Epilogue
Maci
Five Years Later
The scent of sagebrush hangs heavily in the air as I step out onto the front porch to holler for the kids to come in for supper.
The whole MC is coming to our place tonight for a wild turkey and whiskey-basted corn meal.
It’s a tradition Duke and I started shortly after our shotgun wedding here at the ranch.
It wasn’t anything crazy fancy, but there was a lot of meaning packed into our short little ceremony in the round pen.
We picked wildflowers that afternoon and sprinkled them around the enclosure, and all our friends were in attendance.
“Kids,” I shout down toward the barn, “I need you two ready to eat in thirty minutes.”
Raylee yells back from somewhere in the barn, voice high and sticky with laughter, “I’m brushing Champ’s mane, Mama!” Our oldest is four years old and I’m obsessed. I swear she’s quite possibly the sweetest girl ever born.
Some days I get thinking about how scared I was to become a mom. I thought having no parents meant I’d have nothing to emulate. Turns out, everything you need shows up exactly when you need it.
I shake my head and lean against the porch rail, spatula still in hand, apron covered in flour and cayenne.
The breeze swirls hints of mesquite smoke from the pit where Duke’s been tending the bird since sunrise, his MC cut draped over the fence like it belongs here more than it ever did on the highway.
Colt barrels past me chasing the dog, boots muddy, shirt inside out, completely unfazed. He’s only two, but farm raised boys are a different breed. This kid has been riding horses since he was old enough to walk.
“Hey,” Duke’s deep voice rumbles in behind me as his heavy boots creak up onto the porch, “you look at the Gazette yet?” He holds his phone up in front of me, showing off an article that I wrote last week about how groundwork does wonders with green colts and how that translates to raising kids.
I never thought I’d be writing about ranches and horses, but people say you should write what you know, and lately, that’s all I know.
“They printed it?” I say, scrolling through the article.
“They did more than print it,” he beams, “they gave you the front page on a Sunday. I’d say that’s killin’ it.”
I appreciate the sweetness, but writing doesn’t mean what it used to, and neither does the front page. I used to think that finding someone else’s story would help me find my own. I guess it did.
I lean into Duke’s chest as the rumble of motorcycles echoes outside the fence line. My family. None of them by birth. Every single one by heart.
A tear slips down my face as I look out over this ranch. The big red barn sat off to the left with daisies growing up around the walls. The round pen with a worn fence and clovers peeking beneath the posts. The pasture with horses grazing peacefully in the dimming light of the late afternoon sun.
I always thought I’d be chasing the next big story. Turns out, life had a story waiting for me. A sweet one. A story with two kids covered in dirt, a little farmhouse on a hill, and a big ole red flag waving monster of a man who never makes me feel like I’m anything less than perfect.
THANK YOU FOR READING.
READ KERA’S STORY HERE .