Chapter 16 Gideon
GIDEON
Gideon told himself it was just dinner.
Thanksgiving two weeks ago had been one thing—everyone on their best behavior and distracted by football on the TV.
But a regular family dinner? Connie’s casserole and Zeke’s subtle attempts to elevate the menu, a table full of Reynolds noise, and Juliana sitting at his side like that was the most normal thing in the world. No big deal.
He parked Ethel outside the big farmhouse and killed the engine. Connie had dressed the house with a wreath big enough to qualify as a second door and a line of lanterns along the steps. He climbed out, jogged around, and opened Juliana’s door from the outside.
“Chivalry?” she asked, amused, taking his hand.
“Ethel is big on manners,” he said, tugging her gently down. “You ready for this?”
She looked up at the sprawling house and nodded.
He almost said we can leave, before remembering how much she hated the option of retreat.
The front door opened before they reached it. Warm light and the scent of rosemary and garlic spilled out. So did his mom, wiping her hands on an apron that declared Gravy Is My Love Language in sparkling red letters.
“There you are!” she sang, sweeping Juliana into a hug that would have lifted a smaller woman clean off the ground. “You’re right on time. Zeke, pull the rolls! Cassie, where is Arlo’s pacifier—oh. In his mouth. Never mind.”
“Hi, Mom,” Gideon managed, laughing despite himself as he was drawn into his mom’s wake. There were lots of reasons Redemption Ridge Ranch had been successful as a tourist destination—and one of them was definitely his mother’s ability to make anyone feel welcome.
The kitchen was already crowded. Zeke stood at the stove, thick forearms braced as he whisked what looked to be a homemade barbecue sauce.
Kaitlyn glided past with Juniper perched on a hip and a wooden spoon in her free hand, a quiet commander in leggings and a messy bun.
Stetson hovered near the rolls like a small hawk.
Cassie bounced a drowsy baby Arlo against her shoulder while Chance ran a toy truck up and down the cabinet doors.
Dad leaned against the far counter, eyebrows in their usual skeptical formation. His eyes flicked to Gideon, then to Juliana, and something like humor warmed the lines around them.
“Evening,” his dad said, which was Barry for I’m glad you’re here.
“Hey, Dad,” Gideon said, trying not to fidget.
“Hi, Mr. Reynolds,” Juliana added, poised but not stiff. Gideon watched his father take her in, nod once, and gesture to the dining room with the knife as if knighting her into the family chaos.
Connie clapped. “Hands washed, everyone. Stetson, set the table after you’re done. Brown plates for the adults, snowmen for the littles. And no one touch that salad—it’s for my Instagram story.”
Gideon caught Jules trying to stifle a laugh at his mother’s command.
“Mmm,” Zeke rumbled, tasting the barbecue and handing Gideon a spoon. “Tell me that’s not perfect.”
Gideon tasted, then whistled.
“My buddy in Kansas City sent me the recipe,” Zeke said, satisfied. His eyes slid to Juliana and softened. “How are you doing?”
She smiled. “As well as can be expected, considering I almost got run over in the entryway by a three-year-old with a dump truck.”
“Chance!” Cassie called without turning. “We do not pave people’s shoes.”
Chance stopped mid-vroom, blinked at Juliana, and then grinned, launching into a breathless monologue about the dump truck’s hauling capacity.
Juliana crouched and nodded like the specs were crucial to the evening’s success.
Gideon’s heart pinched. Juliana was listening like Chance was presenting the quarterly report.
Even after so many weeks, she kept surprising him with new facets of herself.
They sat down in waves. Connie and Barry took either end of the long table.
Everyone else found a spot in between, passing platters.
Jason slid into the seat beside Cassie, managing a one-armed hold on Arlo while cutting Chance’s roll with the other.
Kaitlyn caught Juniper’s grabby hands before they found the butter dish.
Stetson snagged a snowman plate and made a face at it until Connie traded him for a grown-up one with a wink.
“Before we dive in,” Connie said, lifting a hand until the chatter dimmed, “Zeke, would you pray?”
Zeke bowed his head. “Father, we’re grateful. For food, for family, for new faces and old mercies. Teach us to love well, to be patient with one another, and to see Your goodness in the ordinary things like pulled pork and rolls and, uh, Juniper’s fistful of green beans. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed, and just like that, forks were flying.
Dinner turned noisy fast. It always did.
Kaitlyn and Cassie compared the kids’ nap schedules—or lack thereof—with the tone of women who’d accepted their fate.
Jason did the math out loud for whether they could get Arlo to sleep through the Christmas Eve service, and Stetson made a case for a later bedtime using statistics that would have impressed a judge. Chance ate barbecue sauce with a spoon.
His mom asked Juliana about the chapel decorations, which made her launch into a breakdown of candle counts and fire safety protocols that somehow made Barry’s mouth twitch in what Gideon would swear was a smile.
Kaitlyn asked gentle questions about Juliana’s family without poking the bruise, and Gideon watched Juliana navigate it gracefully, skirting the edges of truth without tumbling over.
“So.” Cassie’s voice. Sweet, and in no way innocent. “So . . . Juliana, are we allowed to ask the question?”
Gideon felt his heart plummet, and Juliana choked on her sip of water before responding. “Which question?”
“The obvious one,” Jason supplied. “Are you two like . . . actually doing this?”
“Jason,” Cassie hissed, but also clearly delighted that her husband was as nosy as she was.
“Doing what?” Gideon asked, even though he knew exactly what. He forked a green bean and pretended it required intense concentration.
“Staying married,” Zeke said bluntly.
Juliana looked at Gideon. She didn’t look scared. Or backed into a corner. Just . . . honest. “We’re still figuring it out.”
Zeke nodded, satisfied, but Cassie wasn’t finished. “I mean, it would settle a lot of paperwork,” she mused, reaching for the salt. “Wouldn’t it, Dad?”
Gideon felt the conversation drifting toward the one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t let hit the table tonight. He set down his fork.
“Paperwork?” Juliana asked, curious instead of wary, and his chest tightened.
This was the moment. He could say it—tell her in front of everyone about the clause, that his being married meant he was automatically a third owner, that the future of the ranch had quietly rearranged itself around their island vows.
Dad cleared his throat. “We’ll have some transitions, if things stand,” he said evenly, eyes on Gideon. “Board seats. Signatories. Not dinner talk.”
Relief hit so fast Gideon nearly said thank you out loud. He caught Juliana’s eye, tried to pour reassurance into his expression. This wasn’t manipulation. It was protection. He didn’t want her making any decision with a ledger hovering over it.
Juliana’s gaze flicked between father and son. She looked like she knew there was a piece of the puzzle on the floor and she couldn’t quite see it. She also looked like she was going to let him pick it up in his own time. Something unclenched in his chest.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, low enough that only she could hear.
“Okay,” she said, just as quiet. Trusting him to mean it.
Gideon tried to relax back into the noise. The food was excellent, the room warm, his woman—his wife—sitting beside him wearing one of those soft sweaters that made his fingers itch to pull her close. This should have been enough to quiet the jackhammer of anxiety in his chest.
But then his dad, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, set down his knife, wiped his hands, and aimed those steady eyes at Gideon.
“Walk fence with me tomorrow?” Barry asked. Not a request. Not an order. An invitation to a thing they’d done a hundred times that somehow always felt like a test he hadn’t studied for.
Gideon forced a smile. “Sure.”
Dad nodded once, satisfied, then ruined the moment by adding, “Need to start talking winter staffing. Tour schedule. Equipment maintenance. We’ve been short on hands since Tanner moved to Utah.”
“Dad,” Zeke tried, a hint of warning.
“What?” his dad said, not unkindly. “Boy works here. He can hear a calendar without running.”
Mom tried to soothe the tension with a roll basket and a pointed look at her husband that said be gentle, but his father wasn’t cruel. Just relentless.
“We’ve been talking about someone taking the lead on the new trail cut,” his dad went on, oblivious to Gideon’s internal flinch. “Permits are in. Spring melt will set us behind if we don’t map it. We’re due for a fresh route.”
Zeke glanced at Gideon and then—to his credit—tried to toss the line in a way that didn’t hook. “You’ve got the eye for that, Gid. You know the ridge like the back of your hand.”
Kaitlyn watched Gideon like she was willing him courage. Cassie bounced Arlo and stayed blessedly silent. Juliana, for her part, didn’t try to answer for him. She just angled her body toward him a fraction.
He swallowed. The knot in his stomach pulled tight.
He loved the trails. He was good at reading a slope, at feeling where a line wanted to run.
He could lead any tourist through the switchbacks with his eyes closed and have them laughing at the bottom.
But taking the lead felt like a different animal.
It had budgets and deadlines and the kind of responsibility that made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. What if he messed it up?
“Maybe,” he said, aiming for casual and missing. “Let’s talk after Christmas.”
Dad grunted, which could mean agreement or why not now. Gideon took it as mercy.
Juliana rested her hand under the table, palm up. He found it without looking, pressed their fingers together, and didn’t let go.
The rest of dinner blurred. There were second helpings and Chance’s truck was banished to the mudroom. When the table finally broke into post-meal chaos, Gideon escaped to the kitchen with plates. Juliana followed with the salad bowl.
“Hey.” She bumped his hip with hers as they stood side by side at the sink. “You good?”
“Yep,” he lied, then winced at how thin it sounded.
She didn’t push. She handed him a towel and dried beside him, their shoulders brushing, their movements catching and syncing like they’d done this a hundred times instead of twice.
His mom breezed in, took one look at them, and softened. “You two were sweet at dinner,” she said, keeping her voice low like she was trying not to spook a deer. “Just so you know—nobody expects answers tonight.”
Gideon huffed a laugh. “Tell Dad that.”
Mom’s mouth tilted. “I tell your father lots of things.” She sobered. “He pushes because he sees what you can do. The ranch is big. It needs all of you. Doesn’t mean it needs you to be Zeke. Or Barry.”
Gideon swallowed around the lump that sentence put in his throat. “I know.”
His mom kissed his cheek, quick and matter-of-fact, then swept out again like a benevolent hurricane.
Juliana set the towel down, studying him. “You don’t have to talk to me,” she said softly. “But if you want to . . .”
He leaned on the counter, staring at the dish rack like it could answer for him. “I hate feeling like I’m disappointing him.”
“You’re not,” she said immediately.
He gave her a look.
“Okay,” she conceded. “You think you are. But I’ve watched your dad. He’s proud of you.”
Gideon snorted. “His proud face looks a lot like his constipated face.”
She bit back a laugh, then rolled her eyes at him. “You love this place. It’s obvious. You love the trails. The guests. The stupid broken door on your truck.” Her hand brushed his arm, grounding him. “You don’t have to become an entirely different person to be the man this ranch needs.”
He wanted to believe her so badly his chest hurt with it.
He wanted to believe he could be both the guy who made a ten-year-old feel like a hero at the top of a ridge and the man who signed the trail budget without breaking out in hives.
Wanted to believe he could be a co-owner of the ranch without becoming burdened and grumpy like his father.
That he could be a husband without sacrificing his own free spirit.
The word flashed so fast it startled him. Husband. He glanced at Juliana. She was sliding the last plate into the rack, brow furrowed in concentration like the angle mattered. He realized his hand was still resting over hers on the edge of the counter. He didn’t move it.
Stetson appeared in the doorway like a loping colt. “Uncle Gideon, can I show Juliana the fort I built under the stairs? It has, like, actual rooms.”
“By all means,” Gideon said, stepping aside and letting Juliana be claimed by the younger Reynolds. He watched her crouch to crawl into a blanket cave while Chance tried to charge a toll in goldfish crackers, and Juniper toddled after them with an empty measuring cup like a royal scepter.
Then his dad sidled up beside him at the sink, two men equal in height and stubbornness, staring at the same domestic calm.
“She fits,” Dad said, almost to himself.
Gideon didn’t answer. Couldn’t without saying too much. His dad didn’t need the words anyway. He clapped a heavy hand on Gideon’s shoulder before stepping away. Gideon stayed where he was for a beat longer, listening to the house he’d grown up in, and then went to join Juliana.
He found her in the middle of the living room floor, legs tucked to the side, Chance climbing into her lap with the confidence of a child who’d decided she belonged to him, Stetson explaining fort ventilation systems with waving arms. Juliana looked up when Gideon stepped into the doorway of the fort, eyes catching his like a winch line, and smiled.
Not public-relations bright. Not brave-for-the-crowd. Just for him.
The pressure, the teasing, the questions, and the not-so-subtle talk about ownership wouldn’t stop.
Not anytime soon. But maybe it didn’t have to crush him.
Maybe the answer wasn’t disappearing into tours and jokes and letting life happen around him.
Maybe it was this: walking into the middle of the noise, taking the hand offered, and choosing to show up.
“You ready to head out, Mrs. Maybe-Reynolds?”