Chapter 8
Liam
The caseworker showed up two days after the hearing, just like the judge ordered.
I squared my shoulders anyway. This wasn’t just about passing an inspection anymore.
Somewhere along the line, the lines had shifted.
Mia wasn’t just part of a case file—I cared about her, about the way she hovered before committing to trust. And Riley’s pain wasn’t abstract or procedural; I’d seen it up close, felt the weight of it in the silences she carried.
It wasn’t just business. It hadn’t been for a while.
So I stayed where I was, steady, present. If this was what being a husband looked like—showing up, holding the line, taking the hit where you could—then I was all in.
Riley had handled most of the preparation.
She'd cleaned the kitchen until it gleamed, stocked the fridge with enough groceries to feed an army, made sure Mia's room looked lived-in but tidy.
I'd focused on the outside: the barn, the fences, making sure nothing looked like it might collapse on a child.
The inspection stretched on far longer than the clock would later admit. Forty-five minutes that felt like hours.
Sandra moved slowly, deliberately, as if she were measuring more than square footage.
Every room took its turn. Smoke detectors tested, then tested again.
Cabinets opened, closed, reopened. She lingered at the refrigerator—shelves, expiration dates—the pause long enough for the low hum to feel intrusive.
Questions about emergency plans looped back on themselves, asked again in slightly different shapes.
Mia’s room took the longest.
Window latches checked twice. The bed frame pressed, shifted. Fingers traced the edge of the dresser, the corners of the rug. And then the quilt—my grandmother’s—spread neatly across the bed. Sandra’s hand moved over the stitching, slow and careful, like she was reading something written there.
“This is lovely,” she said. “Handmade?”
I cleared my throat before answering.
“My grandmother’s work,” I said. “She made it for… for future grandchildren.”
Sandra dipped her head, something softening in her expression as she made a note on the clipboard.
When she left, she shook both our hands and promised a satisfactory report. The house was safe. The environment was appropriate. We’d passed.
Riley’s breath left her in a long rush, like it had been trapped since the hearing.
“One down.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it.
“Thirty days until the real test.”
She nodded, her jaw tight. We both knew the safety check was just the opening act. The comprehensive home study—the one that would really determine whether this arrangement looked legitimate—was still coming.
But we’d bought ourselves some time.
And for now, that had to be enough.
Three weeks later, I was running on fumes and stubbornness, and both were running out.
Three weeks of twenty-four-hour shifts at the station, dawn chores at the ranch before I left, evening feeds when I got back.
Sleeping in snatches that never felt like enough, waking to alarms that blurred together until I couldn't remember which day it was or how long I'd been going.
I told myself I could handle it. That's what Murphy men did.
We worked. We provided. We kept our heads down and our hands busy, and we didn't complain about being tired because tired was just part of the job.
My father had run this ranch while working construction six days a week.
My grandfather had done it while raising four kids.
They hadn't needed help. They hadn't asked for it.
Neither would I.
But the cracks were starting to show.
The structure fire came in at 2 AM, third consecutive shift, and I was already running on empty when the tones dropped. Old warehouse on the industrial side of town, flames visible from two blocks away, the kind of fire that ate buildings for breakfast and asked for seconds.
We moved through the motions. Gear on, truck rolling, Cal barking orders through the radio. I was on the nozzle, Owen backing me up, the heat pressing against my face shield like a living thing.
"Murphy, hold position." Cal's voice crackled through my earpiece. "Wait for ventilation."
I heard him. I knew what he said. But my body was already moving, muscle memory overriding the exhaustion that had turned my brain to static. I pushed forward when I should have held back, crossed a threshold I should have waited for.
The ceiling groaned. Something shifted overhead.
"Murphy! Hold!"
I stopped. Backed up. The beam came down three feet in front of me, showering sparks and ash, close enough that I felt the heat through my turnout gear.
Close enough to kill me if I'd kept moving.
"Head in the game, Murphy." Cal's voice was sharp, controlled, but I could hear the edge underneath. The fear he wouldn't show until later. "You copy?"
"Copy," I managed. "Sorry, Cap."
We finished the job. Knocked down the fire, cleared the building, packed up the gear. Muscle memory carried me through the last steps while my head lagged somewhere behind.
Nobody said anything about my mistake. Nobody had to.
I felt it anyway—the looks that lingered half a second too long, the way Owen stayed closer than usual, like he was double-checking I was still solid. Questions left unspoken. Trust not broken, but tested.
I replayed it in my head as we stripped gear. The step forward. The hesitation that came too late. Three feet. That was all that separated me from a different ending. A phone call Riley wouldn’t know how to answer. A promise broken without ever meaning to break it.
I’d always told myself I was careful. That I didn’t take stupid risks. That I was the guy you could rely on when things went sideways.
Tonight proved how thin that line was.
Exhaustion wasn’t an excuse. It was a liability. And I’d brought it with me into the fire, let it dull the instincts that were supposed to keep everyone standing.
I leaned my helmet against the truck and closed my eyes for a second too long.
I couldn’t afford mistakes. Not here. Not anymore.
Too many people were depending on me staying upright.
Cal found me in the apparatus bay after the call, still in my turnout pants, sitting on the bumper of Engine 7 and staring at nothing.
He didn't ease into it. That wasn't Cal's way.
"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
I shrugged. “Been sleeping.”
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm fine, Cal."
"You almost walked into a ceiling collapse." He crossed his arms, positioning himself so I couldn't avoid his eyes. "You're not fine. You're running yourself into the ground, and if you keep going like this, you're going to get someone killed. Probably yourself."
The words landed like a fist to the solar plexus. I opened my mouth to argue, to deflect, to do anything except sit there and admit he was right.
Cal cut me off before I could start.
"You don't have to do it all alone, man." His voice was quieter now, the captain giving way to the friend. His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Sound familiar? Pretty sure some idiot told me the same thing once. Back when I was spinning out over Lucy and convinced I had to fix everything myself."
It had sounded easy then. Advice travels light when it isn’t yours to carry.
I’d been raised to handle things myself. Ranch kid. Cowboy logic. You fix what breaks. You protect what’s yours. You don’t complain, don’t ask, don’t wait for backup unless there’s no other choice. Strength meant staying upright and silent, even when your legs shook. Especially then.
That kind of teaching sticks. It follows you into fires and marriages and promises you haven’t figured out how to keep yet.
“What if I’m not enough?”
The words slipped out before I could rein them in. Bare. Unpolished. Not how I liked to sound.
That doubt had been with me longer than I cared to admit.
Cowboy logic cuts both ways—you’re taught to be strong, capable, self-reliant, the one who holds the line.
But there’s an unspoken second lesson in there too: if something breaks, if someone leaves, it’s because you didn’t measure up.
Because you should’ve been tougher. Better. More.
I’d spent a lifetime trying to match an outline I was handed and always feeling just a little short of it.
“The ranch. The job.” My voice dropped. “Riley and Mia. What if I can’t be what they need?”
Cal was quiet for a moment, leaning against the engine, considering.
"You remember what else you told me? That showing up is the thing. Not being perfect. Not having all the answers. Just showing up, every day, even when you're tired. Even when you're scared."
I remembered. I'd believed it when I said it.
"They're not asking you to be everything," Cal continued. "Riley and Mia. They’re just asking you to be there. And to do what needs doing." He shrugged. "You can do that. But not if you run yourself into the ground trying to prove you don't need anyone."
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure I believed it yet—or that I trusted myself enough to carry that kind of responsibility without dropping it.
The voice in my head, the one that sounded like every Murphy man who'd come before me, was still insisting that needing help meant failing. That real men handled their business without complaint.
But Cal had been where I was. Cal had learned to let people in, to accept that strength wasn't the same as isolation.
If he could do it, maybe I could too.
Cal clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm and final, already moving past me.
“Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
"Yes, Cap."
He paused at the door. "And Liam? Talk to her. Riley. You don't have to pretend you've got it all figured out. Trust me on that one."
He was gone before I could respond.
Evening feed. The sun was setting over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and I couldn't appreciate any of it.