Epilogue
Josh
I’m sitting on our porch swing at sunset, massaging Lindsay’s swollen feet while watching our two-year-old daughter, Viviene, engage in what appears to be serious diplomatic negotiations with Henrietta, our most escape-prone chicken.
The scene unfolds like a nature documentary about stubborn species attempting to coexist.
“Henyettie, no no no!” Viviene plants her tiny hands on her hips, wearing cowboy boots, denim overalls, and the determined expression she inherited from both sides of our family tree. “Those are Mama’s ’matoes, not chicken food!”
Henrietta responds by pecking at a loose fence board with the systematic precision of a feathered prison escapist, completely ignoring the property rights lecture she’s receiving from a toddler.
Lindsay tries not to laugh as our daughter crosses her arms in the stance that usually precedes major negotiations. “I don’t think Henrietta recognizes your authority.”
I continue the foot massage that’s become our evening ritual since Lindsay entered her second trimester. “She’s working on establishing precedent. First the tomatoes and then the herb garden, and eventually, she’ll claim squatter’s rights to the entire ranch.”
Viviene turns toward us with the exasperated expression of someone whose reasonable arguments are being completely ignored. “Daddy, Henrietta is being diff’recult.”
“Welcome to life with strong-willed females, sweetheart. Get used to it.”
Lindsay elbows me gently, though her smile suggests she’s not actually offended by the comparison between our daughter and our livestock. “You’re the one who wanted a child with personality.”
“I wanted a child with character. I didn’t realize that would translate to a two-year-old who tries to stay up late by explaining why bedtime is ‘not fair’ for twenty minutes straight.”
Lindsay laughs. “She gets that from you. You’re the one who told her all about why the cows move around when she was two.”
“She asked where the cows go. I explained it.”
She settles deeper into my arms as I sit beside her after finishing the foot rub. “You talked about grass and fields for a really long time, and now she uses ‘cow rules’ to argue for more playground time.”
Viviene abandons her diplomatic efforts with Henrietta and marches toward the porch, clearly having decided to escalate the situation.
She climbs onto the swing between us with complete confidence that we’ll solve her poultry crisis.
“Mama, Daddy, I need help with the chicken. She doesn’t listen to me. ”
“Some chickens don’t listen very well.” I exchange a meaningful look with Lindsay over our daughter’s head. “Sometimes, you have to try different things.”
“Like what?”
Lindsay smooths Viviene’s dark hair, which currently looks like she’s been wrestling with more than just chickens. “Like putting the tomatoes up higher where Henrietta can’t reach them. We can build tall boxes for the plants.”
Her lower lip protrudes. “That’s like letting her win.”
“Or being smart about solving problems instead of fighting all the time.” I’m impressed by our daughter’s sense of fairness, but she needs to learn to compromise more.
Knowing her parents, that skill will take her a long time to learn, so we might as well start early.
“The best way isn’t always making someone else do what you want but finding a way that works for everyone. ”
Viviene considers this with serious concentration. “Like when you and Mama don’t agree about ranch stuff?”
“Exactly like that.” She smiles down at our daughter. “We’ve learned compromise usually works better than trying to convince each other to completely change our methods.”
Viviene speaks with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who’s seen enough parental disagreements to know they don’t mean anything scary. “You argue nice then you fix it so everyone’s happy.”
“That’s the goal.” Lindsay shifts position, accommodating the growing baby that’s making our evening porch time increasingly complicated. “Some arguments take longer to resolve than others.”
“Like the one about whether I can have a pony.”
I snort with laughter, remembering last week’s extended negotiation about appropriate pets for two-year-olds. “That’s not an argument, sweetheart. That’s your mother and me being in complete agreement that you’re too young for pony ownership.”
“I has good reasons why I needs a pony.”
Lindsay’s tone suggests she’s genuinely proud of our daughter’s precocious arguing skills, but she’s still firm. “You have really good reasons about everything. That’s the problem. Speaking of which, how do you feel about me having a baby?”
Viviene’s face brightens with excitement. “I’m gonna teach them about animals and how to keep chickens out of the garden. They help talk to Henyettie when they gets bigger.”
I hide my grin at the idea of Viviene having a partner in crime to hound the chickens and keep them in line. “That could be a while. Babies don’t talk for a really long time, and chicken talking takes even longer to learn.”
Our daughter speaks with complete confidence in her teaching abilities. “That’s okay. I start with easy stuff ’fore teach them about cow moving and why no pick all flowers. I make sure they knows all the rules.”
I temporarily lose the battle to hide my amusement, but she doesn’t seem to notice my grin as I say, “Lucky kid.”
The sun continues setting behind the mountains.
Our ranch has become everything we dreamed when we first started planning our life together.
The successful operation balances tradition with innovation, but more importantly, it’s a real home where we can be exactly who we are without compromise or apology.
Lindsay’s consulting work has expanded to help dozens of family farms navigate corporate pressures while maintaining their independence.
Her restructured role at Caldwell Industries lets her work mostly from the ranch, traveling to the city only when absolutely necessary for board meetings or major negotiations.
The arrangement has proved so successful that Henry now brags about his daughter’s innovative leadership approach to anyone who’ll listen.
He’s also a frequent visitor to see his grand-pup, as he calls Viviene.
It’s too early yet to know what kind of shifter she is, but as stubborn as she is, I think she’s a donkey.
For the same reason, Lindsay insists she’s a horse.
Barring some odd genetic throwback to a previous generation, she has to be one or the other.
It’s rare when a stray shifter gene not designating either shifter parent’s animal species pops up generations later but not impossible. I laugh suddenly.
“What?” asks Lindsay softly.
“I was just wondering if there are any chicken shifters on your side? There aren’t in my side to my knowledge, but that would be ironic for Viv.”
She laughs but shakes her head. “As far as I know, the closest we got to bird shifters was when my dad had that disastrous date with the emu shifter.”
My own work has evolved to include educational programs that help young ranchers navigate modern challenges while maintaining traditional knowledge.
The combination of Lindsay’s business expertise and my practical experience has created a sustainable model that actually helps families instead of just talking about helping them, which is something neither of us could have built alone.
Viviene notices my expression as I contemplate how perfectly our life has turned out despite all the obstacles we had to navigate. “Daddy, why you smiling so bigs?”
“I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have two smart, stubborn women who keep me on my toes.”
Lindsay places my hand on her growing belly. “Soon to be three. She’s already showing signs of strong opinions about sleeping schedules and meal timing.”
“I can’t wait, though we might have to try again for a boy in a couple of years. It would be nice not to be totally outnumbered,” I say with a wink.
“I’m completely open to that idea.” Lindsay’s eyes are suddenly smoldering with banked heat. “It’s certainly fun trying.”
Before I can get carried away in desire, our daughter drags me back to reality, declaring with complete confidence, “Sissy’ll fit right in.
I teach her evyting.” Our daughter counts off on her fingers with the seriousness of someone who’s given this real thought.
“Taking care of animals, growing good food, helping others, and getting a pony. Also, arguing nice and making everyone happy.”
I nod solemnly. “That’s a pretty good list.”
Lindsay’s voice carries soft contentment that mirrors my own. “It’s everything that matters.”
Lindsay shifts against my shoulder as the evening air grows too cool for comfortable outdoor relaxation. “Ready to go inside?”
Viviene uses the negotiating tone that usually results in extended outdoor time. “Five more minutes. I want to make sure Henyettie goes to sleep in the right place.”
I pull both my girls closer as stars begin appearing over the mountains. “Five more minutes, and we’ll help you get Henrietta back in the chicken coop with the other girls and the roosters.”
“Clyde miss her.” Viviene nods, clearly certain. “He follow her when she leave. He sad when she no come home.”
“That’s because he loves her as much as I love your mama.” I kiss Lindsay on the cheek and then our daughter on the top of the head. “And you.”
As we sit together watching stars appear over our ranch, surrounded by the sounds of settling livestock and distant coyotes calling to their pack, I’m reminded that the best things in life are built rather than found, including partnerships that celebrate individual strengths, families that thrive on loving stubbornness, and homes where everyone belongs exactly as they are.
Thank you SO MUCH for reading HOLD THE HORSES!