Chapter 17 Daniel
Daniel
Three Months Later
The first thing I feel is her breathing against my chest.
Not the weight of the ranch. Not the mental checklist of everything that needs doing. Not the low hum of anxiety that used to greet me before my eyes even opened.
Just her. Warm and soft and here.
Morning light filters through the curtains, painting gold stripes across the quilt.
Delaney’s hair is a dark tangle on the pillow, one hand curled against my sternum like she’s checking my heartbeat even in sleep.
Her wedding ring catches the light on her finger—that thin gold band has been there for three months now.
Three months.
I still can’t believe this is my life.
I don’t move. Don’t want to break this moment. Just watch her face, slack with sleep, the worry lines smoothed away. She looks younger like this. Softer. The woman underneath all that armor she built to survive.
Four months ago, I woke up alone every morning. The first thing I felt was the weight of everything I had to carry. The ranch. The finances. The family fracturing around me while I tried to hold it together through sheer force of will.
Now, the first thing I feel is her breathing against my chest.
The weight hasn’t disappeared. But it’s easier when you’re not carrying it alone.
She stirs. Blinks up at me, her velvet brown eyes hazy with sleep. “You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”
She squints at the bedside clock as if it personally offended her. “At six in the morning?”
“Best view in Montana.”
She groans and buries her face in my shoulder. “Too early for charm, cowboy.”
I pull her closer, my hand sliding down her spine to the curve of her hip.
She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and nothing else.
Three months of marriage haven’t dulled how much I want her.
If anything, it’s worse. Now I know exactly what she sounds like when she falls apart.
Know the spot behind her ear that makes her gasp.
Know the way she says my name when she’s close, when she clenches around me as she comes.
“Never too early.” I press my mouth to her throat. “Never too late.”
She shivers. Tilts her head to give me better access. “Miss Maggie’s making pancakes. I can smell cinnamon and nutmeg.”
“Miss Maggie can wait.”
“Daniel.” But she’s not pushing me away. Her fingers slide into my hair, nails scraping my scalp.
I graze my teeth along her pulse point. Feel it jump. “Five more minutes.”
“Five minutes isn’t enough time for what you’re starting.”
“Then we’ll be late for breakfast.”
She laughs—that real laugh, the one I had to earn—and pushes at my chest. Not hard enough to mean it. “It’s Christmas Eve. The whole family’s coming, remember? Presents. Stockings. Henry will lose his mind if we miss Max’s first Santa outfit.”
I remember. I also remember that she’s warm and half-naked and making those little sounds that drive me out of my mind.
But she’s right. The ranch is waking up around us. Major Pecker’s crow cuts through the quiet—that damn rooster announcing dawn like he’s personally responsible for the sun rising on Christmas Eve. Cattle lowing in the distance. The creak of the house settling into another day.
“Tonight,” I say against her skin. A promise.
“Tonight.” She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Traces her thumb along my jaw. “Now let me up before Miss Maggie comes looking with Lucille.”
I steal one more kiss—deep and slow, the kind that makes her melt against me—before I let her go.
She’s halfway to the bathroom when she looks back over her shoulder. Catches me watching.
“Stop staring at my ass.”
“Stop having an ass worth staring at.”
Her laugh follows her into the bathroom.
The kitchen is controlled Christmas chaos.
A small tree glows in the corner, mismatched ornaments hanging from every branch—paper stars, wooden horses, a crooked angel Gabriel made years ago.
Stockings line the mantle in the living room, overstuffed already.
Someone’s put Bing Crosby on low, and Miss Maggie hums along as she presides over the griddle, white braid pinned up, sequined cardigan flashing like a warning.
Pancakes stack on a platter. Bacon sizzles in cast iron. Coffee’s already made—the good stuff, not the motor oil I brew when I’m up before everyone else.
Henry’s at the table with Shay tucked into his side, their three-month-old son cradled against his chest in a ridiculous little Santa onesie.
Max sleeps through the noise like he was born into it—which, I guess, he was.
Shay leans against him, protective and soft, and he keeps glancing down at his wife and baby like he can’t quite believe they’re real.
Angus leans against the counter with Luna, one arm wrapped around her waist, murmuring something low that makes her smile and shake her head. She elbows him lightly when he reaches for bacon too early. He grins anyway.
Jacob sits at the head of the table. His usual spot, but something’s different about the way he holds himself.
Less rigid. Less like he’s bracing for impact.
Ben sits a few chairs down—not opposite him, not beside him either.
Close enough to talk. Far enough to keep old habits intact.
They exchange a look over the coffeepot, something quiet passing between them.
No explanations. No rehashing. Just… presence.
Ethan’s beside Jacob, dark circles under his eyes from another late night chasing digital ghosts. Gabriel’s at the far end, quieter than the rest, but here. Engaged. That alone feels like progress.
Tom and Kitty blow in from the mudroom, stomping snow off their boots, cheeks pink from the morning air.
“Sunday pancakes!” Kitty announces, unwinding her scarf. “I’ve been dreaming about these all week.”
“You say that every week,” Delaney teases, already crossing the kitchen to hug her sister.
I watch them. The way Delaney’s whole face changes when Kitty’s around—lighter, easier, like she can finally set down the weight she carried for ten years. They’re not guardian and charge anymore. They’re just sisters.
Tom drops into the chair next to mine, immediately stealing a strip of bacon off the platter before Miss Maggie can swat his hand.
“Full house,” he says around a grin.
“Getting there.”
And it is. The table that used to feel half-empty is crowded now.
Elbows bumping. Butter passed from hand to hand.
Three conversations happening at once. Ethan arguing with Gabriel about server encryption.
Henry bouncing Max gently when he stirs.
Miss Maggie threatening violence against anyone who touches the bacon before she’s done plating.
Jacob asking Angus about fencing on the north pasture. Ben listening. Actually listening.
This table used to feel like a battlefield.
Jacob and his silence.
The empty chair where Mom should have been.
Now it’s full. Loud. Alive.
Delaney did this. Not single-handedly—but she was the catalyst. She and Kitty both. Two mail-order brides who walked into fractured families and somehow made them whole again.
Under the table, her hand finds my thigh. Squeezes once.
I cover it with mine.
And hold on tight.
Outside, snow falls—slow and quiet—settling over the ranch like a promise.
This year, Christmas feels exactly right.
The crowd thins out slowly. Our cousins head back to Havenridge with their wives. Delaney watches Kitty go with something raw and tender in her expression. Gabriel disappears upstairs. Miss Maggie starts prep for dinner, humming off-key.
I’m on the porch with cooling coffee when Ethan finds me.
He leans against the railing. Doesn’t look at me directly—that’s Ethan. More comfortable with screens than eye contact.
“Traced LandCorp higher,” he says. “Board of directors, but they’re shielded behind six layers of corporate structure.”
“Names?”
“Not yet. Getting closer, though. Whatever they’re after under that ridge, it’s big enough to justify a multi-state operation.”
I nod. File it away. The fight isn’t over. It was never going to be over just because we bought ourselves breathing room.
“Keep digging. Don’t burn yourself out.”
“Three months,” he says. “Three months to build a case and get ready for whatever comes next.”
“Good work.”
He heads inside. I stay on the porch, watching the snow-covered land stretch toward the ridge.
We’re not scrambling anymore. Not reacting to every hit LandCorp throws. We’re building. Planning. Preparing.
That’s a different kind of war. One I know how to fight.
The screen door creaks. Gabriel, this time. He joins me at the railing, and we stand in silence. Comfortable enough. Snow drifts through the wind, carrying the clean scent of hay and winter.
“You did good.” His voice is rough. Unused. “With the bank. With her.”
“Thanks.”
More silence. I wait. Gabriel’s never been one to fill quiet with noise.
“I’m working on something.” He stares at the horizon. “Can’t talk about it yet. But it might help.”
I look at my youngest brother. The one who’s always been a storm—restless, angry, searching for something none of us could name. The one who got left behind when I deployed and Dad retreated into grief.
“You okay?”
“Getting there. Maybe.”
It’s the most he’s said in months. I don’t push. Pushing Gabriel just makes him bolt.
“When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”
He nods. Goes back inside.
Something is shifting in him. I don’t know if it’s good or bad yet.
But he’s still my brother. Whatever’s coming, we’ll face it together.