.”
He brushed his palms on his jeans, leaving streaks of dust on the thighs, and crossed the shop in three steps. He stopped a foot away, not quite touching, but close enough I could feel his heat.
“Wanted to surprise you,” he said, nodding back at the workbench.
“You did,” I managed, fighting the urge to look down or away.
He looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. “You good?” he asked, not just about the morning.
I nodded. “Better than I’ve been in years.”
He reached out and thumbed a streak of hay from my hair. His fingers lingered, knuckles tracing the line of my jaw, then dropping to the collar of the flannel. “You been in the barn?”
“With Jojo. He showed me how to keep the goats from eating their own bedding.”
Macon’s eyes crinkled, the beginnings of a smile. “Didn’t think you’d last a week with them.”
“Didn’t think you’d ever wear a shirt without holes.”
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine.
We stood there, the silence comfortable for once. Outside, a crow called from the tree line, and somewhere in the house, Burke was singing along to the radio, off-key.
“Can I see it?” I asked, nodding to the cradle.
He led me over, one hand warm at the small of my back.
Up close, I could see the care in every detail—the way the legs flared out, just enough to keep it from ever tipping; the smoothness of the rails; the little curl of wood carved into the headboard.
Macon ran a hand along the edge, slow, almost reverent.
“It’s not done yet,” he said. “But I wanted it ready before…”
Before everything changed, he didn’t say.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him, and meant it.
He watched me, eyes soft in a way I’d never seen on him before. For a second, I thought he might cry, but instead he just pulled me in, arms wrapping around my waist. My belly pressed against his ribs, and I felt him inhale, deep and steady.
He kissed me, light at first, then harder, mouth opening on a rush of breath. I melted into him, hands finding the back of his neck, fingers digging in. He tasted like sawdust and coffee and something all his own.
He broke the kiss first, lips brushing my ear. “I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
I squeezed him back, not trusting myself to speak. “Me too,” I said, but it came out muffled, lost in the fabric of his shirt.
He held me until I calmed, until my heart stopped rattling around inside my chest. Then he set his chin on the top of my head and just breathed with me.
It could have stayed like that all day, but the world had other plans.
At first, I thought it was thunder. A low, rolling rumble from up near the road, building fast. But it didn’t fade—it got sharper, faster, and soon the rattle resolved itself into the unmistakable sound of expensive engines.
Macon stiffened, and I felt the change in him. The protector, the soldier, sliding on over the gentle. He pulled away, putting himself between me and the door before I’d even registered the risk.
A car came into view around the side of the barn, tires crunching on the gravel. It was black, low and sleek, a sedan you only saw in airports or on the cover of Forbes.
It had Texas plates.
I didn’t need to see the driver to know who it was. My stomach dropped, hard. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
“It’s okay,” Macon said, reading me like a manual. “You don’t have to see him. Not if you don’t want to.”
I shook my head, forcing the panic down. “He’ll come looking.”
“Let him,” Macon said, voice stone. “He doesn’t get to hurt you here.”
I tried to remember that I was safe, that I had choices now. But every muscle in my body was ready to run.
The car braked, door opening with crisp, mechanical clicks.
I watched through the workshop window, not moving, as my father stepped out onto the gravel, immaculate as always—dark suit, sunglasses, tie sharp enough to slit a throat.
He scanned the yard, gaze skating over the barn and house, then fixed on the shop door.
He raised a hand, beckoning.
I felt Macon’s hand on my back, steady, not pushing. “If you want, I’ll handle it,” he said.
I shook my head. “No. I need to do it.”
He nodded, and I felt the pressure ease, just a little.
“Want me with you?”
I looked at him, really looked, and in that moment I knew: I didn’t want to hide behind anyone, but I also didn’t want to be alone. Not ever again.
“Yeah,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “But let me talk first.”
He followed as I walked out of the shop, close enough to catch me if I tripped. The air outside was cold, but I barely noticed. Every sense was tuned to my father, standing in the driveway with his hands in his pockets, the world revolving around him like always.
He took off his sunglasses as I approached, eyes cool and assessing. “Carter,” he said, like a greeting and an accusation in one.
“Dad.”
He looked me up and down, taking in the flannel, the jeans, the way my hands trembled a little. His gaze lingered at my stomach, then flicked to Macon, then back to me. “So it’s true,” he said, voice flat. “You’ve made a mess.”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to flinch. “I’m happy,” I said.
He made a face, a little curl of the lip. “That’s not the word I’d use.”
Macon stepped forward, just a half-step, and for once my father looked unsure. “Is there something you want?” Macon asked, polite as a buzz-saw.
My father ignored him, keeping his gaze on me. “I’m giving you a chance,” he said. “To come back to Texas. We’ll handle this quietly. There’s no need to throw away your future over a… mistake.”
The words landed like blows. I felt my fingernails digging into my palms. “It’s not a mistake,” I said, voice clear. “It’s my life.”
He snorted. “This? You think any of this is real?” He waved a hand at the farmhouse, the barn, the man beside me. “You belong in the city, Carter. You’re not cut out for this.”
Macon was a wall at my back, unmoving, unmovable.
I looked at my father, really looked, and saw for the first time how tired he was. How afraid. “I don’t want your life,” I said, soft. “I never did.”
He glared, waiting for me to back down, but I didn’t.
“I love him,” I said, nodding at Macon. “I love this baby. And I’m not leaving.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then turned away, fists clenched at his sides. “I see,” he said, clipped. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
He put the sunglasses back on, mask slipping over his face. “Very well. I hope you’re ready for the consequences.”
He got back in the car, door slamming like a gunshot. The engine purred to life, and just like that, he was gone.
For a long minute, I just stood there, not sure if I wanted to cry or laugh or collapse.
Macon was beside me, solid and silent. He didn’t say anything, just put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his side. “You did good,” he said, voice gentle.
I let myself lean on him, the weight of everything suddenly gone.
The sky was clear above us, no clouds, no storm on the way. The air smelled of sawdust and spring, and somewhere inside, I could hear Jojo and Rawley laughing over breakfast.
For the first time, I was free.
I took Macon’s hand, lacing our fingers together, and we walked back toward the house.
Home.