Chapter Eleven
~ Carter ~
The first thing I felt was sunlight—hot, pushy, flooding the cracks between the curtains and burning patterns on my eyelids.
The second thing was Macon’s arm, thick and heavy across my waist, his palm splayed possessively over the full curve of my belly.
Not quite a vise, but not exactly gentle either; more like he was afraid if he let go, he’d wake up alone.
I peeled my eyes open. The old farmhouse bedroom looked the same as ever: quilt tangled at the footboard, walls bare except for the bad oil painting Jojo had picked up at the flea market.
But it felt different, as if all the air in the room had been re-oxygenated overnight.
Maybe it was the way Macon snored, just barely audible, or the fact that for the first time in my life, the day ahead felt like a gift instead of a trap.
I stretched under the covers, arms above my head, and arched my back until my spine popped.
The movement jostled Macon, who grunted and pulled me tighter.
I let myself stay there a minute, soaking in his warmth, the scent of sweat and sawdust and last night’s sex still clinging to his skin.
My body felt loose, electric—a far cry from the usual morning heaviness.
Yesterday’s conversation with Barrett replayed in my mind, but this time the memory was stripped of its panic.
My brother hadn’t come to blackmail me or drag me back to Texas.
He’d come to check that I was still alive, and in the process, given me a green light to keep running toward the only future that had ever felt like it belonged to me.
I twisted to face Macon. Even asleep, his jaw was set like he was bracing for incoming fire. He must have sensed me watching, because he blinked awake, dark lashes flickering.
The first thing he did was scan my face for damage; the second was check my belly, hand sliding across the slope of it like a craftsman inspecting his most important project.
“You awake?” he rumbled, voice graveled by sleep.
“Been up for an hour,” I lied. “You snore like a chainsaw.”
He smirked and squeezed my hip, fingers digging in just hard enough to make me gasp. “You love it.”
I did. I didn’t say it, but I did.
We lay there a while, sharing the kind of silence that only exists after someone else has finally seen you for who you are and not run for the exit.
The baby kicked—soft, like a foot caught in a bed-sheet.
Macon felt it and grinned, then pressed his lips to my navel, whispering some wordless apology to the future.
“Want breakfast?” he asked, already propping himself up on one elbow.
I shook my head. “I want to show you something.”
He eyed me, as if trying to read whether this was a trap, but I was already rolling out of bed, feet slapping the cold floorboards.
I hauled on the closest shirt—one of his, because my old ones didn’t come close to covering the belly anymore—and padded out into the hall, Macon trailing behind with a lazy, predatory gait.
The kitchen was empty. Rawley and Jojo must have already left for the feed store. The only sound was the clock ticking above the fridge and the gurgle of the old Keurig as it attempted to birth one more cup of life from its dying innards.
I went to the kitchen table and fanned out the stack of architectural magazines I’d been hoarding from the Black Butte library. Some people got off on porn. I got off on blueprints.
Macon eyed the stack, one eyebrow cocked. “You running away to architecture school?”
“Better,” I said. I tapped a page showing a low, modern farmhouse—clean lines, big porch, solar panels glinting on the roof. “We’re going to build this. Or something like it.”
He let the words hang, waiting for the punchline. When I didn’t deliver, he lowered himself into a chair, gaze flicking between me and the page. “You want to break ground before the baby comes?” He said it flat, but his eyes betrayed him—wide, a little stunned.
“Yes,” I said, not bothering to modulate the excitement in my voice. “I want to wake up in a house that’s ours. I want a nursery that doesn’t double as an armory or a panic room. I want—” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed by the size of my own hunger.
He reached across the table and caught my hand. His thumb traced the back of my knuckles, rough but careful. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” I lifted my chin, daring him to doubt me.
Instead, he smiled, slow and wide, and flipped the magazine around so he could see it right-side up. “This is a two-story. You sure you want stairs with a baby?”
“I’ll get jacked,” I said. “Or we can install one of those chair lifts for the elderly. It’ll be like a theme park ride.”
He snorted, then settled in, scrutinizing the floor plan like it was a classified briefing. “We’ll need insulation. Triple-paned glass or you’ll freeze in winter.”
“Already circled the best supplier in the state,” I said, flipping to the next page. “And I found a government grant for sustainable materials if we use local timber.”
He looked at me, almost awed. “You did all this since yesterday?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for months. I just never thought I’d get the chance to—” I stopped again, throat going tight.
He caught the hesitation and squeezed my hand. “You get every chance you want. I promise.”
I didn’t mean to, but I beamed at him. I could feel my face do it, could feel the way my cheeks flushed and my eyes went soft. There was no hiding it, and for once I didn’t want to.
The kettle clicked off, and I made us tea and toast, loading the bread with enough butter to terrify a cardiologist. The baby had started dictating my cravings, and apparently today’s menu was “as many carbs as possible, please.”
Macon watched me float around the kitchen, gaze lingering on the way my shirt pulled at the belly, the way I moved with a confidence I hadn’t known I had.
Every so often, he’d stand to help, only to realize I’d already set the table, poured the drinks, or pulled the jam from the fridge. When I reached for the silverware drawer, he moved behind me, one hand bracing my lower back. “You shouldn’t be lifting—”
“It’s a butter knife,” I said, but I didn’t protest when he took over, setting out the plates with a soldier’s precision.
We sat together, our knees bumping under the table, toast crumbs gathering between us. For a long stretch, neither of us spoke. We just ate, the kind of eating that was more about the company than the food.
Finally, Macon broke the quiet. “You know spring construction in Montana’s a shit show, right?”
The rainy season in Montana was just as dangerous as winter.
“I’m aware,” I said. “But if we start now, the foundation can go in and we can have the walls up before the heat of summer hits.”
He nodded, but I could see the calculations running in his head. “What about electrical? Septic? The Hargrove place isn’t set up for that.”
“I want off-grid,” I said, voice rising with the thrill of saying it out loud. “Solar, geothermal, backup generator. Rain catchment for the garden. And—” I waved at the magazine again, “I want a porch. All the way around. Enough room for the goats, or a dog, or both.”
He grinned, a rare, unguarded thing. “You planning to herd those goats yourself, city boy?”
“I’ll learn. I’ll YouTube it,” I said. “Worst case, I call Jojo for backup.”
Macon laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I like this version of you,” he said. “Didn’t know he was in there.”
I felt the compliment like a physical thing, hot and sharp, and I swallowed hard. “He’s been hiding for a while.”
The room went quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the quiet that happens when there’s nothing left to fear.
After breakfast, I gathered the magazines and shoved them into a tote bag. Macon stood, stretching to his full height, and for a second just looked at me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
“What?” I said, self-conscious.
He shook his head, then came around the table and bent down, lips grazing the side of my neck. “You’re fucking radiant,” he said, and even though the word sounded ridiculous, I believed him.
He straightened and squeezed my shoulders, then said, “Let’s go look at the land. If we’re breaking ground, you need to see where your porch will go.”
I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
We left the house, stepping into air that already smelled like summer. The world outside was bright, the grass wet and green, the sky cloudless as a wish. And for the first time, the future looked like something I could reach out and grab with both hands.
The sun was already high by the time we made it to the far end of the property, the kind of heat that rose off the grass in shimmering currents and turned the world into a slow-motion dream.
Macon had wanted to drive the F-150 across the pasture, but I insisted on walking. I wanted to feel the land under my boots, memorize every bump and rut before we turned it into something new.
The eastern field ran a half-mile toward the tree line, wild and thick with native grasses and the late bloomers Jojo had called “practical weeds.” We stuck to the old game trail, the grass on either side waist-high and buzzing with insects.
I made it about ten yards before I realized how out of shape I’d gotten; five months in, my body’s only setting was “expand.”
Macon walked a few paces ahead, checking the horizon with the same focus he’d used to scan rooftops in Aleppo. Every so often he’d look back, and when I lagged, he’d stop and wait, hands on his hips, patience disguised as annoyance.
“You good?” he called.
I stopped and braced my hands on my thighs, breathing hard. “Just savoring the ambiance,” I said, waving at the sea of green.
He grinned, then doubled back. “You want to rest?”
I shook my head, but when he offered his hand, I took it. “Not unless you plan to carry me.”
He looked me over, calculating. “I could,” he said, and I didn’t doubt him.