Bonus Epilogue
MANY YEARS LATER
T he night before opening day on Runaway Ranch is always chaos.
Especially this year.
An entire decade since Ruby blew into our lives and we officially started running the ranch as, well, an actual fucking ranch.
Ever since Fallon and I moved back home, it’s been an Opening Day Eve tradition. A big family dinner at someone’s house.
This year, it’s our turn.
“Shit,” I swear, hustling around the house and scooping up baby blankets and cowboy boots. In the hallway, I snatch up a pacifier. My gaze drifts. The gallery wall, where, amid the photos of me and Fallon’s rodeo days, is Fallon’s letter. I promised to frame it, and that’s what I goddamn did.
The year Fallon and I moved back to Runaway Ranch, we built a bigger version of Fallon’s cottage. With a wide front-porch and a steeply pitched roof, it even has a hot tub out back. Behind it is our training facility and stables, Montgomery-McGraw Rodeo.
At the slam of the front door, I glance over. My heart speeds up at the sight of my wife. She’s dusty from her ride on the ranch. Attached to her chest is our one-year-old, Ada James. “You get her asleep?”
Fallon’s smile is wicked. “She’s never slept better.”
Fallon rode secretly while pregnant with Ada. As a newborn, the only thing that could stop her from crying was a ride in the saddle. I’ve spent many long nights out on rides getting my baby girl to sleep.
I go to them, kissing Fallon and then grinning down at Ada’s tiny face and long lashes.
I’m a sucker for my wife and daughter. Fuck if I’m not wrapped around their fingers.
I help Fallon unhook the baby carrier, then with Ada securely nestled in her arms, we head into the kitchen.
Fallon’s face is soft as she lays Ada in the bouncer. Watching Fallon become a mother has been the best damn joy of my life. Not only because she’s the best at it—she is—but because our daughters will learn from her what it means to fight. To be fierce. To fuck around and find out.
My gaze sweeps over Fallon’s gorgeous face. Her messy fishtail braid snarled over one shoulder. Those pink cheeks. And her very pregnant belly.
I close the distance between us and rest a hand over her swollen stomach.
Ever since we moved back home, we’ve moved fast. New home. New jobs. A baby. And now another.
Fallon closes her eyes as we both feel our daughter squirm. Restless. Just like my wife.
“Feelin’ okay?”
She gives me a look. “Oh, I’d be great if it weren’t for the crippling heartburn.”
I chuckle. The woman’s still so hardheaded, still so goddamn beautiful as the day I met her.
My lips curve. “Maybe slow down?”
“No rest for the wicked,” Fallon says, arching a teasing brow.
I hook a finger through my wife’s belt loops and haul her toward me. Drag the strap of her tank top off and kiss her freckled shoulder. Then I lean down and sweep my mouth down the line of her throat. Inhale her spiced whiskey scent. “Lookin’ goddamn beautiful, I say so myself.”
Fallon shivers. A dreamy look overtakes her face. “Jesus, Wyatt,” she moans. “Don’t stop.”
“Have to, baby,” I husk against her pillowy lips. She feigns a pout and pulls away. “Forgetting something?”
Her eyes widen then slice to the calendar on the fridge. “Fuck.” Her pregnancy brain, not to mention her bad attitude and her extreme horniness, have been off the charts with this pregnancy. Fuck, but I love it.
I smother a smile. “Get your shit together, Trouble.”
“Ah, fuck it,” Fallon blasts. “It’s a potluck.” I watch as she dumps a platter of cookies and chips into a chipped bowl. “Dakota always brings more than enough anyway.” Eyes blazing, she slams the bowl down then storms up to me. “Now kiss me, asshole.”
Fitting my hand to the nape of her neck, I pull her against me, crushing my lips to hers. Fallon slides her hands up my chest. The heat between us sears. Tiny whimpers work their way out of her as I drink her in.
My wife. My everything.
Seconds away from slamming her down on the table, the front door blasts open, and the sounds of chaos fill the air.
“Hey, shithead, get your dick in your pants, because we’re comin’ in.”
“Goddammit,” I mutter as Ford’s shit-eating drawl carries down the hall.
Breathless, cheeks pink, Fallon tears her mouth away from mine.
I glare at Ford, who rounds the corner into the kitchen. Perched high on his shoulder, is his yawning two-year-old son, Ellis. “Asshole,” I snarl at my brother then tug on Ellis’s chubby bare foot. “Hey, kid, how was the nap?”
Fallon scowls and socks Ford in the bicep. “You wake up Ada, you’re done for.”
“Snack!” Ellis demands.
“Snacks, yes, please. My son has the right idea,” Reese says, slipping into the kitchen. Her soft blonde hair waves around her slender shoulders.
I give Reese and her pregnant belly a grin. “Think Fallon’s got you covered in the snack department.”
Within seconds, more hard boot stomps.
Charlie marches in, carrying a five-year-old Meadow in his arms like his most precious possession. Ruby, beside him, holds a bouquet of wildflowers, their stems wrapped in her signature bright-yellow Bloom’s Blooms wrapping paper.
Then come Davis, Dakota, and their wild brood. Duke, Lainie, and their two-year-old twins, Hayes and Lincoln. Dakota sets a peach pie and a salad on the table. Lifts a brow at Fallon’s tray of chips. “Let me guess, pregnancy brain.”
Fallon’s coarse laugh sounds. “Shut up,” she says, kneeling down to smack kisses on the twins’ cheeks.
There’s a knock on the wall behind us.
Stede. He’s grinning and carrying a big-as-hell bottle of whiskey. Hobbling forward, he gruffs, “Heard this was where the party is.”
I grin back at my father-in-law. “Heard right, old man.”
“Daddy,” Fallon says with a beam of a smile. Her limp’s barely noticeable as she rushes to him. She hooks an arm through his and helps him across the room.
“Drinks, a toast!” Dakota calls out.
“Yes,” everyone says in unison.
As I make my way across the kitchen, I dodge a dog and two shrieking kids. Meadow, wearing nothing but a tutu and pink cowboy boots, beelines for the cookies.
“How’d she get naked so quick?” Charlie wonders.
I pop a bottle of wine, open a bottle of whiskey.
Fallon starts doling out glasses and healthy pours of alcohol. “Let the good times roll,” she quips. “Just not for the two pregos.”
Reese sighs as she leans against Ford. He palms her belly, tucks her closer.
Charlie lifts his glass in a toast. Everyone follows suit. “Ten years tomorrow.”
“Ten years,” Ruby echoes, slipping a small hand over his.
Charlie’s blue eyes fall on his wife. I smirk as they go misty. If I thought he was a big softie after Ruby, nothing compares to after they had Meadow. But hell, I ain’t one to talk. Fallon and my daughter own me. Heart and soul.
Because of my wife, I’ve become a better husband, father, and brother.
“You saved me ten years ago, Sunflower,” Charlie says in a choked voice. Ruby sniffles and wipes her cheek. “And we saved this ranch.”
Davis lifts his whiskey glass. “We’ve checked off bucket lists, buried bodies, broken bones, and this ranch is still standing.”
“It’s seen a lot,” Dakota muses.
“It’ll see a hell of a lot more,” I say with a grin, pulling Fallon to my side. “We ain’t done.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Ford agrees, his palm cradling Reese’s belly.
I chuckle and look around my family. “We got old knees and bad backs, but we can still go on down to Nowhere and drink ourselves shitfaced.”
Fallon rests her head on my shoulder. “Wonder where we’ll be in ten more years.”
“More love,” Ruby says with eager eyes. “Flowers. Oh! And we’ll always have games.”
Davis groans and everyone laughs.
We all look over when, at the exact same time, Reese and Fallon both suck in a breath and hold their bellies.
The room tenses.
“Y’all alright?” Charlie gruffs.
Worry streaks across Ford’s face. “Christ. If they both go into labor…”
“Heartburn,” Reese and Fallon say in unison then giggle. Everyone unclenches.
“Just like Runaway Ranch, we keep goin’,” Charlie says, clearing the emotion from his deep voice. He reaches out, cupping his wife’s face. “We protect it, and we protect each other until the end of our goddamn days.”
I meet the eyes of my brothers, pride in their expressions. Pride for the life we’ve made. The life we’ve earned. The women we love.
It can’t get better than this.
“A-fuckin’-men,” Ford finishes, and we all clink glasses and drink.
A small giggle catches my ear, and I spot Duke edging out from behind a chair, a water pistol in his hand. I grin and gesture at him to get Ford.
Grinning back, Duke aims and fires. Water arcs across the room and drills Ford right between the eyes.
Ruby gasps.
Fallon and I snicker.
“Fuck,” Ford blasts, jerking back and wiping his face.
Reese lets out a scream of laughter and hangs on to her belly for dear life.
Ford lunges over the island, grabbing the sprayer from the sink. “Oh, you’re goin’ down, kid.”
“Not the pie, Duke,” Dakota squeals, lunging in front of the table as her son takes aim.
“Here, Dad!”
Davis, kicking over into GI Joe mode, catches the water pistol his son tosses him.
Ford cackles, grabbing a bottle of water from Ruby. “Now it’s fuckin’ on.”
Meadow and Ellis shriek, their faces jubilant as Charlie growls and chases after them. Lainie, looking as bossy as Davis, stands guard in front of the twins.
And through it all, Ada sleeps.
Taking advantage of the chaos, I grab Fallon’s hand and pull her out onto the front porch that offers a prime view of Runway Ranch. Our trusty rocking swing blows in the light breeze. The bold red sunset dances in the air like a campfire.
We watch the water fight through the window. Listen to the squeals of laughter from our family. Fallon lifts her arms. “Well, this is it,” she proclaims, her eyes misty. “The best we’ll ever fucking have.”
I pull her into my arms. “It’ll get better.”
She tilts her head, her messy caramel braid falling over her shoulder. “You think?”
“Trouble, I know,” I husk. “Long as I got you and your love, I’m a happy man.”
The life I’ve made with Fallon can only get better.
Horses and bonfires and ranch work. Bullshitting with my brothers in the Bullshit Box. Chasing rodeos for fun. Showing our daughters how to ride and how to be menaces. Whatever Fallon and I do, we do it together.
Tears fill her hazel eyes. I grin. Hormones always have her raging or tearing up. “Damn you, Wyatt.”
I frame her face with my hands, kiss her pouty lips. “You fuckin’ love it.”
“I love you , you idiot,” she whispers, and I fall in love with her for about the millionth time all over again. My beautiful girl. My trouble. Her moods and her heart are as changing as the wind, but Fallon, my cowgirl, is as certain and as steady as the sky.
She’s the best part of my life. The only part that has ever mattered.
I run a thumb over my wife’s tattooed wedding band. Still as dark, as perfect, as the day she got it. “I love you, Trouble,” I tell her, pulling her close. “For the rest of my damn days, it’ll always be you.”