Epilogue
LINC
Istumbled over the threshold of the house and wanted to curl up right there on the floor instead of crawling into bed.
My arms ached clear to the bone, my back burned from hours hunched under floodlights, and I could still feel the freezing wind threaded through every joint like it had taken up residence inside me.
It had been one of those nights where the world shrank to breath, frost, and the sound of hooves hitting packed snow.
“You’ve been out there too long,” her sweet voice said from the hallway. The light behind her made her hair shine soft and gold, messy from sleep but still the prettiest thing I had ever seen.
As if she could read my mind, she reached up and unzipped my jacket.
The sound was small but final, like the night giving up its hold.
She shoved the heavy thing off my shoulders, and it hit the floor with a soft thud.
She plucked my hat off, brushed the brim with her thumb, and hung it on the hook where it always went.
“Boots,” she ordered gently, crouching in front of me as she held them steady so I could pull my feet out. Her voice carried that note she only used when I was too tired to argue, calm but firm, the kind that could settle a skittish colt or a worn-out man.
“I don’t need help. I can take my clothes off myself,” I grumbled, even as she unhooked the overall straps for me. My voice came out rough, barely more than gravel.
“That’s not what you said last night,” she teased, that crooked smile breaking through her tiredness. The Carhartts puddled to the floor, and I stepped out of them, trying not to smile but failing anyway.
“If I wasn’t so tired, I’d let you unbutton my pants and you could stay on your knees.” The words came out lazy and low, more habit than heat. Truth was, all I wanted right now was a pillow and the weight of her beside me.
“Come on, cowboy. Let’s get you to bed.”
She slid an arm around my waist, and I slung mine over her shoulders. “Why are you up?” I asked, letting her lead me down the hall.
“The bed was cold,” she said, steadying me with more strength than she looked like she had. Her head came just under my chin. She smelled like soap and coffee and the faintest trace of the vanilla lotion she never remembered to put away.
“Griff take over for you?” she asked as we passed the kitchen. The clock on the stove glowed two-thirty. Calving season never cared what time it was.
“Yeah, but we had to pull four calves off the heifers, so I stuck around to help him. All seem to be bred by the same bull.”
“You’re going to have to pull that bull from the rotation of heifers. You’ve pulled way too many this year. Obviously, it’s not a calving bull, throwing big calves like that.” She knew animals; it didn’t matter if they were cows, horses, or goats. Kristin was smart, and she had a head for ranching.
“Oh, it’s going down the road in the morning,” I muttered. “We’re not dealing with those genetics another year.”
“Good plan,” she said, her voice softening now that the worst of my stubbornness had bled out. “Okay, time to sleep.”
If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have sworn she pushed me into bed. The mattress dipped under my weight, and the flannel sheets felt like heaven.
“No. If I forget, remind me to tell Kipp that bull has to go.” The bed dipped beside me, and the blankets slid up over my body. I caught the smell of fresh laundry, a faint trace of cedar from the dresser drawer where she kept the extra quilts.
“I’ll tell him myself,” she said, smoothing a hand down my arm. “You don’t have to worry about it. Please just go to sleep.”
“Come here.” I held out my arm, and it felt like it had taken every last ounce of effort I had.
She crawled over and curled up against my side, the same way she always had, like she fit there and nowhere else.
My hand found her back, warm and small under my palm.
Her skin was soft through the fabric of her sleep shirt, and the steady rhythm of her breathing pressed calm into me.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked, suddenly realizing I needed to check on her the way she always checked on me.
“Tired but fine,” she murmured. “It’s normal, and no, we can’t tell anyone yet.”
“They already know,” I confessed, grinning in the dark.
“Lincoln Felder, what the hell?” Her hand smacked my chest, but it was gentle.
“I’m surrounded by men who procreate like it’s their only job,” I said. “They saw the signs.”
Her soft laugh vibrated against my chest, a sound I could have lived inside forever.
“You’re not wrong,” she said. “This ranch is growing faster than anyone dreamed of. Good thing you’ve got lots of property.”
Silence settled over us, not heavy, just warm, and it wrapped around the room like a quilt; the only sounds were the faint hum of the furnace and the sigh of wind brushing against the windowpane.
I could still smell the hay in my hair and the wood smoke that clung to my coat.
All of it mixed with her scent, sweet and human and home.
“Oh, you know who I saw having lunch together at Fred’s today?” she murmured.
“Babe, guessing isn’t my strong suit, and while I’m half asleep, it’s not going to be any better.”
“Troy and Hattie.”
“Hmm. Didn’t see that one coming.” I cracked one eye open, too tired to lift my head. Elle’s ex-husband and Jake’s ex-wife were about the most unlikely pair to be seen together in this town. “They seeing each other?”
“Elle said they’ve been going out for a few months.”
I made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Well, that’s a hell of a plot twist.”
“You could say that,” she said softly. “But good for them. Everyone deserves another chance.”
I nodded and let my eyes close. Her hand drew lazy circles across my chest, and somewhere between one breath and the next, everything went black.
When I woke again, light crept through the curtains in soft yellow lines. The storm hadn’t arrived overnight like it was supposed to, leaving the world outside quiet. I could hear the distant hum of the skid-steer in the corral, and the soft, contented moving of the occasional cow.
Kristin was still curled up next to me, her face pressed into my shoulder, her hair a mess across the pillow.
Her hand rested over her belly like she was already protecting what we hadn’t told anyone yet.
My throat went tight. I watched her breathe for a long minute, each slow rise and fall steady as sunrise.
Deciding it was still too early to get up, I pulled her tightly against me and rested my hand below hers. The weight was small, barely visible yet, but it changed everything I felt about the morning.
Outside, a plow rumbled somewhere up the road. I could almost picture the tracks it left, neat lines through new snow, the kind of order that meant the day had started whether I wanted it to or not. But for now, for this minute, I stayed exactly where I was.
She stirred a little, making that sleepy hum I loved, and her fingers flexed under mine. Her eyelashes brushed my chest when she blinked awake.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice rough from sleep.
“Morning.”
Her eyes opened, still heavy, and she smiled. “You’re warm.”
“You say that like it’s a surprise.”
“It is when you come in from twenty below.”
“Maybe you should keep me close then.”
“I think I already do.”
We lay there in the kind of silence that only comes after a night that asks everything from you. The cattle were fine, the barn lights still glowed, and for once I wasn’t thinking about what might break next. I was just here with her.
She traced a line along my jaw with her fingertip. “You need a shave.”
“I need about twelve hours of sleep.”
“Take what you can get,” she said, kissing the corner of my mouth.
“I’ve got everything I need right here.”
She smiled again, softer this time. The morning light touched her face, turning her eyes gold. I could have stayed in that bed forever, listening to the world wake up slowly around us.
In another hour, I’d have to pull on frozen boots and check the pens. I’d have to make the call about the bull, and the day would roll on like it always did. But not yet.
She shifted closer, tucking her head under my chin. “You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured.
“Just counting how many calves we saved last night.”
She laughed quietly. “You can count in bed, but if you start naming them, I’m leaving.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, even though I had already picked one name for the first calf that had stood without help. You remember those kinds of wins.
Her hand moved over her belly again, slow and protective. “You think we’re ready for this?” she asked. I thought about it. The question wasn’t small. We’d come through hell. We’d built something solid out of broken ground. Ready wasn’t the right word. But I was willing.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think we are.” I slid my hand across her abdomen and covered the small bump with my palm.
Her breath let out in a soft sigh, and she smiled against my shirt. “Good. Because I can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Who would you tell first?”
“Nora,” she said without hesitation. “She already suspects, and I can’t keep anything from her.”
I laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
We lay there until the light brightened enough to fill the room. Her hand found mine under the blanket. She twined our fingers together and pressed them against her stomach. “You know,” she said, “next year’s going to look a lot different.”
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s going to be louder.”
“And busier.”
“And better.”
She smiled at that, her eyes closing again.
“Go back to sleep,” I told her.
“You too.”
“I can’t. My brain’s already thinking about chores.”
She cracked one eye open. “Then think quieter.”
So, I did. I let the rhythm of her breathing slow mine, the soft weight of her hand anchoring me. The house creaked in the cold. Somewhere outside, a horse snorted.