Chapter Twenty Three
The Space Between Our Scars
“ W hat the fuck?” I mutter, freezing mid-step.
My eyes are wide, heart hammering, and my family and friends? They’re cheering, filling up every corner of my house, along with a hell of a lot of furniture that wasn’t here when I left this morning.
The small brown leather loveseat I’d gotten just so the living room wasn’t empty is tucked next to the fireplace to make space for a massive matching sectional.
There are rustic barstools lining the island in the same shade of oak as the worn but solid dining table in front of the back windows.
Fuckin’ thing has enough chairs to seat my whole family—and then some.
A sideboard I recognize as my mom’s is by the entry, lined with framed photos of my sisters, the farm, and my parents. My throat constricts when I see the two pictures of my dad and me, just off to the side, like whoever put them out knew they’d burn to see.
The walls are lined with more pictures, the floors are covered in massive soft looking rugs, blankets and pillows are on the couch, and somehow—somehow, my house feels like a real home.
“Welcome home, man,” Griff murmurs, squeezing my shoulder. “Your little girl’s gonna be damn happy here.”
He brushes past me and heads to the kitchen where a bunch of ranch hands who’ve helped with renovations are drinking beers. They all slap hands and clap backs like old friends, passing him a beer as they turn back to the game playing on a massive TV I definitely didn’t buy.
The group parts, groaning and shouting about a bad play, and I’m floored that the loudest voice comes from Agnes Whittaker. Gaping, I look away before she catches my stare and takes it as an invitation.
My eyes scan the crowd three times, and try as I might, it’s damn near impossible to ignore the empty pit that settles in my gut when I don’t catch sight of bright red curls.
The immediate disappointment should be a giant what the fuck to my system, should tell me I’m in way over my head where she’s concerned, but I can’t find it in me to care about the wrongness of it all.
I want Georgia here, and that want has nothing to do with her body or sharp tongue, and everything to do with the peace I feel with her by my side.
“Crazy, huh?” Wilder murmurs. “People in this town really care about your grumpy ass.”
“What is this?”
“Your house warming party,” he says quietly, shooting me a wink. “Surprise.”
Grinning, I shake my head, still too shocked to move. Now I understand why they kept me out all damn day, refusing to let me come home.
“How the fuck did you pull this off?”
He barks out a laugh and smacks my stomach. “I love that you think I possess the ability to pull something like this off, but it was all your mom.”
“And us,” Colby says, skipping up to me, Clem right behind her. “We were sworn to secrecy.”
“It was so fun,” Clem agrees, smiling widely as she throws herself in my arms. “And you were so oblivious.”
Chuckling, I catch her a second before Colby shoves her way into my other side.
God, they’re so tall and grown up. When the fuck did that happen?
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold them hard, knowing damn well they won’t wanna hug me like this for much longer. Soon enough, they’ll be graduating high school, off to college or following their dreams.
And I’ve already missed most of their lives.
“We’re so happy for you,” Clementine whispers, sniffling.
Colby buries herself in my chest, curly hair tangling with my beard. “We can’t wait to meet our niece.”
The word punches me in the gut, but I barely have time to process it before another Archer voice cuts through the room.
“Move aside, baby sisters. The eldest and wisest has arrived!”
My eyes snap open and the girls giggle, slipping free from my arms as the oldest Archer child barrels her way into me. I suck in a sharp breath and hug the hell out Gemma, blinking back the burn in my eyes.
“What the fuck, Gem?” I breathe, tucking her short frame under my chin. “When… how…” Swallowing thickly, I push her back a bit and meet her glossy eyes. “You’re here.”
“So are you,” she whispers, wiping away a tear. “You’re in your house, Kade. On the farm, with your family…” Her throat bobs. “And a daughter? I’m so fucking happy for you.”
Gemma hasn’t been back to Heart Springs in over a year. Between Ryland’s constant work relocations, and their oldest, Finn, recently being diagnosed with autism, she’s had her hands full. And Grady—barely three—is already a whole damn whirlwind.
Jerking a nod, I glance away and rub the back of my neck. “I know,” I say thickly. “I’m happy too.”
At least, I think I am.
In reality, I’m still freaking the fuck out.
Barely got the call from Ethel twenty minutes ago. Haven’t even had a second to process.
“Give the boy some space,” my mom chides, tugging Gemma under her arm. She presses a kiss to her head and murmurs into her long, dark hair, “Missed you, sweetheart.”
A quiet conversation filled with tears breaks out between them, and I step away, giving them a minute.
But as I pass my mom, I pause, kissing her cheek, heart heavy and soaring all at once. “Thanks, Ma. Love you.”
She grabs my arm, yanking me into a quick, tight hug that nearly undoes me, then pulls back and gestures around us.
“Everyone in town came together,” she murmurs, smiling softly.
“Donated things from their homes, or bought things for what you’re building here.
Stocked the cabinets, and fridge. Filled your pantry with linens, and necessities.
Susie Jacobs and Faith Clemmons both had daughters in the last couple years.
They brought what their little ones outgrew.
It’s not everything, but it’ll get you through for a while. ”
I have to blink a few times to clear my vision. Jaw ticking, body vibrating, I try to talk, but my voice breaks. Clearing my throat, I manage a tortured sounding thanks .
“Why don’t you take a few minutes and go explore,” she says softly, squeezing my hand. “Maybe spend some time in the nursery where it’s quiet.”
Unable to respond, I jerk a nod and move through the house with purpose. A few people try to pull me into conversations, but I quickly tell them all I’ve gotta make a call and step away, doing everything in my power not to fall apart in front of half the fuckin’ town.
My boots are heavy on the shiny floors, freshly mopped and waxed by someone who wasn't me. I pause when I reach the hall that leads to my room, finding the walls lined with photos of the farm throughout the years. They’re all blown up black and whites, framed in dark wood that warms the white walls.
Throat tight, heart hammering, I peek into the closets, master bath and my room, finding little things added to every single space, just like my mom said there would be.
But it’s the closed door that connects my room to Aurora’s that has my hand trembling. Haven’t seen it in well over a week, and now that I know how over the top the rest of the house is, I can’t even imagine what the Archer’s pulled together for their newest member.
I swallow roughly, and exhale slowly, as I push through the door, body braced like I’m stepping into a battle zone instead of a damn nursery.
Light fills the dim opening, pouring in from the window, and my breath catches before stalling altogether.
But the lack of oxygen has nothing to do with the beautiful soft yellow walls, or the white furniture that matches the convertible crib I bought. It’s not the bee theme dancing across every surface, or the massive bright rainbow mural that arches over the baby's bed.
No, it’s the woman in the rocker—fiery red curls spilling down her back—folding baby clothes with tears in her eyes, and heartache written across her face.
My hand tightens around the doorknob. I freeze, caught off guard by the sight of her here. Georgia hasn’t seen me. Hasn’t heard me.
So like the fool I am when it comes to her, I stare.
A cloud shifts outside, sunlight breaking through the window and landing across her body. For a second, she glows. Not soft or angelic… no, that’s not her.
She burns .
Golden strands of her hair catch the light like embers about to spark. Her freckles pop against skin paler than usual, flushed and wet with tears. And even with red-rimmed eyes and a crease between her brows that says she’s hurting, she’s still the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Throat bobbing, jaw pulsing wildly, I slide my gaze down her body, taking in a floral skirt that brushes the top of her cowboy boots pack a hell of a punch now that I know she can ride.
She’s got a thick sweater on, covering arms I now know are tattooed with thin-lined drawings that dot her skin like freckles—flowers falling from a tree dance across her bicep, a rainbow by her wrist. Words that were too tiny for me make out without looking like a creep.
They’re simple and delicate. And maybe before, I would have said they suited a city girl like her.
But looking at her now, with tears trickling down her face, her small hands moving carefully over every piece of Aurora’s clothes with love, and something like longing, I can’t help but think how fuckin’ wrong I’ve been.
Georgia Walker is far from simple. She’s more than the wildfire I love igniting. She’s not a storm I can ride out or ignore. She’s layered and raw. Quietly wrecked in a way that makes my own broken pieces wanna lean closer.
I don’t know what the hell’s happening in my chest, but whatever storm was brewing there goes quiet just by looking at her.
And before I can stop myself—before I even think—I’m stepping into the room, breaking the silence with the only words that make sense.
“Who the hell made you cry?”
She bursts from the chair with a gasp, and the neat pile on her knee goes flying. Meadow eyes wide, Georgia whirls on me, hand pressed to her chest, hair sticking to her damp cheeks.