Chapter 39 #2
“I know . I saved them for last.”
She glances between me and Sawyer then, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Some people think I pretend to get hurt just so I can wear them.”
Sawyer raises an eyebrow. “Some people?”
Nora shrugs. “Just daddy.”
He laughs and shifts her higher on his hip. “I mean, the stats don’t lie, kid.”
Nora shrugs again, the movement dramatic and exaggerated like she’s trying to shake off the accusation. “I can’t help that I want to wear all of them!”
I laugh. “You’ve got good taste.”
She giggles, clearly pleased with herself. “ You’ve got good taste. ‘Cause you married my Uncle Sawyer.”
Then she turns her head to look at him. “And you have good taste, too,” she adds. “Because you married real-life Ariel. Maybe you’ll find out if she actually has a tail and you can tell me.”
Sawyer laughs, low and easy, his eyes flicking to me like he’s filing that away forever.
Before I can say anything else, Crew appears beside us holding a plate stacked with fruit and a cinnamon roll that looks offensively good.
He jerks his chin toward the table. “Alright, let’s go, sugar gremlin. Time to eat.”
Nora’s eyes lock onto the cinnamon roll like she’s just spotted a mythical creature. “Whoa!” She slides right out of Sawyer’s arms and scrambles to the table, curls bouncing.
“You have to eat all the fruit on your plate,” Crew calls after her.
She groans dramatically as she stomps off, muttering, “It’s Christmas! Can’t I get a break?”
Crew sighs and looks heavenward. “She’s going to age me tremendously.”
I laugh. “She’s just spunky.”
“Spunky,” he repeats, dragging the word out. “That’s one way to spin it, I guess.”
I smile, watching as Nora licks frosting off a cinnamon roll like it’s her life’s purpose. “You’re doing great, Crew.”
He shoots me a tired, grateful look. “And you’re very kind.”
Then his expression softens a little. “Also—sorry for just showing up unannounced. We didn’t mean to ambush you guys.”
Before I can answer, Sawyer chimes in. “Yeah,” he says, dry but not actually irritated. “They tend to do that.”
Crew runs a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up a little at the crown like he’s been doing it all morning. “We just didn’t want you to be alone today.”
Sawyer claps a hand on his shoulder, firm and appreciative. “I’m glad you came.”
I glance between them. For all their differences, they’re cut from the same cloth.
Crew’s a few years younger, but just as solidly built—broad shoulders, forearms that probably don’t fit into most jacket sleeves, the kind of strength you don’t get at a gym.
His skin’s still sun-kissed even in the middle of winter, and his eyes are a sharp, slate gray that give away almost nothing.
Strong nose, strong jaw. He’s…objectively very good-looking.
The sort of good-looking that would probably land him in trouble if he had more free time.
His gaze flicks between the two of us, settling on the way Sawyer’s arm settles naturally around my waist again. His mouth curves.
“You two look awfully cozy for a fake marriage.”
Sawyer doesn’t miss a beat. “About that.” He glances down at me, then back at Crew. “We decided it’s not so fake anymore.”
Behind us, Estelle lets out a high-pitched squeal, hands clapping together. “I knew it!” she says, rushing forward. She wraps me in another hug, tighter than the first.
“I just knew Sawyer liked you,” she says, pulling back just enough to wag a finger at him.
Sawyer rolls his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”
“I’m your mother,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him, daring him to challenge her. “I know everything.”
She turns back to me, both of her hands gripping mine. “This is just the best news! We need more girls in this family. I’ve been outnumbered for far too long.”
I laugh, warmth rising in my chest. “You’ve raised good men. And a sweet girl. I’m just lucky to be here.”
Her eyes go soft, her grip tightening just slightly. “So are we, sweetheart. So are we.”
I glance around the room—at the people filling it, voices overlapping, boots kicked off by the door, the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee warming the air.
And I feel it. That slow, quiet sense of belonging.
I don’t know everything about this family yet. I don’t know how they fully operate. But I can feel that they care. That I’m not just a name on paper or an obligation tied up in water rights and old grudges. I’m someone they’ve chosen to fold in.
Even Vaughn, who hasn’t said more than five words to me since I’ve worked here, but nodded when I offered him coffee and stood up to let me take the last chair at the table.
He reminds me of my dad in a way I didn’t expect—quiet, steady, sharp when he speaks but content to let others take up space.
It makes me wonder how the two of them never saw that in each other.
How they managed to butt heads for decades when, underneath all the bark, they’re made of the same kind of grit.
Their rivalry ran deep—everyone in Summit Springs knew that. It started when they were teenagers, fueled by stubbornness and pride, then calcified over the years into something that felt permanent. Un-fixable.
And because of that, I’d always stayed away from the Harts. All of them. Not out of dislike, but because it felt easier to keep the line drawn than cross it.
I wonder now what I missed.
If I would’ve known Sawyer sooner. If we would’ve seen each other differently. If this whole thing could’ve started long before it did.
But maybe it doesn’t matter. I’m here now.
In the middle of a loud, full house with too many voices and not enough chairs.
A niece curled up on the couch with frosting on her chin.
A mother-in-law who gives warm hugs. And a husband who stays wherever I am—refilling my mug, leaning in every so often to press a kiss to the side of my head like he just can’t help it.
And honestly, I don’t know how I ended up here—but I think, maybe, this is what coming home feels like.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, Sawyer’s side of the bed is empty. The blanket’s pulled back and cool to the touch, the pillow creased. I blink toward the window. It’s light out—a soft, diffused gray behind the blinds—and quiet enough to hear the heater ticking under the floorboards.
He’s already out on his run with Hank. Judging by the light, he’ll be back soon. I pull on a pair of socks and one of Sawyer’s old sweatshirts, and head down the hall.
Outside, the ground is covered in fresh snow.
It must have fallen sometime after we went to bed.
The fence posts out back are dusted white.
The sky is colorless—just pale and still—and the trees along the edge of the pasture are bare, black branches reaching into the air.
A few birds hop along the railing of the porch, but other than that, nothing moves.
Inside, the living room is dim except for the lights on the tree, which cast a soft gold shimmer across the walls.
We haven’t decorated it yet. No ornaments, no garland, but I’m not in a hurry about it.
Decorations can come later. There’s something nice about the space. Something unfinished but waiting.
I stretch my arms overhead as I walk toward the kitchen—and then stop short.
The walls.
My paintings are hung up on them.
All of them.
The small watercolor of the palomino I did in the spring. The oil painting of a red truck. The one of my dad’s hands. Framed, hung neatly and perfectly spaced.
And above the fireplace, centered and straight, is the sunflower painting.
It’s also framed now.
I walk toward it slowly. My fingers brush the corner of the frame, warm from the heat of the nearby vent. He didn’t just stick these up with command strips or push pins. He framed them. Leveled them. Made this house look like it’s always known I lived here.
I don’t know how long I stand there before I turn and walk to the back of the house, to the room I’ve been painting in, though I haven’t done much lately. Mostly just organized my supplies and told myself I’d start something soon.
I open the door, and stop.
There, in front of the large window where the light streams in from the east, is a brand-new easel. Solid wood. Not cheap or collapsible, but sturdy, like the ones used in studios with real ventilation and drop cloths. There’s a wide red ribbon tied in a bow around the middle.
On the easel: a large blank canvas.
A real one. Triple-primed. Professional weight.
And around it, the entire room has been transformed.
There’s a metal cart, freshly assembled, packed top to bottom with new supplies.
Not generic brand paint, either. Good paint.
Rich, buttery tubes of oil paint with metallic labels I recognize from art class but never let myself splurge on.
Every shade accounted for. Burnt umber. Naples yellow.
Ultramarine. Alizarin crimson. Cool and warm versions of each primary, laid out in a neat little rainbow.
There are brushes—real brushes—in mason jars organized by type. Detail brushes. Angle brushes. Big, soft ones for blending skies. A set of palette knives. A new porcelain mixing tray with a thumb hole and smooth, deep white wells.
There’s a stool now, adjustable, with a padded seat and a low backrest, set directly in front of the easel.
A drying rack sits in the corner. A thick new apron—olive green with big front pockets—is folded over the back of the chair.
A box of nitrile gloves rests on the windowsill, along with a neat stack of clean rags in a wire basket.
Beside the easel, there’s a wide drawer unit with labeled compartments—sketchpads, charcoal pencils, painter’s tape, X-Acto blades, gesso, spare palettes, kneaded erasers.
I open one and find graphite sticks in various weights, each still wrapped in their sleeves.
Another holds soft pastels organized by hue, nestled into a felt-lined tray.