Choking back the words is harder than it should be, but I nod against her, peppering her back and neck with soft kisses. “Yeah, darlin’. I really fuckin’ do. Want a big family with laughter and chaos and messes.”
And I want it all with you.
“That sounds really nice,” she whispers, eyes meeting mine, all soft and glazed. “I think I’d love a life like that. A home filled with so much love.”
Fuck.
“Then lemme give it to you,” I whisper, kissing her slowly. “Let me give you a home, Georgia Walker.”
And it’s the words she breathes against my lip that change this thing between us from earth shatteringlybig, to unshakableforever.
“You already have.”
Chapter Forty Four
Guilt Grows Like Weeds
It’s been just over a month since the fire, and the farm’s finally starting to feel like it’s breathing again.
After the cameras went up, rigged top to bottom by the best guys I know, the vandalism stopped cold. Not a single gate left open. Not one damn fence knocked down. No tools missing. Nothing.
And maybe it’s just my gut. Maybe it’s the years I spent hunting patterns in places most people couldn’t survive, but the sudden silence is too clean. Too deliberate.
If it was just bad luck, bad timing, or animals leaning too hard, it wouldn’t have stopped just because we rolled in with surveillance, intentionally loud and obvious.
Which means someone out there saw the cavalry roll in, and they decided to back the hell off.
It wasn’t random. It wasn’t chance. Somebody’s targeting Honey Bea.
And I’ve got no idea who.
The farm’s been busy as hell ever since.
Between Aurora, Georgia, and the everyday grind, I’ve been spending most of my time working the land again. Fencing, irrigation checks, helping Ridge rotate feed, brushing down Dusty and easing him back into saddle work. There’s something honest about the labor. Forgot how much I missed it—the blisters, the ache in my shoulders at the end of the day, the smell of dirt and sun and sweat clinging to my skin like proof I’m still alive.
Didn’t see it for years, but I was rotting away in that tiny crap-studio. Wasting my life in a ten-by-ten box with no connection to the outside world beyond small bits of town, my family, and work.
I missed this. Missed them. More than I ever let myself admit.
It’s not perfect yet, but the anger between Hazy and me has started to soften.
Every Sunday, Georgia and I bring Aurora to dinner at the big house, and little by little, I’ve stopped flinching when I walk through the door. The chair at the head of the table still stays empty—Mom won’t let anyone touch it—but I’ve learned how to look at it without the guilt wrapping around my throat like barbed wire.
The grief’s still there. Always will be.
But being here,stayinghere, has made it quieter. More manageable. Avoiding this place for so long made it grow teeth. Made it bigger, meaner than it had to be.
But facing it? Sitting across from Hazel while she passes the mashed potatoes and teases me like no time passed? Listening to the twins never ending thoughts about their upcoming senior year while Mom stares at everyone with love and a little sadness in her eyes.
And doing it all with Georgia at my side, holding Aurora while she smashes honey-glazed carrots into her hair…
It’s made things surprisingly easier.
I sigh as I pull into an empty parking spot downtown, my eyes drifting to the vacant building before me.
Griff’s already here—leaning against his truck like a fuckin’ ad for the feed store. Carhartt jacket stretched over his barrel chest, worn jeans slung low on his hips, boots still covered in Tennessee horseshit. The only thing he’s missing is a cowboy hat to tip and a“ma’am”to go with that thick drawl I love to talk shit about.
And emulate.
