Epilogue Autumn
Little fists slapped the mesh of the playpen. Two sets of them.
“Ma-ma-ma,” said Fletcher.
“Da-da-da,” argued Bridger, because they were twin boys and had never once agreed on anything, including which parent to holler for.
“Neither one of you is stuck, you know,” I told them, hunting for my other boot. “You have a brother who breaks you out about every ten minutes.”
On cue, Stetson came thundering down the hall in his socks and his little felt hat—three and a half years old and self-appointed foreman of this entire outfit—and started chucking toys over the playpen rail to his brothers like a man feeding hungry stock.
“I’m helpin’,” he announced.
“You are a big helper,” I agreed, and kissed the top of his hat on my way past.
I finished getting ready in the bathroom mirror of our house, the one that started as string lines in the mud, with three hundred dollars of my old running money poured into the foundation, right where I could stand on it every day of my life.
Out the window, the morning sun spread over the Meadows.
Goats dotted the front pasture. Macho stood at the fence in his usual spot, supervising nothing, retired on full benefits.
My phone buzzed on the sink. Nanette.
Nanette: Question. What does a woman wear to ride on the back of a motorcycle down the Pacific Coast?
Me: Nothing you’d let your father see you buy.
Nanette: AUTUMN McCALL.
Me: You asked.
Nanette: This is why I love you. Cash picks me up Thursday for our next trip. Cannot wait.
Me: Send postcards.
I grinned and set the phone down. Some things you can see coming a mile off. I’d been watching that particular storm build between Nanette and Cash for two years and I intended to say absolutely nothing until she got a ring on her finger.
Down the hall, I passed the wall by the front door, same as I did a hundred times a day, and let my eyes land where they liked to land.
The pumpkin patch photo in its frame showing the three of us on a hay bale, back when we were pretending we weren’t a family yet.
And beside it, in a frame Mr. McCall had whittled himself, a piece of paper with a gold seal.
Certificate of Adoption for Stetson Jacob McCall.
We’d filed after the holidays, just like Katherine said. It took the judge four minutes to approve. Jake wore his good jacket and cried. He didn’t really need an official declaration to be Stetson’s father. But we were all McCalls now and that’s what mattered most.
No Eaton name haunting us.
In the kitchen, my husband stood at the counter in a flannel and sweats with a dish towel over one shoulder. Making pancakes with one hand and drinking coffee with the other became his specialty, entirely unbothered by the fact that he would be alone with three children under four today.
“There she is.” He looked me up and down, the same way he still did every single day, appreciating every part of me. “Prettiest little Mama—and market boss—in Montana.”
“Have to look the part.” Saturdays were my work day now at the Lewistown farmers market.
I went in with the Wylde sisters on a double corner booth this year, each of us displaying our goods.
Mine, of course, showed off plenty of the Double M’s goat soap, and our honey.
I’d successfully launched our new website, too.
Although Dot’s loyal mail-order ladies had all made me promise their orders would never go online.
When Dot and Mr. McCall decided last spring to step back, she’d handed me the cash box like a crown. “A business should turn over new people now and then to stay fresh,” she’d said. “You’re the people now, honey.”
I stole a sip of Jake’s coffee. “Trig’s still coming Friday?”
“We’re picking him up at nine sharp. Mom’s already cooking like crazy. She’s happiest in the kitchen though." Jake flipped a pancake. “Ash says there’s a bunk and a job waiting for him if he wants it.”
My brother was coming home at last, at our table by Sunday.
Two years of visiting-room, done. He’d really shown remarkable improvement, over the past year especially.
Seeing my family grow, knowing there was a moment where Stetson and Jake could have left us…
I shuddered to think about it now. That time of our lives changed everyone.
“And before I forget,” Jake added, “Ivy stopped by the ranch yesterday. She and Colt are back from wherever they went on his brother-in-law’s yacht. Tan as could be. Still swearing they didn’t elope, and still both wearing rings.”
“Nobody in this town believes them.”
“Not a soul.”
From the playpen came the escalating opinion of two little boys who had decided breakfast was late.
Jake and I had barely slept the first year—twins run in his family, every generation, and my husband had grinned about that promise the entire pregnancy like a man holding a winning ticket.
I looked at the clock, then at the chaos, then at him.
“I’m going to be late if I don’t go now. Are you sure you’ve got this?”
“Yeah, Mama.” He said it with the easy confidence of a decorated Navy SEAL.
I narrowed my eyes. Out the kitchen window, right on schedule, a truck pulled up our drive, dust rising behind it.
“Aha. You called in reinforcements, didn’t you.”
Jake laughed, caught. “You know my mother can’t resist watching the kids with me. She was going to show up whether I called or not. I just controlled the timing. That’s tactics.”
Dot’s truck rolled to a stop, and through the windshield I saw her with an armful of packages. Always spoiling the kids.
I gathered my keys, my cash box, my coat. Kissed the twins—one and two—kissed my biggest boy on the cheek. And at the door, my husband caught my hand, pulled me back, and kissed me the way that still made my knees weak.
“Hey,” he said against my mouth. “Love you. Sell all the soap.”
“Love you too. Don’t let your mother spoil them.”
“No promises.”
I got in the truck and backed down the drive, and there they were on the porch of the house we built—Jake with a twin on each arm, Stetson hugging his leg, the morning sun catching all four of my cowboys at once.
Jake lifted two little fists and waved them at me.
In his goofy voice, the same one from a high chair a lifetime ago, he called: “See you, Mama! Have fun at work! We’ll be here! ”
We’ll be here.
There was a time, not so long ago, when I left for work in the dark, knowing a coffee can of cash existed behind the flour, just in case.
Now my running money was set in concrete under my kitchen, my son wore a McCall name and a McCall hat, and everything I loved stood waving at me from a porch, promising to be there when I got back.
They would be, too. That was the thing about McCalls I’d finally gotten used to.
They just keep showing up.
I waved back at my boys until the drive curved, laughing, crying a little, happy as a woman gets to be—and drove off, already looking forward to coming home.