I swallow hard, rolling my neck to relieve the tension, but it’s no use. I’m too pissed.
And it gets the best of me.
Stopping mid-step, I spin, damn near colliding with Dallas. He jerks his hands up and steps aside, blue eyes wide.
“And Van?” I bark, dragging his smirk from his phone. He glances up at me and pales. “Since you weren’t here to do your fuckin’ job, you and your brother can skip breakfast and sober up. On watch.” Growling, I point a shaking finger at his stupid face. “Y’all move a damn muscle away from your posts, swear to fuck, you’ll be on your asses before the whiskey leaves your blood.”
With that, I spin on my heel and stomp toward the Big House, the sound of the Calloway’s whistling and chuckling behind me.
“Hazel needs to fire every last one of these assholes,” I hiss.
Or maybe I do.
The guys laugh, clapping my back, but veer off, probably to collect the rest of the volunteers.
I kick off my boots and strip out of my jacket at the front door, the fabric soaked in smoke and sweat. The air inside the house is warm, the strong scent of coffee, breakfast, and home, permitting my frazzled senses.
Laughter echoes down the hallway. The sound of dishes clinking, of overlapping conversations and squeaky chairs on the old hardwood, rises up like a smothering blanket around me.
But I tune it all out and charge forward like a man possessed.
I washed off the worst of the fire outside with the hose, my hands still raw, my skin chilled, but I need a real shower. A full scrub. I need the heat to burn away what I saw out there—what I felt. The fear, the loss, the flashbacks that inevitably came.
But first?
First, I need to see my girls.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop cold in the doorway.
The room is full. The long table’s packed tight with ranch hands, volunteers, and my family. My mom's at the stove, flipping something in a pan while barking orders at Colby and Clementine. The twins are laughing, faces pink, hair a mess. There’s a whole crew of guys I don’t even recognize hovering near the back door, plates in hand, boots muddy, eyes heavy.
But all of that fades.
Because at the head of the table, tucked into the biggest chair we’ve got, Georgia is feeding Aurora.
She’s got the baby cradled in her arm like she was born to do it, one hand gently tilting the bottle while her mouth moves in a soft laugh at something my mom must’ve said. Her curls are falling down around her face, cheeks flushed, and her eyes—
Christ, her eyes.
They’re tired. But they’re alive. Brighter than I’ve ever seen them. She doesn’t even notice the way she kisses Aurora’s hair between sentences, or how she adjusts the blanket wrapped around her little legs every few seconds like she can’t stop checking to make sure she’s warm.
I lean against the archway and just stare. My body’s tired, my lungs ache, but in this moment… I’ve never felt more awake.
There’s a plate of untouched food in front of her.
My first thought is: Is it not safe for her? My mom’s careful, she always is, but Georgia’s system is tricky. It doesn’t take much. Then again, maybe she hasn’t eaten because she’s been feeding Aurora.
And that—fuck, that guts me.
That she’d put herself second so easily. That she already does it without thinking. That she’s already here, like this, likemine.
And that little girl in her arms?
She’s got me.
Tied me up in knots. Bundled my heart in her tiny little fists and squeezed until it started beating again.
The ache in my chest grows sharp. I rub at it, trying to breathe past the heat that rises up my throat.
