Chapter Twenty-Five
~ Sterling ~
The yard looked different in afternoon light.
Warmer. Less like a tactical position and more like something people lived in, which was a distinction I hadn’t fully appreciated until three hours ago when Jasper announced we were clear to move outside and Caleb, who had not stopped smiling since approximately nine-forty-seven yesterday morning, said the light was better on the porch anyway.
I stood at the edge of the gravel apron with Noah settled against my chest in the sling Caleb had insisted on buying.
The sling was gray. Practical. I had objected on principle and then worn it without comment because Noah weighed six pounds nine ounces and my arms were better deployed elsewhere, a calculation I had made in approximately three seconds and would never admit to aloud.
Caleb sat in chair with Mia curled against his chest, her strawberry-blond hair catching the light in a way that made something behind my sternum do a complicated adjustment.
Jasper hovered nearby with the focused calm of a man who had delivered three babies and was now conducting a quiet perimeter check of his own making.
Jojo appeared from the direction of the main house with Ethan balanced on his hip. Ethan was sturdy, with Rawley’s gray eyes and Jojo’s capacity for excitement, which was considerable.
Jojo took one look at the three bassinets arranged on the porch and stopped walking. “Three?”
“Yes,” I said.
Jojo’s mouth opened. Closed. His eyes did a full circuit of the porch—Caleb with Mia, me with Noah, Mitch somewhere inside with James—and came back to my face with the expression of a man who had received information his brain was struggling to process.
“Three?” he said again.
“Still yes,” I said.
“That’s—” Jojo stopped. Ethan grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, which seemed to help. “That’s a lot of baby.”
“It’s exactly the right amount of baby,” Caleb called from the chair, not looking up from Mia’s face.
Jojo nodded like he’d been handed a verdict. “Okay. Yes. That tracks. I’m just—three. At once. That’s—” He stopped again. “I brought bread.”
The bread was excellent. I ate two pieces without planning to and did not examine why.
Macon’s daughter arrived next, sprinting across the yard with the focused determination of a child who had been told to walk and had decided walking was an inefficient use of time.
She was small. Dark-haired. Built like Macon in miniature, which meant she moved with the same deliberate motion her father brought to everything, except faster and with considerably more noise.
She skidded to a stop in front of me, looked up at Noah with the assessing stare of someone conducting a tactical evaluation, and announced: “I am extremely responsible.”
Four voices said “No” in polite unison. Mine. Caleb’s from the chair. Mitch’s from the doorway, where he’d appeared with James balanced against his shoulder. Jasper’s, delivered with the calm authority of a neonatal nurse who had seen this scenario play out before.
Macon’s daughter looked betrayed. “I held a hammer.”
“That’s not the same skill set,” I said.
“I could hold him very carefully.”
“Six months,” I said. “Supervised.”
“Three months.”
“Six.”
She considered this. “Four and a half.”
Macon appeared behind her, one hand settling on her shoulder with the quiet weight of a man who had been tracking this negotiation from a distance and was moderately impressed with both participants.
He nodded at me once—the kind of nod that said he understood the math and approved of the outcome—and guided his daughter toward the food table with the patience of a man who had learned that some battles were worth losing on purpose.
Burke materialized from the direction of the workshop with Danny half a step behind him.
Burke’s eyes did the thing they did when he saw something he wanted to fix—which was everything, always—and then he saw Noah in the sling and his entire posture shifted into something warmer and considerably less useful.
He reached for Noah. Plucked him right out of the sling with the confidence of a man who had done this before and was extremely pleased about it. Noah made a small sound—not quite a complaint, more like a procedural objection—and settled against Burke’s chest like he’d been expecting the handoff.
“Look at you,” Burke said to Noah. “You’re built like a tank. Callahan genetics. Absolutely undeniable.”
“He’s a day old,” I said.
“Already running the family brand.”
Danny pressed into Burke’s shoulder, his face doing the soft, open thing it did when he was genuinely happy and trying not to show it.
Burke kissed the top of his head without looking, the gesture automatic and entirely unselfconscious, and Danny murmured something against Burke’s shirt that made Burke’s arm tighten around him.
Brandon—Burke and Danny’s son—appeared from behind his father’s legs and fixed me with a stare that suggested he had questions about my operational security and was not planning to voice them.
He had Burke’s dark coloring and Danny’s careful watchfulness. He reached for Noah. Burke intercepted the hand with the reflexes of a man who had anticipated this exact maneuver.
“No,” Burke said. “That’s Uncle Sterling’s baby.”
“He’s examining the security protocol,” Danny said.
“He’s two.”
“He’s very thorough for two.”
Brandon, undeterred, dropped to his knees and began examining a rock with the focused intensity of someone who had found a more interesting problem. Burke watched him with the pride of a man who saw his own reflection in inconvenient places.
“Geologist,” Burke announced. “Calling it now. Kid’s got the eyes for it.”
“Or a raccoon,” Danny said. “He put my keys in the toilet twice last week.”
“Geologist-raccoon. Hybrid career path. Very niche.”
Liam arrived with Hooper three steps behind him. Liam took one look at the triplets and started crying. Not quietly. The full, helpless kind, the kind that came from somewhere behind his sternum and carried no apology.
Hooper handed him a tissue without looking, his eyes on the yard, his posture doing the thing it did when he was proud of someone and trying not to make a production of it.
He caught my eye across the gravel. Held it for one long beat. Then he nodded, once, the kind of nod that contained an entire conversation: You did it. I’m proud of you. This is the whole point.
I nodded back. I know. Thank you. Stop looking at me.
Hooper grinned. The grin said he had heard every word of the silent exchange and was extremely pleased with both of us for arriving at it.
Jackson and Cruz came last. Cruz moved with the quiet grace that belied his size, one hand resting on the small of Jackson’s back in a gesture that was possessive and gentle at once.
Jackson carried Mateo against his chest, Mateo’s dark hair catching the light the same way Mia’s did, and something in my chest did that complicated adjustment again.
Cruz leaned down, his mouth close to Jackson’s ear, and said something in Spanish. Low. Warm. The kind of thing meant for one person and overheard by nobody except the man standing six feet away who spoke seven languages and was not planning to use that information.
Jackson’s face softened. Completely. The way it did when Cruz said the exact right thing at the exact right time, which Cruz had a habit of doing when nobody was expecting it.
Jackson’s hand came up to Cruz’s wrist, fingers curling around it, and he didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The yard was loud enough that their quiet belonged entirely to them.
Folding chairs appeared. Blankets. Trays of food that materialized from various points on the property as though the ranch itself had decided it was time to feed everyone.
Jojo’s bread. Danny’s cookies, which were better than they had any right to be.
Something Hooper had grilled that smelled like it had been marinated in whiskey and poor decisions, in the best possible way.
Children gravitated. Emilio—Liam’s son, small and watchful—pursued Macon’s daughter across the yard with the determination of someone who had identified a target and was not deviating from the mission parameters.
Brandon abandoned his rock for a closer examination of the porch steps, which Burke watched with the expression of a man who was already calculating the structural integrity of every railing within a fifty-yard radius.
After reclaiming my son, I walked Noah across the yard. Slow. Deliberate. My hand cradling the back of his head the way Jasper had shown me, thumb against the warm curve of his skull, and I talked to him in the low, steady voice I used for briefings that mattered.
“See that porch? That’s where your father sits when he’s pretending to read something tactical. The view is east. First light hits at five-forty-three this time of year. Your uncle Mitch timed it. He times everything. You’ll get used to it.”
Noah’s eyes were unfocused and dark, but they tracked the sound of my voice in a way that suggested he was filing the information for later use.
“Your brother James is the one making noise by the food table. That’s going to be a pattern. Learn to work around it. Your sister is smarter than both of you put together and she knows it already, which is concerning for several reasons I’m not prepared to address today.”
I reached the edge of the yard. Turned. Looked back at the gathering—Caleb in the chair with Mia, his face doing that bright, open thing it did when he was completely, unguardedly happy; Mitch beside him with James against his shoulder, cinnamon roll icing on his chin and absolutely no awareness of it; the ranch family spread across the gravel in the particular chaotic arrangement of people who had chosen each other and were extremely pleased about it.
“Your uncle Mitch will be insufferable about all of this for the rest of his life,” I told Noah, quiet enough that only he could hear. “So will I. We don’t have to tell him that.”
Noah made a small sound. Agreement, probably. Or gas.