Chapter Eleven #2
We walked together, his hand never leaving the small of my back, a heat anchor against the June air. The baby kicked again, harder this time, and I exhaled slow, willing myself to keep up.
About halfway across the field, I spotted movement near the fence line—just a flicker, a shadow where there shouldn’t have been one. Instinct made me tighten my grip on Macon’s hand.
He saw it too. “We’re not alone,” he said, voice dropping into that old, lethal register.
“Wildlife?” I asked, hoping.
He shook his head. “Too tall.”
We kept walking, slower now. As we rounded the last bend in the trail, a figure stepped into the open: an older man, all denim and sun-dried leather, the lines in his face so deep they looked carved.
He wore a battered Stetson and a belt with a buckle the size of my palm.
He leaned against the fence, posture straight but not aggressive, a coil of barbed wire in one hand.
He watched us approach, eyes hidden in the shadow of his hat. When we got close, he nodded once—just enough to register as a greeting.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” I echoed.
Macon offered a short, sharp nod, the kind that promised politeness, but nothing more.
The old man looked us over, gaze settling on the bump in my shirt, then flicking to Macon, then back to me. “Didn’t expect to see anyone out this way. You lost?”
“Just exploring,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “This is our place. Or will be, once the lawyers finish their mating dance.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his stance loosened. “You the ones bought the Hargrove parcel?”
“That’s us,” I said. “Carter and Macon.”
He let the names settle, then stuck out his hand. “Walter Jenkins. I manage the fence lines. Used to do all the livestock before that idiot Victor fired half the help and then tried to run the herd himself.”
Macon shook his hand, the grip brief but solid. “We heard about you. Rawley said you could out-stubborn a Missouri mule.”
That earned a huff of laughter. “He exaggerates, but not by much.” He looked at me again, this time with open curiosity. “You expecting?”
I nodded, not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud. “Five months, give or take.”
Walter nodded like that made sense, but I caught the quick scan of Macon’s build, the way he measured the delta between us and filed it away.
He leaned back against the fence. “Most folks wouldn’t be out in this heat, especially not in your condition.”
I shrugged. “I wanted to see it. The land, I mean. Before it gets bulldozed or subdivided or whatever people do when they buy too much at auction.”
Walter’s lips twisted—part smile, part sneer. “That’s what Victor wanted. A fake dude ranch, bungalows for the tech millionaires. He even flew in some fancy architect from Portland to design the main lodge.”
I glanced at Macon, who was visibly struggling not to roll his eyes.
Walter seemed to notice. “You got different plans?”
“Yeah,” I said, heart thumping. “We want to build a real house. Something that belongs here. We want to run goats. Maybe sheep. No theme park, no infinity pool. Just—” I stopped, searching for the right word. “A home. For us. For the kid.”
Walter stared at me for a long second, then nodded, a subtle shift in his expression that felt like passing some test.
“This place needs new life,” he said, voice softer now. “I’ve watched it get run down for decades. You treat it right, it’ll treat you right in return.”
Macon’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, grounding me. “We intend to.”
Walter eyed us, measuring, then jerked his head toward the east. “You wanna see the best part of the property?”
I glanced at Macon, who shrugged, then nodded. “Lead the way,” I said.
Walter set off at a pace only slightly slower than a full march. He moved with the kind of efficiency that only comes from living in your body for a very long time. The trail narrowed, and the grass gave way to low brush and wildflowers—prairie coneflower, fleabane, purple clusters I couldn’t name.
After a few hundred yards, we hit the edge of a small copse: cottonwoods and willows, the kind of sudden, improbable green that looks photoshopped against the pale June sky.
Walter stopped at the threshold and pointed. “Spring’s in there. Been running since the Black Butte was first settled. Even in drought, it never dries up.”
He led us into the shade, the temperature dropping ten degrees in an instant. The air smelled of river mud and wet stone, and I could hear the burble before I saw it.
The spring bubbled up from a fracture in the limestone, water so clear it looked invisible until it pooled in a hollow at the base of a fallen log.
Moss grew thick on the rocks, and tiny white flowers crowded the banks.
Dragonflies zipped in and out of the shafts of sunlight that speared through the leaves.
I knelt—slowly, one hand bracing my weight, the other cradling my belly—and trailed my fingers through the water. It was shockingly cold, even in the heat.
Macon knelt beside me, his knee brushing mine, and watched the surface ripple.
Walter stood back, arms crossed, watching us watch the water.
“Back in the old days,” he said, “they’d haul buckets from here all the way up to the house. There’s still an old cistern under the ridge. Victor tried to drill a well, but he gave up after the third dry hole.”
I let the water run through my fingers, transfixed. “Can we build here?”
Walter grinned, showing a flash of yellowed teeth. “This land’s yours now. You can build wherever you damn well please.”
Macon stood, dusted off his hands, and offered me an arm. I took it, and he pulled me up slow, like I might break if he rushed.
I looked around, really looked, at the dappled light and the sudden hush that made the spring feel like the last quiet place on earth. The Hargrove mansion was visible from here if you squinted, but it seemed small and far away, a failed idea outshone by the possibility of this place.
Walter watched us, the lines around his eyes softening. “You know, most people don’t even find this spot. They get distracted by the view or the river or the house. Takes a certain kind of person to look for what’s hidden.”
Macon looked at me, pride unspooling slow and warm behind his eyes. “He’s always been stubborn,” he said.
I ignored him, letting myself fall in love with the land a little more with every breath.
Walter lingered a minute longer, then tipped his hat. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. I live up in the caretaker’s cabin near the west boundary. Holler if you want a hand with the fencing or the animals.”
I nodded, heart full. “Thank you.”
He left, disappearing down the trail as quietly as he’d come.
We stood together for a while, Macon’s arm around my waist, my head tucked against his shoulder. The only sounds were the spring and the wind and the distant clatter of a woodpecker somewhere in the trees.
“This is the spot,” I said, certain. “I want the house to face the water.”
Macon nodded. “We’ll make it happen.”
We walked back slow, hand in hand, sunlight filtering through the leaves and painting our skin in patches of gold.
For the first time, I saw the future not as something to endure, but as something we could shape with our own hands.
As we reached the edge of the pasture, I glanced back, already picturing a porch, a yard full of goats and dogs and maybe kids, all of it anchored by the spring.
I squeezed Macon’s hand, and he squeezed back.
It wasn’t the mansion, or the ranch, or even the Hargrove name.
It was ours.
* * * *
Macon could turn a blueprint into a love letter. I’d watched him work before, at the shop or out on the barn steps, but never like this—sleeves rolled to the elbow, pencil hovering in his grip as if the tip might spark if it touched the paper wrong.
The kitchen table was littered with crumpled sketches, graph paper squares and triangles, magazine cutouts marked up with my increasingly deranged notes: dog doors, porches, woodstoves, hidden alcoves for reading.
He was blocking out the main floor when I drifted up behind him, mug in hand, and leaned over his shoulder. My stomach brushed the back of his arm, and for a second he went statue-still, as if the weight of me was some kind of blessing.
“You’re drawing the mudroom too big,” I said, nodding at the far corner of the page. “We don’t need a football field for boots.”
He glanced up at me, then flicked the pencil’s eraser over the wall in question. “You ever see Jojo come in from the chicken run? The man is ninety percent mud, ten percent regret.”
I snorted. “Still too big. We need a bigger pantry. For, you know, all my jam hoarding.”
He muttered, “Priorities,” but erased and re-drew the line, moving it in three precise increments. When he was satisfied, he slid the plan toward me, watching my face for approval. The paper was already soft around the edges, smudged from his thumbs.
“This look right?” he asked.
I stared at the sketch, at the house that wasn’t real yet but could be, if we just kept wanting it hard enough.
I traced my finger along the front porch, around the bend where the cottonwoods would block the afternoon sun.
I could already picture the swing, the cheap metal chairs, the goats harassing anyone foolish enough to eat outside.
“It’s perfect,” I said, and for once, I wasn’t lying.
He looked at me like he was trying to memorize my face.
Then my phone buzzed, vibrating itself across the table. I caught it before it hit the floor, and saw the subject line: “URGENT: Call Requested by Harrison Steele.” The body of the email was short and sharp, just like my father. “Video meeting tomorrow. Mandatory attendance. Details attached.”
My stomach dropped. I’d known it was coming, but the cold in my chest said otherwise.
Macon read my face before I could hide it. “Him?” he asked, voice so quiet it barely broke the air.
I nodded, flicked open the message, scanned the details. “Tomorrow morning. He’s not even in the country—he wants to Zoom from Madrid.” I laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “He never requests anything. He only demands.”
Macon reached over and closed his hand around the back of my neck, warm and steady. “We’ll be ready.”
I met his eyes, desperate for the certainty I saw there. “What if he—?”
He squeezed, gentle but insistent. “Doesn’t matter what he says. Or what he tries to pull. We have options. We have resources. Hell, we have a lawyer with a mean streak and a taste for blood.”
I tried to smile. It wobbled at the edges.
He let go and tapped the plan with his pencil. “Tomorrow, after you talk to him, we’ll go to the spring. Put a stake in the ground. Make it official.”
That helped. The idea of a future that couldn’t be negotiated away. I nodded, then scrolled to the bottom of the message and clicked “accept.” The confirmation pinged back instantly—Steele efficiency, always.
“I need air,” I said, pushing up from the chair.
He started to follow, but I stopped him with a look. “I just need a minute. Alone.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yell if you need me.”
I stepped out onto the porch. The world had gone blue and gold, the horizon bleeding out into night, the stars just starting to pinprick the dark.
The porch swing was occupied. Jojo sat there, feet tucked up, a bundle wrapped in flannel cradled to his chest. The baby was tiny, barely more than a rumor of a person, all fuzzy hair and pink fists.
I didn’t want to disturb them, but Jojo patted the space beside him without looking up.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head and sat, the swing groaning under my weight. For a minute, neither of us spoke. The silence was easy, threaded with the soft noises of the baby breathing and the wind in the cottonwoods.
“He’s cute,” I said.
Jojo smiled, all softness. “He looks like Rawley, but he eats like me.”
I laughed, the knot in my throat loosening a little.
We rocked, slow, letting the night settle around us.
After a while, Jojo asked, “You scared?”
I stared out at the sky, then nodded. “Yeah. Always. My dad—he’s never really seen me. Not the real me. I’m just a fuck-up in a suit, a name on a ledger. If I go into that call and fall apart—”
Jojo cut me off. “Then don’t fall apart. Make him see you. The real you.”
I snorted. “Easy for you to say. You have a family that actually wants you around.”
He shook his head, still not looking at me. “I have a family now. I had to fight for it. You did, too.”
I looked down at the baby. He was awake, eyes wide and luminous in the dusk, one fist clutching the edge of Jojo’s shirt.
“I want him to have a family,” I said, voice low. “I want him to have a home.”
Jojo nodded, then pulled a blanket up over the baby’s face. “Then build it. One brick at a time.”
We sat together, the porch swing creaking, until the chill drove us inside.
I found my way to the bedroom, shucked my jeans, and crawled under the covers. Macon was already there, reading with one hand behind his head, glasses perched on his nose. He set the book down when I climbed in, then slid an arm around me, pulling me close.
“You good?” he asked.
I curled against him, hand protectively over my belly. “Yeah,” I said, and I meant it.
He kissed the back of my neck, then shut off the lamp.
I lay there in the dark, listening to his breathing and the soft patter of the baby’s feet against the inside of my skin. For the first time, the prospect of facing my father didn’t terrify me.
I was ready.
When dawn rolled around, pale and insistent at the window, I woke before the alarm. The house was still, the air full of possibility. I rolled over, kissed Macon awake, and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. There was a note from Jojo on the fridge: “You’ve got this.”
I smiled, tore off the note, and shoved it in my pocket.
Today would change everything. I could feel it.
But for once in my life, I wasn’t afraid of being seen.