39. Blake
Chapter 39
Blake
I stared at the calendar spreadsheet on my phone in disbelief.
Every slot was filled in with names.
Every. Single. One.
"This can't be right," I muttered, scrolling through the days again.
Xander looked up from where he was making coffee, a small smile playing on his lips. "What can't be right?"
"This... schedule thing. There's no way everyone agreed to this."
He set a steaming mug in front of me—my favorite one, the oversized ceramic monstrosity with 'Mornings are for coffee and contemplation' scrawled across it in chipped black lettering. "Actually, they did. We had to turn people away."
I snorted. "Yeah, right."
"I'm serious, Blake." Xander slid into the chair across from me, his eyes warm as he watched me over the rim of his own mug.
"Everyone wants to help. And not in that obligatory, 'I guess I should offer' way. They're fighting over who gets Amelia when."
Amelia was playing on her mat nearby, blocks scattered around her. Eight months old and already developing a personality that was equal parts stubborn and sweet. My heart squeezed every time I looked at her.
"But there's... twenty hours a week blocked out here. For my painting." I couldn't wrap my head around it. "That's insane."
"That's what family does." Xander reached across the table and took my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "And in case you haven't noticed, we've somehow accumulated quite a big one."
Family. The word still felt foreign sometimes, like a sweater that was slightly too big but impossibly soft. Growing up, family had meant obligation, criticism, and never quite measuring up. But here in Willowbrook, it had come to mean something entirely different.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted.
"You don't have to say anything. Just paint." He squeezed my hand then released it, standing to refill his coffee. "Your gallery opening is in eight weeks. Even with this schedule, you're cutting it close."
The reminder sent a fresh spike of panic through me. Eight weeks to create enough pieces for a solo show. Eight weeks to prove I wasn't washed up, that I could still translate what lived inside me onto canvas.
"I could still cancel," I said, not for the first time. "Tell them I'm not ready."
Xander turned to face me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "You could. But you won't."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know you, Blake Mitchell. And you don't run from a challenge."
I disagreed with that assessment completely. I'd been running from challenges my entire life. Running from my parents, running from my art block, running from anything that threatened to hurt me. The only exception had been Madison abandoning Amelia on my doorstep.
But not anymore. Not with these people around me. Not with Xander looking at me like I was capable of anything.
"Fine," I sighed dramatically. "I'll be a good little artist and go paint while the village raises my child."
Xander's laugh warmed me from the inside. "That's the spirit." He glanced at his watch. "Booker and Reece will be here in twenty minutes to pick up Amelia. They're taking her around the ranch for the afternoon."
"What about your clinic? You must be swamped."
"Billie's handling my appointments today, and there’s a reason why we hired Marianne." His eyes met mine, serious and intent. "I thought maybe I'd hang around for a while. In case you need anything."
I understood what he wasn't saying. In case it didn't work. In case I sat in front of that canvas and nothing came. In case the frustration and self-doubt began to eat me alive again.
"Thank you." I stood and moved around the table, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath my ear. "For all of this."
His arms circled me, strong and sure. "You'd do the same for me."
And I would. I’d move mountains for this man. Would rearrange stars if it made him happy. The depth of feeling terrified me sometimes, but not enough to make me run.
Not anymore.
A sharp knock at the door pulled us apart. I glanced at the clock—Booker and Reece were early.
"I'll get her stuff ready," I said, moving toward Amelia's room.
By the time I returned with the diaper bag, Booker was on the floor with Amelia, making ridiculous faces while she giggled. His cast was finally off, and he was using his newly freed arm to tickle her belly, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it.
Reece stood nearby, smiling fondly at the pair of them. When she noticed me watching, she winked. "We've got a whole day planned. Right, Booker?"
"We're going to show her the new foals," Booker said without looking up from Amelia. "And Dex is coming over to help me finish the swing set."
"Swing set?" I blinked.
"She'll grow into it." Booker's tone suggested this was perfectly reasonable logic.
Reece rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "He's also building a treehouse. For when she's, you know, school-aged."
"It's never too early to plan ahead," Booker said defensively, finally looking up. “Plus Cade will like it. We’ve got a lot of mini Farrington’s being added to the fold.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. The big, gruff rancher had turned into a complete pushover the moment Amelia had smiled at him. It was adorable and heart-wrenching all at once.
"She also has bottles in the bag," I said, handing it to Reece. "And extra clothes in case she spits up. And her favorite blanket, and—"
"Blake." Reece put a hand on my arm. "We've got this. Amelia will be fine. Go paint."
I took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. Okay."
Booker scooped Amelia up and settled her against his chest with a practiced ease that belied his massive frame. My heart clenched at the sight of my little girl looking so tiny in his huge arms.
"We'll have her back by six," Reece promised, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Unless you need more time, then just call."
"Thank you," I said, meaning it more than they could possibly know.
After they left, Xander and I stood in the sudden quiet of the cottage. It felt strange—almost unnatural—to not have Amelia's little sounds filling the space.
"How long has it been since we were alone in this house in the middle of the day?" Xander mused, his arm slipping around my waist.
"Too long." I leaned into him. "What do you think they're doing right now?"
"Blake."
"She might be crying. Or hungry. Or—"
"She's fine." Xander turned me to face him, his hands resting on my shoulders. "Booker and Reece are perfectly capable adults who adore her. You need to focus on you for a few hours."
I knew he was right. I'd been painting in snatches of time, during Amelia's naps, in the early morning hours before she woke, late at night when exhaustion blurred my vision. Never more than an hour or two at a stretch. Never long enough to really lose myself in the work.
"Okay." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm going to go paint now."
"That's my girl." Xander dropped a kiss on my forehead. "I'll be right here if you need me."
I nodded and headed out the back door to the beautiful studio Xander had made me.
I stood in front of the blank canvas, brush in hand, and waited for the familiar wave of anxiety to hit. The crushing pressure that had paralyzed me for years. The voice that whispered I wasn't good enough, that my best work was behind me, that I'd never create anything worthwhile again.
It didn't come.
Instead, I felt something else. Something lighter, brighter. The image had been building in my mind for weeks—ever since that afternoon under the oak tree with Amelia, when I'd sketched her and the life I dared to want. Now it was pushing to get out, demanding to be made real.
I dipped my brush and began.
Hours passed in minutes. The world fell away until there was only color and texture and the vision taking shape beneath my hands. I painted without thinking, without judging, without fear. Just pure expression flowing from somewhere deep inside me.
I didn't realize Xander had entered the room until his hand touched my shoulder. I jumped, nearly sending a streak of cobalt teal across the canvas.
"Sorry," he said, stepping back with his hands raised. "I've been calling your name."
I blinked, reality rushing back in. My back ached from standing so long, and my mouth was dry. "What time is it?"
"Almost five. I brought you water." He handed me a glass, which I drained in one long swallow. "How's it going?"
I stepped back from the canvas, seeing it with fresh eyes. It wasn't finished—not even close—but the bones were there. The composition, the light, the feeling I wanted to capture.
It was good. Maybe the best thing I'd painted in years.
"It's going well," I said, unable to keep the wonder from my voice. "Really well."
Xander studied the painting, his expression thoughtful. "Is that...?"
"It’s a willow tree. Well, it’s Willowbrook. It’s how this place makes me feel.”
"It's beautiful, Blake," Xander said, his voice low with emotion. "You've captured something... essential."
Pride swelled in my chest. Not the defensive, desperate kind, but something warmer, more confident. "It's just the start."
"Of the painting, or something else?" Xander's gaze was searching, like he could see beneath my skin to the shifting currents beneath.
"Both, maybe." I set down my brush, suddenly aware of how much I'd accomplished in a few hours. "I think I want this series to be my story, be our story. The beginning of it, anyway."
He smiled, and the warmth of it filled all the empty spaces inside me. "I never doubted it. You want to keep going? I can make dinner."
I shook my head, setting my palette down. "No, I think I'm done for today. Besides, I want to be ready when Amelia gets back. I miss her."
"Me too."
We spent the next hour cleaning up my supplies and preparing dinner, moving around each other with the easy familiarity of people who'd been sharing space for years rather than months. Every now and then, Xander's hand would brush mine, or I'd catch him watching me with that soft expression that made my heart flip. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
When Booker and Reece returned with Amelia, she was beaming, her cheeks pink from the afternoon sun. She squealed when she saw me, her little arms reaching.
"Someone missed her mama," Reece said, handing her over.
The word hit me like it did every single time I heard it. Mama. Not aunt, not guardian. Mama. It was everything I wanted and I couldn’t even believe there’d been a time when I thought I wouldn’t want the title.
"Did she behave?" I asked, burying my face in Amelia's sweet-smelling hair to hide the sudden tears pricking my eyes.
"Like an angel," Booker confirmed. "Even when Dex accidentally dropped a hammer six inches from where she was napping."
"He did what?" Xander's voice rose sharply.
"Don't worry, I already threatened to kill him," Booker said cheerfully. "But she didn't even flinch. Just kept right on sleeping. Kid's got nerves of steel."
"Wonder where she gets that from," Reece said, her gaze flickering between Xander and me with a knowing smile.
After they left, we fell into our evening routine. Dinner, then bath time for Amelia, who splashed happily in the tub, oblivious to the water soaking my shirt. Xander read her a story while I cleaned up, his deep voice carrying through the cottage. By the time I joined them, she was drowsy in his arms, her eyelids drooping.
"I think someone's ready for bed," I whispered, taking her from him.
"I'll finish cleaning up," he offered, dropping a kiss on Amelia's head before heading toward the kitchen.
In the nursery, I settled into the rocking chair, cradling Amelia against me as she drifted toward sleep. Her tiny hand clutched my finger, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Did you have fun today, sweetheart?" I murmured, stroking her soft cheek. "Everyone loves you so much. Uncle Booker and Aunt Reece, and Delaney and Trace, and even Mrs. Schulster and that weird dog of hers."
Amelia blinked sleepily up at me, her little rosebud mouth forming a perfect 'o' as she yawned.
"You know, I didn't think I could do this," I continued softly. "Be a mom. I didn't have the best example growing up. But I'm trying, baby girl. I'm trying so hard to give you everything I never had."
She was almost asleep now, her breaths deepening.
"I love you, my daughter." The words came out of me like they'd always been there, waiting. "I love you so much."
I sat there, rocking her long after she fell asleep, unwilling to break the spell of the moment. Eventually, Xander appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, carefully rising to place Amelia in her crib. I tucked her handmade blanket around her, the one Madison had left with her, now worn in places but still treasured. "Everything's perfect."
And it was. This moment, this life we were building. It wasn't what I'd planned or expected, but it was perfect all the same.
Later, curled together on the couch with mugs of tea, I showed Xander the schedule again. "I still can't believe everyone volunteered."
"You underestimate how much people care about you," he said, his fingers playing idly with my hair. "Both of you."
"I guess I've never had that before. A whole community of people who just... show up."
"Get used to it. They're not going anywhere." He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Delaney called earlier. She wants to take Amelia overnight on Friday."
"Overnight? I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"You don't have to decide now. But she thought it might give you some uninterrupted painting time." He paused. "And maybe some uninterrupted us time."
The suggestion in his voice sent a shiver through me. "Well, when you put it that way..."
His laugh rumbled against my side. "I'll take that as a maybe."
I rested my head on his shoulder, content in a way I'd never thought possible. "The weirdest part is, Mrs. Schulster volunteered for a slot. Twice a week for two hours!"
"She likes Amelia. And Titus is obsessed with her."
"Still, it's strange. She used to look at me like I was going to steal the silver."
"People change." Xander's voice was thoughtful. "Sometimes they just need a reason to."
I thought about that, about how much I'd changed since coming to Willowbrook. Since meeting Xander. Since Amelia.
"Do you think we're crazy?" I asked. "Trying to do all this at once? The show, raising Amelia, figuring us out?"
"Probably." His arm tightened around me. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Me neither." I twisted to look up at him. "Thank you. For organizing all this. For believing in me."
His eyes darkened as they met mine. "Always."
As Xander's lips found mine, slow and sweet and full of possibility, I let myself believe in always. In this life we were building together, piece by piece, with love and art and a baby girl who had brought us all together.
It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever is. But it was ours, and that made it better than perfect.
It made it real.
And in that moment, I could see it all spreading before me like a painting waiting to be finished—our little house, a studio here and maybe somewhere to display my work in Willowbrook, Amelia growing up surrounded by love, and maybe someday, a real dog padding alongside her beneath our oak tree. Not just imagination, but a future I could reach out and touch.
A future I was finally ready to create.