Chapter Sixteen
~ Carter ~
The last thing I ever wanted was to face my father alone. But there I was, on the front porch of the Black Butte Ranch, hands white-knuckled on the railing, as the Mercedes glided up the drive with all the threat of an incoming cruise missile.
I’d spent the morning making myself busy, which, at five months and change pregnant, meant shuffling between the fridge and the porch every twenty minutes, and reorganizing the nursery for the seventeenth time.
I’d memorized the way the sun hit the trees in the yard, the way the dust caught in the wind.
I’d watched Macon in the shop, sleeves rolled to the biceps, finishing the last pass on the bassinet he’d started weeks ago.
I should have called him, but I wanted—needed—to prove that I could handle this myself.
That I wasn’t going to run, or hide, or fall apart just because the man who’d spent my entire life making me feel like an afterthought was finally coming to collect.
So I stayed put, watching the road, every muscle wound tight as piano wire.
I saw the shimmer of heat on the highway, the flash of sun off the hood, and the slow, methodical way the car eased up to the fence.
It didn’t fishtail or squeal—just rolled to a perfect, silent stop, like it had never once in its life been late for anything.
The door opened. Harrison Steele stepped out, immaculate as always, not a hair out of place despite the Montana wind.
He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than the entire ranch’s livestock combined, and shoes so polished I could see the sky in them.
He glanced once at the ground—disdain for the gravel evident in the pinch of his mouth—then started up the walk.
He saw me immediately, and for the first time in my life, I saw something like surprise in his face. It didn’t last long, but it was there: a flicker, quick as a nervous tick, before the usual cold reasserted itself.
He took in the house, the yard, the half-finished construction in the distance. His gaze swept the horizon, catalogued every flaw, every sign of hard use, and then, finally, he looked at me.
And he stared.
It wasn’t the casual, appraising look I remembered from childhood—where he measured my posture, my handshake, my ability to recite the right answer under pressure. This was something else. Something that sliced right through the years and pinned me to the spot.
He was looking at my belly.
For a full five seconds, neither of us said anything. Just two men, separated by thirty years and the sum total of everything that had ever gone unsaid.
Finally, he spoke, voice perfectly neutral. “Carter, this has gone far enough.”
There it was. No hello. No “How are you?” Just a statement, delivered with the force of law.
I let go of the railing, though my hands left sweat prints on the wood. “There’s nothing to discuss, Father. I’m married. I’m having this baby. I’m staying in Montana.”
He didn’t even blink. Just glided up the steps, shoes clicking on the boards like a metronome.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, brushing a fleck of imaginary dust from his sleeve.
“You’ve made your point with this little rebellion.
Now it’s time to come home, where we can manage this… situation discreetly.”
I didn’t flinch. I’d practiced this part in the mirror, late at night, until I could say it without shaking. “There is no situation. This is my life now. I’m not coming back. Not even for you.”
For a moment, I thought he might smile, but the corners of his mouth only twitched with disgust. “You are a Steele,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You have responsibilities to this family that you cannot simply abandon for some… farmhand.”
He said it like a curse. Like the very idea of Macon was so beneath us, he couldn’t even dignify it with a name.
“I’m an O’Reilly.” I felt the anger come up, cold and pure. “Macon is my husband. And this baby is—”
But the words never finished, because that’s when the first pain hit.
It wasn’t a polite warning. It was a full-body, white-hot spike of agony that started in my lower back and wrapped around the front like a bear trap.
I doubled over, hands on my belly, sucking air.
The world narrowed to a pinhole, then exploded back into focus with a brightness so intense I saw stars.
I heard my own voice before I realized I was screaming.
My knees gave out, and I hit the porch hard enough to bite my tongue.
I tasted blood, heard my father say my name, and then it was just a blur of sound and sensation: the splintery press of the boards against my palm, the cold sweat on my forehead, the second contraction already building behind the first.
My vision swam, but I saw him move—still composed, still controlled, but for the first time ever, actually moving toward me. “Carter,” he said, and I could almost pretend there was worry in it.
I tried to stand, but the pain doubled me over again. I gasped, “No—don’t touch me—” but it was too late. He reached out, and for a second I thought he was going to catch me.
Instead, he stood there, hovering, one hand extended and then pulled back at the last second, like the idea of touching me was too much.
Somewhere, distantly, I heard the sound of the shop door slamming open. Heavy boots on dirt. A voice, rough and urgent: “Carter!”
I turned my head, sweat stinging my eyes, and saw Macon sprinting across the yard, all six-foot-three of him moving like he was back on a SEAL team, outpacing even the panic in his face.
I tried to call out, but another contraction hit, harder than the first, and I folded in half, hands clawing at the porch, unable to do anything but ride it out.
If my father had wanted to make a scene, he picked the wrong morning.
Because there’s nothing like the sight of a six-foot-three alpha sprinting across the yard at full tilt, murder in his eyes and a sawdust-stained t-shirt clinging to his chest, to remind you who actually owns the ground you’re standing on.
Macon was on me before Harrison even processed the sound of my knees hitting the boards. He ignored my father completely, dropping down to my level so fast the porch shook, and caught my shoulders in his hands. The look on his face was a study in focus—part panic, part cold, operational calm.
“Talk to me, Carter. Where’s it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” I managed, though the word came out strangled. Another wave built behind my spine, sharper than before, and I tried to double up, but he held me steady, one palm cupped to my jaw to keep me upright.
Harrison hovered a few feet away, arms half-raised like he wanted to help but didn’t know which part of me to touch without contaminating it. Macon, ever the diplomat, didn’t even look at him. “What did you do to him?” he snarled, voice low and razor-sharp.
“I didn’t—” my father started, but the statement tripped over itself, lost in the roar of another contraction.
This one came in hot. My stomach knotted and my vision went white at the edges. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely stay on the right side of consciousness. I gripped the edge of the porch so hard my nails cracked.
“Jesus,” I wheezed. “It’s too soon—” The words broke off, replaced by a whimper.
“Hey. You’re okay.” Macon pressed his forehead to mine, hand at the back of my neck. He sounded calm, but I could feel his pulse through the skin—faster than mine, if that was possible. “You’re okay. Can you walk or do you want me to carry you?”
“Carry,” I croaked, not too proud for that.
He shifted, getting one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. The force of it knocked the breath from my lungs, but the pressure in my belly made every other sensation irrelevant.
Harrison tried to follow, but Macon just barreled past him, the heat of his body a shield against the June air.
We were halfway down the steps when the war cry of a diesel engine split the silence.
Hooper’s Humvee—spray painted camo and missing at least two hubcaps—skidded to a stop in front of the house, dust boiling around it like a tornado made of bad decisions.
The back door popped open and Hooper’s head emerged, wild and grinning, like the world’s least reassuring ambulance driver.
“Let’s go!” he yelled, already reaching to clear the seat.
Macon jogged to the car, set me gently inside, and climbed in after. Hooper was at the wheel, but not alone—Burke and Jackson crammed in the front, both barking orders and trying to wrestle the GPS into submission.
Behind us, Harrison caught up, breathless for the first time in his life. He reached for the door, but Burke leaned over and locked it.
“Sorry, sir,” he said through the glass, voice a honeyed mockery. “Family only.”
Harrison’s jaw worked, but before he could protest, Macon snapped: “Get in your car and follow if you want. But stay out of the way.”
Rawley appeared on the porch, Jojo at his side, baby slung to his chest in a blue wrap. He looked from me to Macon, then to my father, and the steel in his face was more intimidating than anything I’d ever seen in a boardroom.
“I’ll deal with this,” Rawley said, voice flat and final. “Jojo and I will hold the fort. Take care of Carter.”
I wanted to laugh, or maybe sob, but another contraction ripped through me, and the only sound I made was a broken gasp.
Hooper floored it. The Humvee rocketed down the drive, the jolt sending my teeth clacking together. Macon held me in the backseat, his arms an unbreakable band around my shoulders. His hand covered mine, fingers laced so tight they hurt, but I needed that pain to anchor me.
For the first half mile, I was lost to the world, riding the peaks and troughs of pain like a drowning man in open water. Every so often I’d come up for air—catch sight of the open road, the dust plume trailing us, the way Hooper drove as if the law of physics were more of a suggestion than a rule.