Chapter 11
Dawn crept through the lace curtains in shades of rose and honey, and Liv woke to warmth.
Not the sun. Not the quilt.
Mike.
His arm was still draped across her waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of her neck. Sometime in the night they'd shifted, her back to his chest, his knee hooked over hers, their fingers loosely intertwined where his hand rested against her stomach.
She'd slept.
Really slept.
No nightmares. No waking every hour to check the locks. No lying rigid in the dark, cataloging every creak and rustle.
Just sleep. Deep and dreamless and safe.
Mike's thumb traced slow circles on her stomach through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, absent, soothing, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust. She'd let him stay.
Let him hold her through the dark hours when panic usually sent her pacing. Let herself be held.
When was the last time anyone had just held her?
Not her mother, who'd believed affection made children weak.
Not the string of mediocre boyfriends in culinary school who'd wanted her body but never bothered learning her middle name.
Not even friends—she'd been too guarded, too driven, too certain that closeness meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant loss.
But Mike had climbed into her bed fully clothed and offered nothing but presence. And somehow that felt more intimate than anything she'd ever shared with anyone.
His breath hitched and she felt him wake, the slight tension in his arm, the way his fingers tightened reflexively against hers.
"Morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning."
Neither of them moved.
"You sleep?" he asked.
"Yes."
His arm tightened around her waist, pulled her closer. "Good."
They lay there in the quiet, listening to the ranch wake up around them, roosters crowing, cattle lowing in the distance, the far-off bang of a screen door as someone started morning chores.
"Mike?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For staying."
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, right where her t-shirt had slipped down. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."
The moment hung between them, tender and fragile and full of possibility.
Then the door burst open.
"Miss Liv, Uncle Joe said I could help make the—" Charlotte stopped dead, eyes going wide as saucers.
Mike and Liv both froze.
Charlotte's gaze moved from Liv to Mike to their intertwined hands to the fact that they were very clearly in bed together, and her expression shifted through surprise to confusion to something that looked suspiciously like delight.
Mike sat up slowly, aware that his hair was probably doing seven kinds of wrong and he hadn't brushed his teeth and this was possibly the worst way to let a six-year-old find out that he had feelings for Liv.
Except Charlotte didn’t look confused or upset. Just pleased, like she'd discovered a secret she'd suspected all along.
“It’s polite to knock before bursting in, Char.”
"Sorry. My bad.” She didn’t sound the least repentant. “Are you guys having a sleepover?" Charlotte asked.
"Sort of," Mike said. "Liv had a hard night, so I stayed to make sure she was okay."
"Oh." Charlotte nodded, solemn. "Like when I have bad dreams and you let me sleep in your room?"
"Exactly like that."
Charlotte studied them both for another moment, then smiled, bright and knowing in that way six-year-olds sometimes were.
"Okay. But you should probably get up now 'cause Arletta said if you're not in the kitchen in ten minutes she's starting the biscuits without you and she's gonna use the wrong flour on purpose just to prove a point. "
Mike groaned. "That woman's a tyrant."
"She said you'd say that." Charlotte bounced on her toes. "She also said to tell you that tyrants get things done, and if you want breakfast before the guests eat it all up, you better move your—" She stopped, looked at Liv. "She said a word I'm not supposed to say."
"I bet she did," Mike said, fighting a smile.
Charlotte skipped toward the door, then paused. "Miss Liv?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"I'm glad Uncle Mike stayed with you. He makes you look happier." She said it simple and matter-of-fact, like she was commenting on the weather. Then she was gone, pigtails flying.
Liv and Mike looked at each other.
"Well," Mike said. "That was—"
"Mortifying?"
"I was gonna say 'inevitable,' but sure." He grinned, then leaned over and kissed her, quick and sweet and morning-warm. "Come on. If Arletta starts those biscuits without us, we'll never hear the end of it."
The kitchen was already controlled chaos when they arrived—Arletta directing her sons with the efficiency of a field general, Heather measuring out ingredients, Charlotte "helping" by sneaking bites of cinnamon sugar when she thought no one was looking.
Joe sat at the kitchen table with his laptop and a mug of coffee. Lyle was at the stove making eggs, and Kenny was by the window, coffee in hand, watching the driveway with the stillness of a man who'd spent years waiting for threats to materialize.
No one commented when Mike and Liv walked in together. Late. Which was why someone else was manning the stove besides Mike.
But Heather's eyes crinkled with a smile, and Arletta said without looking up, "About time. I was starting to think I'd have to send Charlotte back with a bullhorn."
"Your faith in my ability to wake up at ungodly hours is touching," Mike said, stealing a piece of bacon from Lyle's pan.
"It isn’t your ability I question. It's your priorities." But Arletta was smiling. "Now wash your hands and get over here. We've got sixty biscuits to make before the guests come in, and I’m not doing it alone."
Liv moved to the sink, Mike right behind her. His hand settled briefly at the small of her back, so quick anyone not paying attention would've missed it.
Heather didn't miss it. Neither did Joe, who glanced up from his laptop with the faintest hint of a smile before returning to whatever he was researching.
They fell into the rhythm of breakfast prep, the scratch of fork tines against dough, the smell of coffee and bacon and home.
Charlotte narrated her plans for the bake sale in elaborate detail, and Arletta hummed old hymns while she worked, and the morning sun streamed through the windows like a blessing.
Normal. Grounding. Real.
The back door banged open and a voice boomed. "Joe called. Said that Harris bastard's still sniffing around and we're mounting a proper defense. Figured I'd best get out here before you boys botch the whole operation."
Everyone turned.
Grandpa Quentin stood in the doorway, tall and lean and ornery as a rattlesnake, shotgun slung over one shoulder and a white bakery box in his other hand.
"Brought donuts," he announced. "No offence to y’all’s fancy scones. And extra shells for the twelve-gauge, just in case diplomacy don't take."
Charlotte shrieked with delight and launched herself at him. "Grandpa Q! Did you bring the chocolate ones?"
"Course I did. What kind of grandfather you take me for?" He caught her with practiced ease, shotgun and all. "You being good to Miss Liv here?"
"I gave her my special rock for protection."
"That's my girl. Rocks and prayer. Can't go wrong." He set Charlotte down and fixed his sharp gaze on Liv. "You holding up all right? Joe says this Harris fella's been making a nuisance of himself."
Liv managed a smile despite the tightness in her chest. "I'm managing. Thank you for coming back."
"Wasn't gonna stay in town while some fool in new boots tries to intimidate one of my own." Quentin set the donut box on the table with a decisive thunk and set his shotgun on a shelf in the mudroom, close enough to grab if needed. "Now. Someone want to tell me the plan so I know where to post up?"
Joe closed his laptop. "We're fortifying perimeter security and preparing for the bake sale on Saturday. Two birds, one stone. Community fundraiser and natural excuse for half the county to be on the property."
"Smart." Quentin nodded approval. "Nothing says 'back off' like sixty Texans with casserole dishes and concealed carry permits."
"Grandpa," Lyle said, but he was grinning.
"Don't 'Grandpa' me. I've been running off trouble since before you boys were born." He looked at Liv. "You just keep making those biscuits, darlin'. We'll handle the rest."
By mid-morning, the ranch had transformed into a hive of activity. The bake sale preparation was in full swing, but it had become something more. A gathering point, a way for the community to circle the wagons without making it obvious they were circling the wagons.
Mrs. Halloway arrived first with six women from her bible study group, all of them carrying casserole dishes and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
They set up in the great room, ostensibly to assemble donation baskets, but Liv noticed how they positioned themselves near windows, how their conversations always included updates on who was coming and going.
How the older woman told her friends to mind their pocketbooks due to the loaded pistols.
Mrs. Halloway wandered into the kitchen around ten-thirty. Liv, sleeves rolled up, had her hands deep in pie dough.
"Don't mind us, dear," Mrs. Halloway said, settling beside her at the counter. "We're just here to help with the Lord's work." She picked up a rolling pin with practiced efficiency. "And maybe keep an eye out for any wolves in sheep's clothing."
Liv's hands stilled in the dough.
"It's all right, honey." Mrs. Halloway's voice gentled. "Small towns talk. And when someone shows up asking questions about a young woman who keeps to herself, folks notice. We also notice when that same someone looks at our girl like she's prey instead of people."
"I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me," Liv said quietly.
"Then it's a good thing we're a stubborn bunch who don't scare easy." Mrs. Halloway patted her hand, leaving a dusting of flour. "You're one of ours. That means something here. It means when trouble comes knocking, we answer the door together."
Liv's throat closed. "Thank you."