Epilogue
Wes
I stand at the kitchen window, coffee cooling in my mug, watching them across the yard. My family. The sight still catches me off guard sometimes—Emma laughing as she tosses feed to Bernard, who's strutting about like the royalty he believes he is, and Paisley beside her, one hand resting on her swollen belly as she gestures animatedly with the other.
My wife. My daughter. My son on the way.
Paisley moves with that careful grace she's developed over the past nine months, her steps measured but still determined. Even with her due date less than a week away, she refuses to be sidelined. "I'm pregnant, not broken," she reminds me daily, usually while doing something that makes my heart stop.
Like now—she's attempting to demonstrate to Emma the proper way to stand up to Bernard's imperial demands. The goose has only grown more entitled since his rise to movie stardom, and Paisley insists we can't let him "become a diva." As if that ship hadn't sailed years ago.
Emma mimics Paisley's stance, hands on hips, chin lifted in challenge. Bernard considers this show of defiance for all of three seconds before honking indignantly and waddling away, clearly offended by their lack of proper reverence.
Their laughter carries across the yard, bright against the crisp morning air. Emma leans into Paisley's side, and Paisley's arm wraps around her shoulders, easy and natural, like they've always belonged together. Like we've always been a family.
I take a sip of my coffee, the familiar weight of worry settling between my shoulders. A different kind of worry than the one that used to keep me up at night—not about bank notices or failing fences, but about the kind of father I'll be. The kind I've tried to be for Emma. The kind I need to be for my son.
When Sarah died, I stepped into a role I never thought I'd have to fill. I was barely keeping my head above water most days, just trying to make sure Emma had what she needed. Food, shelter, love. I've never been sure if I was enough. If I am enough.
Now there'll be a boy looking to me for guidance, for protection, for all the things a father is supposed to provide. A son who'll watch everything I do and learn from everything I am—the good and the bad.
Paisley says I'm being ridiculous, of course. "You're already a father," she told me last night, guiding my hand to where our son was kicking up a storm. "And a good one."
I want to believe her. Most days I even do. But then fear creeps in during quiet moments like this, making me question everything I thought I knew.
Outside, Paisley says something that makes Emma throw her head back, her laugh carrying through the glass. She looks so much like Sarah sometimes it steals my breath. But there's something else there, too—a confidence, a joy that's all her own. Despite everything, she's thriving.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.
Paisley glances toward the house, catching me watching. A smile spreads across her face—one of those real smiles that still makes my chest tighten, even after all this time. She raises a hand, wiggling her fingers in a small wave.
I lift my coffee mug in acknowledgment. She pats her belly, then points at me, a silent message: Your son is awake and energetic this morning.
I can't help but smile. Our son. Not just mine, not just hers. Ours. A boy who'll grow up here on this land, learning its rhythms, its stories. A Montgomery through and through.
I think about all the ways I've fought change over the years. How I nearly lost everything—the ranch, my family, Paisley—because I was too afraid to let go of how things had always been. Too afraid to believe in something bigger than my own fears.
And now, here we are. The ranch is thriving—not just surviving, but growing into something Sarah would have been proud of. Emma is flourishing, no longer that grief-stricken child clutching her mother's quilt. And Paisley... Paisley changed everything. Not by force, but by gentle persistence, by believing in me even when I didn't believe in myself.
Out in the yard, Bernard has apparently forgiven the earlier slight, as he's now following Emma and Paisley toward the barn, his neck extended like he's leading a royal procession. Kevin watches from his perch by the chicken coop, judging them all with his usual peacock superiority.
Some things don't change, I suppose.
Paisley stops suddenly, one hand going to her lower back, the other still resting on her belly. My heart lurches into my throat, coffee forgotten as I watch her take a deep breath.
She catches my eye again through the window, a reassuring smile telling me it's just the usual discomfort. Not time yet. I exhale slowly, trying to calm the instinctive panic that rises every time she winces or shifts uncomfortably.
Emma says something to her, concern evident in her posture. Paisley shakes her head, ruffling Emma's hair affectionately. Then they're moving again, slower now, toward the barn.
I set my coffee down, already reaching for my boots. I should be out there with them. With my family.
Family. The word still carries weight, but it's different now. Not just responsibility and duty, but warmth. Connection. The knowledge that I'm not carrying everything alone anymore.
I think about the nursery upstairs, painted in soft blues and grays, filled with books because Paisley insists our son will be a reader. The tiny boots Jake bought, lined up next to Emma's and ours by the door. The way the whole community has rallied around us, Martha already planning the baby's first birthday party despite our protests.
Maybe I'm not the perfect father. Maybe I never will be. But I'm here. I'm trying. And I'm surrounded by people who love this boy already, who will help him grow and guide him when I falter.
I step out onto the porch, the morning air cool against my face. Paisley turns at the sound of the screen door, that smile spreading across her face again. The one that still makes me feel like I've won something I never deserved but somehow got anyway.
"Coming to save us from Bernard's tyranny?" she calls, her voice carrying across the yard.
"Someone has to maintain order around here," I call back.
Emma rolls her eyes dramatically. "Bernard says your authority is questionable at best."
"Bernard needs to remember who buys his feed."
Paisley laughs, the sound warming me more than any coffee ever could. She holds out a hand, waiting for me to cross the distance between us. And I do, my steps sure and steady against the familiar earth of the ranch—my ranch, our home.
As I reach them, Paisley takes my hand and places it on her belly, where our son is making his presence known with insistent movement. "Someone wanted to say good morning to their daddy."
The words still catch me off guard sometimes. Daddy. Father. The roles I never expected to fill but now can't imagine living without.
"He's active today," I murmur, feeling the steady push against my palm.
"Like a future bull rider," Emma says with authority.
Paisley groans. "Please, no. I've had enough heart attacks watching your uncle."
I catch her eye, seeing the teasing light there. "Maybe he'll be a writer instead. Continue the family business."
"Or a goose whisperer!" Emma suggests, watching as Bernard imperiously inspects the feed bucket. "We could use someone who speaks his language."
"God help us all if that happens," I mutter, but I'm smiling.
Paisley leans into my side, her warmth a constant reassurance. "Whatever he decides to be, he'll have us." She looks up at me, her eyes steady and sure. "All of us."
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as Emma darts off to referee another dispute between Bernard and Kevin.
"You know," Paisley says quietly, "for someone who claims to be worried about fatherhood, you're already pretty great at it."
I follow her gaze to Emma, who's now lecturing the peacock about proper sharing etiquette. My chest tightens with a familiar mix of pride and wonder.
"I just want to get it right," I admit. "For all of you."
Paisley turns in my arms, facing me fully. "Wes Montgomery, you stubborn man. Don't you know by now? There is no 'right.' There's just showing up. Loving them. Being there." She pokes my chest gently. "You've been doing that since before I met you."
I catch her hand, pressing it against my heart. "I'm still learning."
"We all are." She smiles, soft and sure. "That's the point."
And looking at her, at Emma, at the son we're about to welcome, I think maybe she's right. Maybe the point isn't perfection. Maybe it's just this: being here, together, figuring it out as we go.
My family. My home. My life that I nearly lost to fear but somehow found the courage to claim.