Chapter One #2
Rawley’s footsteps were a metronome on the stairs: measured, even, heavy.
He didn’t wear a shirt, just a pair of cargo pants, boots half-laced.
His head gleamed in the light and his eyes were flat and gray as winter road slush.
Jojo trailed behind him, still in pajama bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, hair glued to his head in wild cowlicks.
Rawley took in the scene: me, the baby, Jasper standing there with his arms folded. He didn’t waste a second on drama.
“Hoop. You find him out there?”
“Porch,” I said. “No clue how he got there.”
“Perimeter?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t see shit.”
Rawley nodded, like this confirmed something he already expected. “Stay here.” Then, to Jasper: “Stay with them.” And then he was gone, door banging behind him, the night swallowing him like it owed him a favor.
Jojo lingered at the threshold, staring at the baby with an expression I’d never seen before—part horror, part awe, part pure, stupid delight.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “He’s so tiny.”
“Yeah,” I said. I could feel the heat of the baby, even through two layers of fabric.
Jojo padded over and poked at the bassinet, flipping up the little sunshade and inspecting it like it was a piece of machinery. He leaned in and sniffed, then, for reasons known only to Jojo, sniffed again.
“Brand-new,” he said. “No stains, no dirt. Bought this week, maybe. That means—”
“Someone wanted him to make it here in one piece,” Jasper finished.
Jojo frowned. “So why not bring him to the door?”
That was a good question. I looked down at the baby’s face. He had settled in, eyes rolled up in the way that meant he was either about to sleep or about to pass judgment.
Probably both.
Jasper reached out and touched the back of my hand, light as static. “May I?” he asked, and I realized he meant the baby.
I shifted him over, slow. Jasper took the kid with both hands, one under the head, one under the butt.
For a long time he just stared, eyes soft, lips pressed flat.
Then he did something I’d only ever seen him do with Burke’s kid: he hummed, low and sweet, a sound that seemed to vibrate up from the floor itself.
The baby blinked. Blinked again. Then relaxed, arms going loose at his sides, mouth twitching up at one corner.
“Definitely a boy,” Jasper whispered. “And definitely not local.”
I had been thinking the same thing. There wasn’t a baby under a year old in three counties that Jasper couldn’t identify by birthmark or parentage, and if he was surprised, so was I.
Jojo rummaged through the bassinet. It was one of those high-end numbers, a brand name I recognized only because Decker had tried to buy a similar one for Jasper’s baby shower and Jasper had threatened to set it on fire if he did.
Jojo fished out a folded blanket, held it up to the light, and sniffed again. Then a small blue toy, still with its tag. Then he paused, arm up to the elbow inside a side pocket.
He pulled out a sealed envelope. Plain, off-white, heavy paper. No address, no writing on the outside.
“Uh,” Jojo said, holding it up like it was radioactive. “This might be for you.”
I took it from him. The envelope was warm from the bassinet, and it didn’t crinkle when I bent it. Expensive paper. This wasn’t an accident.
Jasper glanced over, curiosity plain for once. “Open it,” he said.
The envelope was heavier than it should have been. Some part of my brain registered that right away: extra sheets, or something denser tucked inside.
I could feel the group crowding close, not physically—nobody on the ranch did that without warning—but in the way their attention all pointed at me, like the needle of a compass had snapped and was suddenly stuck. I peeled the flap, careful not to tear it, and fished out the contents.
First: a folded birth certificate, fresh as printer ink. Then a photo, glossy, four by six, sandwiched between the papers. Then the letter, a single page, folded three times, the crease sharp enough to slice the pad of my thumb.
I set the photo and certificate on the bench, ignoring the rattle in my hands, and stared down at the letter. There was a name on the outside. Not mine. Just: Emilio.
Jasper made a tiny, involuntary sound, like a gasp he’d retrofitted into a cough. He looked at the certificate, then at the baby, then at me. I didn’t move. I just unfolded the note and read.
It took less than ten seconds. The words were small and even, controlled to the point of paranoia, but the story was loud enough to shake the floorboards:
Tomás— I never meant for you to find out this way.
The night in Billings was real for me. I know you said you don’t do relationships, but when I found out I was pregnant I wanted to keep him safe, away from the kind of people who’d hurt us both.
Emilio is yours. I hope you can forgive me for leaving him like this.
If you can’t keep him, please find someone who will.
I’m sorry for the trouble. Take care of him. Liam
Underneath, a single, stuttering line, so faint I almost missed it: He sleeps best when you sing.
That was it. No return address, no phone number, nothing else.
My chest went hollow. Air in, nothing out.
The photo was still there, staring up at me from the bench. I picked it up, turned it toward the light.
A man—barely more than a kid, actually—sunlight-blond, skin so pale he seemed to glow.
Eyes closed, lashes resting on his cheek.
In his arms, the baby, Emilio, swaddled in something blue, mouth open and sleeping.
The way the man held him made my throat lock up: not tentative, not scared. Just… resigned. Protective.
I remembered him, of course I did. Not by name, not until now. But I could conjure the night in Billings like it was happening under my skin, not just in my head.
I’d been on a parts run, picked up a bottle at the wrong bar, and ended up three hours deep into a conversation with a stranger who laughed at every one of my jokes, even the ones I knew were only half funny.
He had this habit of tilting his head to the side when I talked, like he was cataloging each word and saving it for later. His name had been Liam. He’d told me he was running, but not from what.
The night ended in a motel room with broken AC, sheets that stuck to your back, and the kind of tenderness I thought only happened to other people. I woke up alone, pillow cold, a note beside me that said only: thank you, Liam.
I went back to that bar. Twice. He never showed.
Now here he was, tucked into a single photo, the last piece of proof he’d ever existed.
I felt the rest of the world fade to static. Didn’t hear Jasper’s quiet talking, or Jojo’s muttering as he fussed with the bassinet. Even the baby, Emilio, was just a warm blur in my arms until he squirmed and found a fistful of my shirt, hanging on for dear life.
I looked down at his face. He had my jaw, which was a hell of a thing to give a kid, but Liam’s eyes—the color of sky just before a storm comes down and erases everything else.
I let myself stare, let the minutes pass, let the world realign itself around this new center of gravity.
Rawley came back first, wind and ice swirling in behind him. He didn’t ask what happened, just took one look at the baby and then at me, and for once in his life kept his mouth shut.
“Perimeter’s clean,” he said after a moment, voice even. “No sign of a vehicle, no tracks. Whoever left him did it on foot and got out quick.”
I nodded. Tried to say something, but the words caught behind my teeth. I wasn’t sure what there was to say, anyway.
Jasper hovered close, his own baby expertise flickering between the urge to take the kid and the knowledge that, for whatever reason, Emilio belonged in my arms for now. He laid a hand on my shoulder, not to comfort but just to anchor me to the floor.
“Do you want me to—?” he started.
I shook my head. “No. I got it.”
Jojo sidled up next, poking at the paperwork like it was an exotic animal. “He looks just like you,” he said, marveling, like this was the most magical thing he’d ever seen. “But also not. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I said. I did. I knew exactly what he meant.
The silence lasted a long time, long enough for the baby to drift off, mouth slack and head heavy against my chest. The only thing keeping me upright was the feel of his weight, the warmth bleeding through both our shirts.
I read the letter again. This time, I let it punch all the way in. The handwriting—controlled, no flourishes, each letter the same careful height—told its own story: somebody desperate not to lose control. Somebody who’d run out of options.
I thought about all the things Liam could have written instead. All the ways he could have asked for help. But the truth was, I got it. You want to protect your kid, even if it means doing something that’ll break your own damn heart.
I traced the edge of the photo with my thumb, then tucked it back into the envelope with the birth certificate and the letter. Jojo watched, eyes wide, as I zipped the package into the inside pocket of my jacket.
“Are you okay?” Jasper asked, finally.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to say I was scared out of my mind, and maybe mad as hell, and definitely in no shape to be anyone’s father, not even for a minute. But I just looked down at Emilio, at the way his fingers flexed in sleep, and nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Nobody called me on it.
Rawley clapped me on the shoulder, not gentle. “You need backup, you let us know. We’ve dealt with worse.”
I snorted, but there was no venom in it. “Not sure this qualifies as ‘worse.’”
“Yeah, well. Jury’s out.”
Jojo hovered close, eyes trained on the baby. “Can I—?” he asked.
“Knock yourself out,” I said, and held Emilio out for him to see. Jojo didn’t take him, just put a finger in the kid’s tiny palm, watching as it curled reflexively around him.
“He’s really here,” Jojo whispered. “Like, for real.”
“Yeah,” I said again. “He’s for real.”
The baby started to fuss, just a little, a warning blip. Instinct had me bouncing him, side to side, a rhythm I didn’t know I remembered until it came out of my bones.
Jasper’s eyes flicked to mine, reading something I wasn’t ready to say out loud. “You want to call it a night?” he offered, like I could just go back to sleep and the world wouldn’t be completely different in the morning.
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
Nobody pushed. Rawley went to check the locks, Jojo started making tea, Jasper hovered close enough to catch the baby if I dropped him, but not so close I’d have to tell him to back off.
I wandered to the front window, Emilio pressed to my chest, and looked out over the porch where he’d been left. The world was still pitch black, the kind of dark that made everything feel possible and also impossible at the same time.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a plan. Not a real one. I was making it up as I went along, which was either the worst idea I’d ever had or the best.
Behind me, the house was alive with the soft noises of the people I’d somehow collected—my weird, hand-me-down family. I thought about Liam, wherever he was, and wondered if he’d ever see this place, if he’d ever want to.
I whispered into the baby’s ear, voice low enough that only he could hear it. “Hey, kid. Welcome home.”
He made a tiny, contented noise, and I held on tight.
The sun wouldn’t rise for hours, but I didn’t need it to. The world was already brighter than it had been in years.
Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Tonight, I just let him sleep.