Chapter Fourteen #2
Cruz crossed the room without speaking—moved from the doorway to the armchair in three ground-eating strides that barely disturbed the air—then sat down beside me with careful attention, leaving exactly enough space between us that our shoulders weren’t quite touching.
He reached for my hand without ceremony—just covered it with his own, warm and callused and exactly the right size to make mine look smaller by comparison. “I’ll back whatever play you want to make,” he said, his voice level. “Your call, full stop.”
The moment stretched between us—Montana quiet around the farmhouse, the valley spread out below, the weight of what came next suddenly too present to ignore.
I looked down at the blanket for a long beat—at the careful way I’d positioned it, at the truth I was trying to hide, at the thirty years of being told I was one thing when I was actually another.
Then I picked it up and dropped it on the floor with a single decisive motion. “I’m not ashamed of this baby,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “And I’m not going to sit here and act like I am.”
Something flashed across Cruz’s face—too quick to catch, gone before I could name it. His thumb moved once across the back of my hand—not quite a caress, not quite a claim, just the soft pressure that meant he’d heard exactly what I was saying.
“I’ll take point if you want,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Or I can hang back. Your call.”
I shook my head once, slow. “I’ve got it,” I said. “But stay where I can see you.”
Cruz nodded, his eyes on my face. “Always,” he said, the word coming out with a promise that wasn’t one—just a statement of fact, the same way “the sky is blue” or “Montana is cold in October” were statements of fact.
The moment stretched between us—the two of us sitting side by side in the armchair, the morning light coming through the window, the valley spread out below—neither of us speaking, neither of us moving to break whatever was happening between us.
Then came the crunch of gravel from the front drive—the sound of tires on loose stone that meant the blue sedan had reached the final curve before the house.
I straightened in my chair with careful attention. “Showtime,” I said, and stood up with Cruz exactly half a step behind me.
We moved to the front door together—not quite partners, not quite strangers, but something close to both that made my chest tight whenever I tried to name it.
I opened it with a single decisive motion, stepped onto the porch with Cruz at my shoulder, and watched the blue sedan pull up the drive with the deliberation that meant my father was taking in every detail of the property.
The blue sedan came to a stop exactly where I’d expected—too close to the greenhouse, directly blocking the path the ranch truck would need to take if we had to leave in a hurry.
I watched from the porch as the driver’s door opened and my father climbed out in a way that meant he was already three steps into whatever performance he’d decided we were having.
He was exactly what I remembered—tall, broad-shouldered, the firm set to his jaw that meant he’d made a decision and expected everyone else to fall in line with it.
He was wearing the same style of shirt he’d worn for thirty years—button-down with the collar open, sleeves rolled to exactly the same point on each forearm, the kind of careful uniformity that came from knowing exactly how you wanted to be seen.
My mother appeared from the passenger side a moment later—smaller than I remembered, her dark hair pulled back in a style that made her look older than she actually was. She was carrying a covered dish—something that had required hours of preparation, which I had expected.
Then the back door opened, and a young woman climbed out—well-dressed as if she’d been told to make an impression, pretty in the conventional sense that would have impressed my father immediately.
She was already angling a smile toward the porch the moment she spotted me, clearly having been told something flattering about the man waiting at the top of the steps.
My father moved into introductions with the formal warmth he used when he believed he was bestowing a gift, one hand gesturing toward the girl like he was presenting a solution to a problem I hadn’t asked him to solve.
“Jackson,” he said, his voice carrying across the yard. “You remember the Garcias from Tucson? Their daughter Elena just finished her master’s in business administration. Top of her class. We thought the two of you might have a lot in common.”
I read the entire setup in under five seconds—the girl, the no-warning arrival, the performance of it—and felt something crack open behind my sternum that I wasn’t prepared to name. Not quite anger, not quite hurt, but something that made it hard to breathe for a second.
I turned directly to my father, because he was the one who’d built this fiction and he was the one who needed to watch it come apart. I smiled, because the smile was easier than the alternative, and said the words I should have said fourteen years ago.
“I’m gay,” I said, my voice level. “Have been since I was fourteen years old. This is Cruz.” I gestured to the man standing at my shoulder without looking at him.
“He’s my lover. And this—“ I smoothed one hand over the front of my shirt, over the curve that couldn’t be hidden anymore, “—is his child.”
The smile dropped. My father’s face went through several stages in quick succession—confusion, recalculation, the quick moment when denial gave way to understanding—before landing on fury.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, the words coming out clipped and controlled. “This is—you can’t—“
“I can,” I said, cutting him off. “I am. And I’d really like to know why you lied—why you told everyone I was an alpha when I’m clearly an omega.”
The young woman—Elena—went rigid beside my father, her carefully arranged smile freezing in place. My mother stayed exactly where she was, one hand still on the covered dish, her face giving away nothing.
What followed was loud and ugly—the kind of confrontation that belonged in parking lots and hospital waiting rooms, not on the front porch of a house in Montana.
My father’s anger was the specific variety that belonged to a man who had spent years building a story and could not stand to watch it come apart in front of an audience.
“You will stop talking right now,” he said, his voice carrying across the yard.
“You will get rid of this—this situation—immediately.
You will end whatever this is with—“ he gestured at Cruz without looking at him, “—and you will marry Elena, who is a good girl from a good family and exactly the kind of future you were meant to have.”
Each word landed like something with an edge—not quite physical, but present enough that I had to brace myself against the porch rail to keep from stepping back.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, the words coming out level despite the pressure behind my sternum. “You don’t get to show up out of the blue and tell me how to live my life. You don’t get to decide who I am or what I want or whether this child has a right to exist.”
“You’re confused,” my father said, already reloading for another volley. “This isn’t—you can’t—“
“I can,” I said again. “I am. And you lost the right to have an opinion about it when you decided I was too much of an embarrassment to tell the truth about.”
My father’s face flushed with anger, which meant that he was just getting started.
“Get off my farm,” I told him, the words coming out before I could stop them. “You don’t get to show up unannounced and rewrite thirty years of history because it’s convenient for your narrative.”
Then gunfire erupted down the drive—a lot of it, sharp and fast, close enough that the kitchen window rattled. Cruz was moving before the second burst.
He unclipped his sidearm in a single smooth motion, held it out to me grip-first with careful attention. “Get everyone inside and keep them there,” he said, his voice level. “I’ll pull backup and come in through the rear.”
I took the gun without hesitation—the weight familiar in my palm, the easy balance that came from ten years of carrying one just like it.
My father’s mouth was still open, words clearly forming, ready to continue exactly where he’d left off.
I stepped directly into his space, close enough that there was no room for argument, and laid it out in a single breath.
“Eight years as a Navy SEAL,” I said. “This is my territory. The men out there are not playing games. You will go inside and stay inside, or you will get yourself shot. Your choice.”
My father went inside. I followed, pulled the door shut behind us with a single decisive motion, and took up position at the front window with a sightline to both the porch and the hallway.
Cruz’s gun sat in my hand, familiar weight, perfect balance. Outside, the gunfire continued in the rhythm that meant team work—controlled, fast, the kind of shooting that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I listened to it with careful attention, cataloging each burst, tracking each pause, making the calculations that came with gunfire on your own property. Somewhere in the distance, a vehicle engine started—Rawley, probably, headed for whatever position would give him the cleanest shot.
Beside me, my mother stood exactly where I’d left her, the covered dish still in her hands, her face giving away nothing. The young woman—Elena—had backed into the farthest corner of the room, her carefully arranged composure completely gone.
And my father—my father stood in the center of the living room with his shoulders squared and his jaw set, watching me with an expression I couldn’t immediately place.
“You’re really going to shoot someone,” he said, not quite a question.
I nodded once, slow. “If I have to,” I said. “That’s kind of the point of the gun.”
Something moved across his face—too quick to catch, gone before I could name it.
Then the radio on my belt clicked twice—Wade’s signal for “moving to position”—and the moment broke.
“Stay behind the couch,” I said, already moving toward the hallway. “Keep Mom and Elena there. Don’t come out until I give the all-clear.”
My father nodded once, slow. .
I moved to the front door with Cruz’s gun in my hand, listening to the gunfire outside—controlled, fast, the kind that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I checked the chamber by feel in the half-light—round ready, safety off, magazine full—then stepped onto the porch with careful attention, making sure nothing in my posture suggested the extra weight I was carrying.
The morning had fully arrived now—light spilling across the valley in a long sweep, turning everything gold where it touched.
Somewhere in the distance, gunfire continued in a rhythm that meant team work—controlled, fast, the kind of shooting that came from men who knew exactly what they were doing.
I moved to the edge of the porch with Cruz’s gun in my hand, listening to the sound of tires on gravel that meant backup was arriving from the main house.
Then came Cruz’s voice over the radio—“Moving to position, east side”—and knowing exactly where he was, was suddenly too present to ignore.
I keyed my earpiece with my free hand. “Copy that,” I said. “I’ve got the front. Three civilians secured inside.”
Two clicks came back—acknowledgment without words, the kind of communication that happened when talking wasn’t worth the risk.
I took up position at the corner of the porch—the spot that gave me angles to both the front drive and the tree line to the east—and waited for whatever came next.
The morning stretched around me—light moving across the valley in a slow sweep, gunfire in the distance, the quiet that came after things had gone sideways, but before anyone had decided what happened next.
Somewhere in the world, a child was coming—my child, Cruz’s child, a person who would have his eyes, maybe, or my height, or some combination of features neither of us could predict.
A person who would sleep in the crib I had built with my own hands, who would sit in the chair I had driven forty minutes to find, who would reach into the toy box for blocks and stuffed animals and whatever else we decided belonged there.
A person who would, in approximately two months, change everything—again—the way the positive test had changed it four months ago.
I stood at the corner of the porch with Cruz’s gun in my hand and my eyes on the tree line, and waited for whatever came next.