6. Gage
Gage
T he ranch felt too quiet without the usual chaos of family life.
I sat in Booker's living room, my casted leg propped up on the coffee table, laptop open to the same job site Billie had caught me looking at yesterday.
I'd been staring at it for the past hour without actually reading.
The cursor blinked in the search bar like a heartbeat, waiting for me to commit to the next phase of running away.
Bridge construction supervisor, Montana. Experience required. High-risk, high-reward environment.
The words blurred together as I tried to make myself feel something about the opportunity. Excitement. Relief. The familiar anticipation that came with planning the next escape. Instead, all I felt was a hollow ache in my chest that had nothing to do with my injuries.
I hated that I'd even opened the laptop.
Hated that my default response to feeling wanted and cared for was to start researching how to disappear.
Eleven years of moving from job to job, state to state, had rewired something fundamental in my brain.
Stay too long anywhere and people started to care.
Care led to expectations. Expectations led to inevitable disappointment when they realized who I really was.
Better to leave before the fantasy wore off.
Except this time felt different. This time, I didn't want to go. Maybe.
For the first time in over a decade, I was in a place where I felt like I belonged.
Where people knew the worst thing I'd ever done and somehow still wanted me around.
Where I could be useful, needed, part of something bigger than my own self-destruction.
But eleven years of running had taught my body that staying was dangerous, that getting comfortable was a luxury I couldn't afford.
My physical therapy exercises were spread out on the coffee table beside the laptop, rubber bands and instruction sheets that represented the slow, methodical work of healing.
Billie had been right about everything, of course.
Following her treatment plan, taking the medication, respecting my limitations instead of fighting them.
My shoulder moved with less pain today, the ache in my ribs when I breathed deeply was more manageable, and I could navigate around Booker's house with one crutch instead of feeling like an invalid.
Progress. Recovery. All the things that should have made me feel hopeful about the future.
Instead, they felt like countdown markers. The better I got, the less excuse I had to stay. The stronger I became, the more obvious it would be that I was choosing to be here instead of being trapped by circumstance.
And choosing meant taking responsibility for the choice. It meant admitting I wanted this life, these people, this chance at happiness I'd convinced myself I didn't deserve.
It meant risking everything.
I was in the middle of my shoulder exercises when I heard the car pull up, tires crunching on gravel faster than normal. Too fast for a casual visit. Val, who'd been sleeping at my feet, immediately lifted her head, ears alert.
"What do you think, girl?" I asked, scratching behind her ears. "Someone in a hurry?"
The car door slammed, and I could hear someone calling out before they'd even reached the front door.
"Trace! Xander!"
Delaney's voice, but there was something wrong with it. Something panicked.
I grabbed my crutch and hauled myself to my feet, awkwardly making my way toward the front door. Delaney was on the porch, one hand pressed against the doorframe, the other clutching her very pregnant belly. Her face was flushed, her breathing rapid and shallow.
"Gage! Thank God. Where's Trace? Where's Xander?"
"They're at a meeting in the city still," I said, alarm bells going off in my head. "Delaney, are you..."
She doubled over suddenly, gripping the porch railing as a sound of pain escaped her lips. I moved as quickly as I could to reach her side. This was bad. This was very, very bad.
When she straightened, her eyes were wide with something that looked like panic.
"The baby's coming. NOW."
This couldn't be happening. I was a construction worker with a broken leg and basic first aid training. I delivered building materials, not babies. But Delaney was gripping my arm like I was her lifeline, and there was no time to find someone more qualified.
"No, no, no," I said, my voice rising with my panic. "Babies don't come this fast. We can make it to the hospital."
"Gage, I can feel the baby coming!"
"Can you... hold it in? Just for twenty minutes?"
The look she gave me between contractions could have melted steel and I swear my balls retreated inside my body for fear of their safety.
"I'm calling 911," I said, fumbling for my phone with shaking hands.
"Already tried," she gasped. "Phone died, but they said twenty minutes minimum for the ambulance."
Twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, I could be holding my nephew or niece. Or I could be responsible for something going catastrophically wrong because I didn't know what the hell I was doing.
"You're going to have to help me," Delaney said, her voice steadier than mine despite the fact that she was the one in labor.
"I've never... I don't know how to..."
"Figure it out!" she suddenly shouted.
Another contraction hit her, stronger than the last, and I watched her double over again, breathing hard through the pain.
This was really happening. There was no cavalry coming, no one more qualified rushing to take over.
Just me, with my broken body and complete lack of experience, and Delaney, who was counting on me to keep both her and her baby safe.
"Okay," I said, trying to summon some authority I didn't feel, and pretending not to hear the wobble in my voice. "Okay. Let's get you inside. To the couch."
I helped her into the living room, my crutch awkward but functional as I tried to support her weight without jarring my own injuries. In reality she probably helped me more than I was helping her. Christ, I needed a paper bag to breathe into or something.
Delaney was breathing hard, sweat beading on her forehead, and every few minutes another contraction would hit and she'd grab onto whatever was nearest.
"Okay, this can't be much different than delivering a calf, I kind of saw someone do that once." I was panicking now, I could feel the inevitable spiral. "How far apart are the contractions?" I asked, trying to remember anything I'd ever heard about childbirth.
"Did you just compare me to a cow?" Delaney roared.
"No... shit... maybe. I'm trying here Delaney, but I'm not going to lie, I'm freaking out a bit."
Delaney locked eyes with me after a particularly brutal contraction and I saw sympathy in her gaze.
I didn't think I could hit a new low and yet here I was finding one because this woman in the middle of childbirth was about to try and manage my freak out when she was actually in the process of creating a brand new life.
"Okay. No. We can do this," I muttered, stretching out my arms like that could possibly help in any way. "Contractions, pushing, baby. How hard can it be?"
I looked up and saw the look of pure violence on her face and grimaced. "Well... hard obviously. You're doing an amazing job. Erm... right, contractions."
There was no way I could fail at this any worse than I was right now.
"Two minutes," she gasped, thankfully taking the less violent route even though I could see how much she'd prefer it. "Maybe less," she added as she flopped back down on the couch and started to pant.
Two minutes. I didn't know much about babies, but I was pretty sure that meant we were running out of time fast.
"GET DOWN THERE AND LOOK, GAGE!" Delaney suddenly commanded, pointing toward the end of the couch.
"I'm not looking at your... that's Trace's..."
No, no, no, no. This wasn't happening. That wasn't a part of Delaney I ever wanted to see.
"GAGE FARRINGTON, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON'T HELP ME RIGHT NOW I'LL TELL EVERYONE ABOUT THAT TIME YOU CRIED WATCHING BAMBI!"
"That was PRIVATE! And I was SEVEN!"
"AND THE TIME YOU GOT STUCK IN THE TIRE SWING!"
I was wrong. This was about to get so much worse.
"Okay, okay! I'm looking! But I'm NOT happy about it!"
I awkwardly maneuvered myself into position, my crutches clattering to the floor as I stared at the ceiling, dread building in my stomach.
"Maybe Xander is on his way, I could try calling him..."
I was grasping at straws now, but there was literally nothing I wouldn't do to get out of looking at whatever was going on in Delaney's downstairs area.
"GAGE!" Delaney snapped and then she started to scream as another contraction hit her hard.
Okay, Gage. This is the hardest thing you're ever going to do in your life but it's time to man up. The pep talk wasn't helping so I panted in time with Delaney hoping for an adrenaline rush that would push me into action.
Nothing. Fucking fantastic.
Delaney suddenly surged up. Her hands grasped my shoulders in a steel-like grip but I resisted the need to tell her it hurt because I saw just how close to death I was as I looked in her eyes.
"Right. Yes. Totally doing it now," I muttered and then pinched the edge of Delaney's dress and lifted it to try and see what was happening.
And immediately wished I hadn't.
"Oh God," I breathed. "Delaney, I can see the head!"
This was... I might never have sex again.
"What do I do now?" I asked, my voice cracking with terror as I stared in horror at what was happening in front of me.
"You catch him!" she panted. "And you make sure he's breathing!"
And then she screamed. She screamed and she pushed and I found myself cheering her on because as gross as this was, it was absolutely fucking amazing as well. "You've got this, Delaney. You're fucking incredible, do you know that?"