Chapter 20
Mason
Janey cried out in her sleep again last night.
It wasn’t the first time. Around three in the morning, she jerked hard between us, a sharp, panicked sound tearing from her throat like she was being chased.
I woke instantly, heart hammering, and pulled her tighter against my chest while Brookes stroked her back and murmured soft nonsense until she settled.
She never fully woke up but whimpered twice more before falling back into uneasy sleep.
I hate seeing her that way. It confirms how much the weight of everything that’s happening is burdening her.
This morning, she’s already gone when I open my eyes. I nudge Brookes awake, and dress quickly.
We find her on the front porch swing, wrapped in one of our heavy wool blankets, cradling a steaming mug of coffee, staring at the horizon.
The early sun is cresting the eastern hills, painting the pastures in soft orange and turning the dew into scattered diamonds across the grass.
Buck is sprawled at her feet, snoring like an old man, keeping her company.
She looks small out here and fragile in a way that twists fiercely in my chest.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She nods, flashing me a muted smile, like it’s only there because it’s what’s expected.
“We’ll be back later,” Brookes says, worry creasing his forehead.
We head to the barn to move hay. The morning air is crisp and cool, carrying the sharp scent of alfalfa, leather, and horse sweat.
Our boots crunch over the mix of straw and dirt as we work.
I grab a pitchfork and start tossing flakes into the stalls, the familiar rhythm doing little to settle the storm in my head.
Brookes glances at me after a few minutes. “She’s not okay.”
I shake my head. “She was up before dawn again. Sitting on the swing, as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. It’s like she’s retreating.”
I drive the pitchfork into a bale with more force than necessary. Dust and bits of hay fly up around us.
“This has gone on long enough,” I say, voice low and rough.
“We’re stringing her along, giving her time to ‘decide,’ but every day we wait is another day she’s tearing herself apart.
We need to tell her straight. This is happening.
She’s staying. We’re keeping her and our baby.
Her life might implode for a while, but it’ll settle.
Her parents will come around eventually.
We can give her a good life here. A damn good one. We can make her happy.”
Brookes straightens slowly, resting his arms on the stall door. His expression is careful in the way it always gets when he’s about to disagree with me.
“She has to come to it herself, Mason.”
“Bullshit. She’s scared. She’s drowning in guilt and expectations.
If we wait for her to magically feel ready, we might lose her.
And the baby…” My throat tightens so hard I have to pause.
“She’s in an impossible situation and has to make an impossible choice.
And she can’t do it. You can see that, surely.
She’s racked with guilt. Crying out in her sleep. Staring into thin air.”
Brookes shakes his head. “She’s struggling.”
“That baby is real to me, Brookes. As real as if I was already holding her. I’m not willing to risk that.”
“You think I don’t feel the same? I lie awake thinking about it every night. But if we push her, if we take the choice away, she might resent us for it later. She has to choose this life. Choose us. Or it won’t work.”
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. “Even if that means she might…” I can’t finish the sentence. The words ‘not keep the baby’ feel like poison in my mouth. I turn away, stabbing the pitchfork into another bale. “I can’t even say it.”
A heavy silence falls between us, broken only by the horses shifting in their stalls and the distant lowing of cattle.
“Remember when Dad died? We pushed Grandma hard to come live with us. Told her it was the right thing. That she’d be happier on the ranch.
She lasted six weeks before she begged us to take her back to her little house in town.
We thought we knew what was best for her.
We were wrong. She felt trapped. Lost her independence.
We nearly broke her spirit trying to do the right thing. ”
I remember.
Brookes continues, “And what about that year we tried to force the expansion on the north pasture even though the ground wasn’t ready?
We pushed it. Ignored the signs. Lost half the herd to sickness that winter.
Sometimes the worst mistakes we’ve made came from thinking we knew better than everyone else. ”
I whirl on him. “This isn’t the same thing.”
“Isn’t it? Janey isn’t a piece of land or an old woman we can strong-arm. She’s carrying our child. If we push her into this and she later regrets it, we don’t get to take it back. We lose her trust. Maybe forever.”
The words land like a punch.
I lean on the pitchfork, breathing hard. “And if we do nothing and she walks away? Then what? We lose her and the baby. I can’t live with either, Brookes. I can’t sit here waiting while she convinces herself she has to face this alone or squeeze herself into some damned mold she doesn’t fit into.”
Brookes looks at me for a long beat. “I know,” he says quietly. “But forcing her hand might be the very thing that makes her run and do the thing we don’t want her to do.”
Then the soft crunch of boots on gravel makes us both turn.
Janey is walking toward the barn carrying a thermos in one hand and a plate covered with a cloth in the other. She’s still wearing Brookes’s old coat, and her hair is loose and messy from sleep. She looks so beautiful it hurts.
“I brought coffee,” she says, offering a tentative smile. “And banana muffins. They’re still warm.”
She holds the plate out like a peace offering. The scent of cinnamon and ripe banana drifts over, warm and sweet.
Brookes takes the thermos from her with gentle hands. “You didn’t have to do this. We would have come inside.”
“I wanted to.” Her eyes flick between us, reading the tension in the air. “Everything okay out here?”
I force a smile and pull her in against my side, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, darlin’. Morning ranch talk.”
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she leans into me anyway, letting me wrap an arm around her shoulders. Buck comes trotting over, hoping for a handout.
As Janey hands out the muffins and chats softly about how the sunrise looked from the porch, I meet Brookes’s eyes over her head.
We’re not done with this conversation, but for now, with Janey standing here between us, acting as though she belongs, I let it rest.
For now.