Chapter 30
The house didn't settle until well past midnight. Mom had gone on a loving, unstoppable rampage, making up beds, fussing, planning, muttering about quilts and curtains and those poor babies who need proper pillows, not those hotel things, while Dad carried trunks upstairs like a man half his age.
Molly kept dragging each kid back outside just one more time to show them the barn cats, or the chicken coop, or her new mare.
They adored her. Naturally.
And through all of it, Inga moved with wide-eyed wonder, as if trying to absorb everything at once. Mom had voted—loudly—that Inga and I would sleep in separate rooms.
"It's proper," she insisted. "Not until the wedding, Gideon Boyd Griffin!"
Molly had smirked behind her. Inga had blushed, and though I hated being apart from her after nights of being tucked into her warmth, I didn't argue. It was tradition, and as my mother pointed out, proper. Mom was already neck-deep in wedding plans.
After the last door closed and the house finally exhaled, I found myself wandering. Something in me knew where she'd be. And sure enough—
there she was. Sitting on the porch swing, wrapped in one of Mom's quilts, staring out at the dark land under the spill of stars. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders like a shadow lit by moonlight. I stepped out quietly, letting the screen door click behind me.
"You cold?" I murmured.
She startled softly, then relaxed the moment she saw me. "No," she whispered. "Just… thinking."
I sat beside her, put my arm around her shoulders, and she melted right into me instantly, leaning her head against my chest with a soft sigh.
"Happy?" I asked, voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded. "So much… it scares me."
My chest tightened. Her voice trembled, "Your family… they're wonderful. I don't know how I'll ever thank you for bringing us here."
I turned her face to mine gently, brushing away the tears with my thumb.
"Inga," I exhaled her name, pressing a kiss to her temple, "you don't ever have to thank me."
"But—"
"No."
I kissed the corner of her eye. Then the other. Soft. Slow. Her tears tasted like relief.
"If anything," I whispered, "I should be thanking you."
She blinked. "You?"
"Yes." I cupped her face in both hands, forcing myself to speak the truth I'd kept buried for years. "Before I met you, I was a broken man, sweetheart. I hated everything. Everyone. Myself most of all. I couldn't face coming home. Couldn't even call home. I felt empty and angry and… wrong."
Her hands slid up my chest, gentle, afraid to break the moment. "But you…"
I breathed out shakily. "You taught me how to love again. How to be a man again. How to come home."
Her eyes glistened, reflecting the porch light like tiny stars. Then she reached up and kissed me.
In the distance, wolves howled, low and haunting and beautiful. She jumped in surprise.
"What was that?" she whispered.
I laughed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Wolves. They roam the mountain ridge. Don't worry, they're shy. They won't come down here."
Her breath softened. "It's… beautiful."
We sat together in the quiet, watching the moonlight wash over the fields. The barns. The fences. The place that would be our future. She saw everything with new eyes, and because of that, I saw it fresh again, too. Eventually, I pointed toward a distant rise, silhouetted against the sky.
"Dad said we could build a house there," I murmured. "For us. Big enough for all of us. A place that's just ours."
She tilted her head, thoughtful.
"Is that what you want?" she asked softly.
I brushed my thumb across her cheek. "I want you to be happy, sweetheart."
She looked back at the warm lights of the big house behind us—'Mom's curtains glowing softly, Dad's boots by the door with Molly's boots right next to them.
"Can… can we all live together?" she asked. "In this house? Or is that too much for your parents?"
I smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that. We always lived together. Even when my grandparents were alive. It's the Griffin way."
She nodded. "Together," she whispered. "I like that."
The word settled over us like a blessing.
Together.
I looked at her, my future wife, wrapped in my mother's quilt, with moonlight in her hair and home in her eyes, and something mischievous sparked deep in my chest. I leaned closer. "You know…" I murmured, brushing my lips against her ear, "they're all asleep."
She swallowed.
"So?" she whispered.
A grin tugged at my mouth.
"You want me to show you the hay barn?"
Her breath caught, but the smile she gave me could have lit the whole Montana sky.
We crossed the pasture beneath a river of stars, the grass black and sparkling with dew.
I took her hand and led her into the barn.
Inside, the hayloft was cavernous and warm, taking in the moonlight through knotholes and cracks, painting everything in a patchwork of silver and soft gold.
We climbed the ladder in silence, my hand never letting go of hers, even as we reached the top and she stumbled on the last rung.
I caught her, spun her lightly, and she stifled a giggle against the sleeve of my flannel shirt.
I took her face in both hands and kissed her, slow and searching, the dust motes swirling around us like the inside of a snow globe.
My lips traced the edge of her jaw, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the little pulse at her throat as it fluttered under my tongue.
She reached for my shirt, untucking it with steady hands, and I helped, shucking my flannel and undershirt in a tangle.
She was losing her shyness a little bit more every time we made love.
Cautiously and deliberately, her hands roamed over my chest, like she meant to memorize every part of me.
I did the same, following the rise and fall of her ribs, my fingers brushed across her shoulders and forearms, the fine blond down at the base of her neck.
She gasped when I kissed the hollow below her collarbone, and again when my hands learned the secret softness of her waist.
I stopped for a moment to drape the quilt she had brought over the hay and then kissed her again.
She opened up to me with such vigor, it made me dizzy.
I still had a hard time believing that this amazing woman had chosen me.
But I wouldn't question it; instead, I would use every day of my life to live up to what she seemed to see in me.
"Lie back," I told her, and she did. The moonlight reflected in her eyes, and she watched me as I unbuttoned her blouse, slow, catching the shiver of her pulse at the hollow of her throat.
The fabric parted, frame by frame, her collarbones, sharp as table edges; the rise of her breasts under the chemise; the first, soft glint of a nipple through thin cotton.
I kissed every inch as I uncovered it, hungry to taste her everywhere.
She tried to hide a gasp when my mouth closed over the tip, tongue flicking gently, then firmer.
Her back arched straight off the quilt when I kissed lower, memorizing every gasp, every sound, every part of her: the slope of her ribs, the small, hollowed places the war had left, the line of the scar she wore half-hidden by her side.
I lingered there, pressing my lips to it, and whispered, "Beautiful.
" She made a sound that could have been a laugh, or a sob, or both.
I tugged her skirt down her hips, then her underwear.
I kissed down her belly, following the fine dusting of dark hair that arrowed between her legs.
I would've gone slow, but I couldn't help it: some primitive thing inside me needed to taste her, right now.
I pressed my mouth to her core and licked, soft at first, then deeper and firmer, savoring the way she jolted and her knees flew up around my ears.
She tasted like salt and sweetness, like nothing I'd ever had before her, and all at once, I was ravenous for everything she'd give me.
Her hands tangled in my hair, her knees were trembling around my ears, every breath a broken prayer.
"Oh God," she said, and it wasn't cursing. "Gideon—don't stop, please—"
I didn't. I held her hips and tongued her clit, first in circles, then with quick, steady pressure, like learning an instrument by ear.
She stiffened, her whole body drew taut, and then she came, loud, sudden, and unrestrained.
I felt the wet pulse of it against my tongue, the shudder wracking her frame.
I wanted to make her come again, and again, until the memory of every bad night was wiped out by this.
But she pulled at me, insistent, desperate, dragging my face up to hers with greedy hands.
"Come here," she demanded, and I liked that side of her.
I kicked off my pants, careful not to crowd her, but she pulled me in, legs wrapping my waist. She reached for me, bold in a way that turned my brain to static.
"I want you," she whispered. "I want all of you. "
"You have me." I lined myself up, pressing just the tip inside, and waited for her to tense. She didn't. She just tipped her chin up and looked at me like she'd drown if I left her now.
I pushed in, slow as I could, until her heat closed around me and the world dropped away.
The tightness was almost painful, but she took it, her nails digging into my skin, her mouth open in wonder.
I could barely hold off, every instinct screaming to bury myself in her, but I made myself go slow, to work her open, to memorize every angle of her face as pleasure took her over.
"Inga," I said, "you're perfect. You're so—" But there were no words for this.
She kissed me, hard, and rocked her hips up to meet me.
That was it for my patience. I thrust in and out, first gentle, then harder, letting her set the tempo with every moan and gasp.
After, I'd try to recall the specifics, how her hair fanned across the quilt, the velvet heat of her, the way she said my name like a secret, but in the moment, I was nothing but sensation, nothing but the glorious, insane fact of her around me, under me, with me.
She came again, legs locked around my back, and I lost it, hips stuttering, choking on her name as I spilled inside her. The whole room went white behind my eyes. I collapsed beside her, pulling her close, my face buried in the wet tangle of her hair.
She rolled and pressed her forehead to my chest, laughing, damp and delirious. "I can't feel my body," she said.
I grinned and kissed the crown of her head. "That's the general idea."
We drifted, blissed out and quiet. After a while, she asked, "Will it always be like this?" in a tone that might have been hope or awe.
I stroked her arm, feeling the future spool out, bright and impossible: morning coffee, reckless Saturdays, her in my arms for the rest of my goddamn life.
"It will be," I promised.
We slept a little. Woke a little. Listened to the ranch wake up around us, dogs barking, a horse whinnying, one of the ranch hands cursing loud enough to scare the chickens.
Reality crept in. We had fallen asleep, and now we had to walk back inside.
Covered in hay. Looking like sin and sunrise and bad decisions.
We tried to sneak into the kitchen—quiet as you please—when Mom looked up from the stove. She stopped stirring. I'm not even sure she kept breathing; her eyebrows shot straight into her hairline.
"Well," She said, setting her spoon down very slowly, "I suppose my suspicions were correct."
Inga froze. I froze. Mom's gaze slid from what was probably hay in my hair… to the hay on Inga's shirt… to the hay sticking out of places hay absolutely should not be.
Then she pressed a hand over her mouth. "Oh Lord," she muttered. "We'll need to get that wedding planned and done with as soon as humanly possible."
Inga turned scarlet. Absolutely scarlet. Like she might combust on the spot. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing the side of her head.
Mom pointed at me without looking. "Don't you smirk at me, Gideon Boyd Griffin. Don't you dare."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied.
She clucked her tongue. "Honestly. The barn, of all places…" Then she shook her head. "Well, the hay is fresh at least."
I choked. Inga made a tiny dying noise.
"Coffee?" I croaked, desperate to change the subject.
Inga stiffened. "Real… coffee?"
Mom blinked. "Is there any other kind?"
Inga's eyes got glassy. "M-Maggie… I—"
"Oh heavens, child, sit down. You look like you're about to faint from joy."
She herded Inga to a kitchen chair like a little mother hen. "You can bathe later. Coffee first."
"But—" Inga tried.
"Sit," Maggie repeated, pushing gently on her shoulders. "Not a word. I'm making you breakfast too. You're too thin by half."
Inga obeyed, still red as a beet. Mom filled a cup with steaming coffee so fragrant it filled the whole room. She set sugar and creamer in front of her like ceremonial offerings.
"Now," she said, beaming, "drink."
Inga lifted the cup with trembling hands, inhaled, and her eyes fluttered closed like she'd just been handed salvation. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, this is… heavenly."
Mom turned to me with a shooing gesture. "Well? Go on. Shoo. Your fiancée and I need to talk."
I blinked. "Talk? About what?"
Maggie narrowed her eyes. "About everything, Gideon."
Inga choked on her coffee. "Maggie—"
"Oh, hush. Go."
She waved me toward the door. "Go feed the cows or mend a fence or… whatever it is you boys do. This is girl time."
I looked at Inga. She looked at me. Her eyes cried: Help!
Mine said: I love you, but you're on your own.
And the moment I stepped onto the porch, I swear the entire ranch could hear my mother start, "So. When exactly were you planning to tell me I was getting FOUR grandchildren at once?"