Chapter 20
Twenty
TWO WEEKS LATER…
The November afternoon had settled into that perfect golden hour when the sun hung low enough but high enough to still chase away the autumn chill.
Devon stood on the main house deck, one hand wrapped around a glass of iced tea that had long since stopped sweating, the other braced against the railing as he surveyed the organized chaos unfolding in the backyard.
This was what family looked like when the storms had passed.
Grant's son, Randy, and Erin's boy, Nathan, had turned the lawn into their personal football field, complete with elaborate plays they'd clearly been planning for weeks.
Randy crouched low, hands on his knees, calling out plays that made absolutely no sense but sounded impressively strategic.
Nathan bounced on his toes in what he probably thought was a defensive stance, his dark hair flopping in his eyes.
"Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Hike!" Randy took off running, dodging an invisible defensive line, while Nathan charged after him with the kind of determined fury only boys that age could muster.
They collided near the oak tree in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the football squirting free and rolling across the grass.
Willa appeared from nowhere, scooping up the ball with the confidence of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this opportunity. "I got it! I got it!"
“Hey, that’s not fair.” Nathan scrambled to his feet. "You can't just steal the ball!"
"I can if you fumble it.” Willa clutched the football to her chest and took off running, her ponytail streaming behind her like a victory flag.
Grant stood near the first block of vines, arms crossed, watching his nephew and son chase his niece across the lawn with barely contained amusement. His wife, Kelly, sat on a blanket nearby with Erin and Walter, all three of them clearly enjoying the show.
"Twenty bucks says Willa scores," Erin called out.
"You're on," Grant shot back. "Randy's faster."
"But Willa's more determined.”
"Fair point." Grant laughed.
Jessica, Grant's almost-thirteen-year-old daughter, had claimed one of the lounge chairs and declared herself far too mature for football, tag, or anything that involved running and sweating.
Instead, she'd positioned herself as the centerpiece of what appeared to be an impromptu nail salon, with Hasley, Ashley, and Emery arranged around her like ladies-in-waiting attending a very particular queen.
Gabe and Olivia had claimed the picnic table under the pergola, both of them looking more relaxed than Devon had seen them in months.
The investigation had finally cleared Gabe completely.
His reputation had taken a bit of a hit, as there was renewed interest in his grandfather and the whole sordid affair.
Gabe hated talking about it. But since the guns had been returned, and he’d successfully donated them to the local museum, his attitude about his heritage had shifted—a little.
He’d decided he couldn’t change where he came from. Nor could he change the fact that Stone Bridge had been built on wine, whispers, and secrets. He might as well control the narrative, as Riley constantly put it.
Michael, Emery’s father, occupied an Adirondack chair near the garden, a book open in his lap that he clearly wasn't reading.
Instead, he watched his daughter laugh with Devon's sisters, a small smile playing at his lips.
The terror of almost losing Emery had left its mark—Devon saw it in the way Michael's eyes tracked her movements, the way he relaxed incrementally whenever she laughed.
Emery’s mom had flown in for a visit, and she sat between Michael’s legs, waving at Willa as she paraded around the lawn, dancing and singing without a care in the world.
It was perfect. The kind of autumn afternoon that belonged in a painting or a memory you pulled out years later when you needed to remember what happiness felt like.
But Devon couldn't quite settle into it. His eyes kept scanning the vine rows, searching for movement, waiting. While Bryson did have some anxiety about how he’d propose, he had none about his and Riley’s future.
He was only concerned he’d blunder, making an ass out of himself, giving Riley—and the rest of the family—ammunition for the rest of his life because that was just the Boone way.
“What are you thinking about?" His mother appeared at his elbow, her own glass of wine in hand, her facial features soft, but she had that crinkle in her brow that she got when she worried about one of her children.
"Nothing."
"Devon Walter Boone, I raised you. I know your 'thinking about nothing' face, and that's not it." Brea leaned against the railing beside him. “For the last two weeks, you’ve been quiet. More reserved. What’s going on?”
Devon sighed, admitting defeat. His mother had an uncanny ability to extract confessions. "I'm waiting for Bryson and Riley to come back from their walk."
Confusion filled his mother’s eyes. "He can’t seriously be worried he’s coming out of that vineyard without a fiancée?"
“For the first time since he was born, I don’t want him to do something funny so I can poke fun at him.”
“Now, that’s a new one.” Brea's hand covered his on the railing. “But at this point, it's virtually impossible for him to screw it up."
"You don't know Bryson like I do.”
"I raised him. I'm pretty sure I know him better." Brea sipped her wine. " Have a little faith. He's got this. "
Devon wanted to. Wanted to trust that his brother's carefully orchestrated proposal would go smoothly. But Bryson had a particular talent for overthinking simple things into complicated disasters while Devon waited in the wings, so he had fodder for family dinners.
Movement at the edge of the vineyard caught his attention. Two figures emerging from between the rows, hands clasped, both of them smiling.
Riley lifted her left hand high, wiggling her fingers. Even from this distance, Devon could see the diamond catching the golden hour light, throwing tiny sparks into the air.
The backyard exploded.
Ashley's shriek could probably be heard in the next county.
She launched herself from her chair with such enthusiasm that she knocked over the bottle of nail polish, sending iridescent pink streaming across the patio table.
Hasley was right behind her, both of them sprinting across the lawn toward Riley like their lives depended on it.
Emery jumped up more carefully, mindful of her still-wet nails, but moved just as quickly. Jessica bolted after them, her half-painted nails forgotten in the excitement.
Ashley reached Riley first, grabbing her hand to examine the ring. “Grandma’s ring looks perfect on you.”
"Let me see.” Hasley crowded in, practically climbing over her sister.
Riley laughed, tears streaming down her face, trying to show everyone the ring while also trying to hug everyone at once.
Grant, meanwhile, had charged at Bryson like a linebacker seeing an opening. He hit his future brother-in-law with enough force to stagger them both, wrapping him in a bear hug that turned into a headlock that turned into a full wrestling match on the lawn.
“Took you long enough,” Grant said.
“Get off of me.” Bryson managed to break free. Both men jumped to their feet. “You know, payback is a bitch.” Bryson tackled Grant around the waist. They went down in a heap, both of them laughing like kids.
Devon watched them roll around in the grass, grinning so hard his face hurt.
A year ago—hell, six months ago—Grant and Bryson could barely be in the same room without words of frustration being tossed between them like they were playing tennis.
Their relationship had been difficult since childhood, marked by years of resentment and misunderstanding, thanks to pride and stubbornness, and thanks to Grant’s mother, who’d constantly meddled in her children’s lives.
Now, Grant and Bryson were wrestling in the backyard, celebrating together, acting like best friends.
"Look at them," Devon’s mother said. “Look at all of them. Grant, Erin, and Riley have fought to be a family again, and I love them all as if they were part of our family. I worry about Grant through, with their mother’s trial coming up. I can see how he’s trying to be strong.
Trying to hold it together for his family.
But he carries so much guilt.” Brea wiped a tear from her cheek.
“He’ll get through it,” Devon said. “He’s got his sisters.
He’s got an amazing wife. Two beautiful children.
And now, he’s got all of us to support him through testifying against his mom.
I think the hard part will be admitting in a courtroom full of people that he took a cup of coffee filled with poison that his mom gave him and handed it to his father, who died less than an hour later.
” Devon stared out at the perfect chaos in the yard.
The kids had gone back to running around.
Jessica leaned against her dad, head resting on his shoulder.
All of a sudden. she looked less like a teenager and more like a little girl.
Bryson and Riley had taken a seat on the blanket and were in deep conversation.
“Something else is on your mind, because you’re not out there busting your brother’s ass,” Brea said.
Devon should have known better than to think he could hide anything from his mother. "Emery got her DNA results back yesterday," he admitted quietly. "It's confirmed. She's David Callaway's daughter. Winston's half-sister. Official heir to the Callaway estate."
“I think we all knew that was coming.”
"She doesn't know what to do. Whether to claim her inheritance, whether to acknowledge David publicly as her father. The only thing she knows for sure is she’d never take the Callaway name.” Devon's hands tightened on the railing.
"I want to help her, but I don't know how.
I don't know what to say or how to make this easier. "