24. Rex
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Rex
I’d hit my thumb with a hammer four times, and I refused to hire help.
“You could just let the professionals handle this,” Freya said from the rocking chair in the corner. “I’m pretty sure that’s what money is for.”
“The professionals don’t know what our baby needs.” I examined the crib rail I’d just attached. It was definitely crooked. Extremely crooked. “I’m building this myself.”
“You’re building a death trap.”
“It’s not a death trap. It’s… character.”
“The changing table wobbles so much it might be classified as a trampoline.”
I looked at the changing table. She had a point.
The nursery had been my project for the past three days.
I’d painted the walls soft yellow, assembled furniture from flat-pack boxes that seemed specifically designed to cause mental breakdowns, and installed a rocking horse in the corner that had required more engineering knowledge than most of my business deals.
It was also the most fun I’d had in years.
“Here, let me try something.” I grabbed a screwdriver and attempted to level the crib. Somehow, this made it worse.
Freya burst out laughing, the kind of full-body laugh that made her whole face light up and her shoulders shake. “Rex. Rex, stop. You’re making it more crooked.”
“That’s not possible.”
“And yet.”
I stepped back and surveyed my handiwork. The crib was definitely leaning, and the changing table wobbled if you looked at it wrong. The rocking horse, at least, seemed structurally sound, though I’d put the mane on backward and hadn’t figured out how to fix it.
“It’s perfect,” Freya said.
I turned to look at her. “You just called it a death trap.”
“I changed my mind.” She was smiling at me with something soft in her eyes. “You built this. With your hands. For our baby. The fact that it’s a disaster just makes it more you.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”
“It’s absolutely a compliment.” She struggled to her feet, one hand bracing her back, her belly round now and undeniable, and crossed the room to stand beside me. “Our kid is going to sleep in a crooked crib that their dad built. That’s a story. That means something.”
I pulled her close, my hands settling on her hips. “You’re just saying that because you know I’m too stubborn to start over.”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Completely.”
We stood there for a moment, looking at the nursery we’d created together. The soft yellow walls. The gauzy white curtains. And the rocking chair where Freya would feed our child, beside the bookshelf I’d filled with stories I couldn’t wait to read aloud.
“I have something for you,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another pregnancy book, I have to tell you, I’m at capacity.”
“It’s not a book.” I crossed to the closet and pulled out the folder I’d hidden there yesterday. “This is something I should have given you a long time ago.”
She took the folder, her expression curious, and flipped it open. I watched her face as she read. Confusion first, then understanding, then something I couldn’t quite name.
“This is the deed to the ranch.”
“Yes.”
“In my name.”
“It is.”
“Rex, I can’t. This is worth millions.”
“It was always yours.” I took her hands, the folder caught between our fingers. “Your family worked this land for generations. Your mother loved it here. And your father may have signed it away, but it never stopped being yours.” I paused. “I just held it for a while. Now I’m giving it back.”
She was crying. Big, silent tears rolling down her cheeks while she stared at the document that made her the legal owner of everything she’d lost.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because you deserve it. Because you’ve always deserved it.” I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “I want you to know that you’re not here because you have nowhere else to go. You’re here because this is your home. It was never mine to keep.”
“Rex, I…”
“There’s one more thing.” I nodded at the tote bag by the rocking chair, at the corner of the leather notebook sticking out of it, the one full of plans she’d never said out loud to anyone.
“The old outdoor arena is sitting empty. So is the east barn. Six lesson horses would fit in it without crowding, and there’s a wash rack that needs rebuilding anyway. ”
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Whatever’s on that list, build it,” I said. “Tuesday beginner classes. Every kid in the county who wants to ride. It’s your land. You don’t need my permission, and I’m not asking to be part of it. I just want you to know the space is there.”
“You read my notebook?”
“I read the cover. It says ‘Ridgecrest, someday.’” I shrugged. “The rest I guessed.”
She set the folder down carefully on the changing table, which wobbled alarmingly but held. Then she turned to face me, took my face in her hands, and looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“I love you.”
The words hit me like a physical force. I’d been waiting so long to hear them. Had dreamed about them, hoped for them, tried not to need them too desperately. And now here they were, spoken in the nursery I’d built with my own clumsy hands, surrounded by crooked furniture and soft yellow walls.
“I love you,” she said again. “I’ve loved you for longer than I wanted to admit. I was just too scared to say it.”
“Freya.”
“Let me finish.” She was smiling through her tears.
“I love your stupid determination to build furniture you have no idea how to build. I love that you slept on my side of the bed because you missed me. And I love that you took notes about my life in a leather notebook like some kind of romantic stalker.”
“I prefer ‘dedicated observer.’”
“I love you,” she said firmly. “And I’m done being afraid to say it.”
I kissed her. Hard and deep and full of every emotion I’d been holding back. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily.
“Say it again,” I said.
She laughed. “Tomorrow. At the party. In front of everyone.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’ve earned a little cruelty.” She kissed me softly. “Besides, I want them all to hear it. Your mother, your uncles, your cousins. I want everyone who ever doubted us to watch me choose you.”
“And Annie?”
“Especially Annie.”
I grinned. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met?”
“Not in the last hour. I was starting to worry.”
“Consider this a reminder.” I pulled her close, my hands finding the curve of her belly. “I love you, Freya Waller. Tomorrow, and the day after, and every day for the rest of our lives.”
“I know,” she said, and this time, we both laughed.