Page 215 of Burn the Wild

I bawled at Meadow’s birth; I can only imagine how much of a mess I’ll be when I see my son.

“Okay,” she agrees, her green eyes sparkling with tears.

“Kit?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Hayes?”

“No-ooo.” She breathes through a contraction and squeezes my hand so tight I almost fall off the stool.

I give her a look. “Shootin’ all my baby names down.”

“Because they’re bad, Ford.” Her nose scrunches up. “They sound like cars. Or cows.”

I chuckle. The battle of baby names. In all honesty, Reese can have any name she wants, but I like it when she argues with me. That bratty mouth of hers still makes my blood burn.

I’m distracted when the two nurses in the corner of the room step forward. I spy the Sharpie in their hand. I’m prepared for it.

“No,” I growl at them, and they freeze. “One more step and I throw both your damn asses out of this hospital.”

At the monitor, Dr. Weir lifts her head. “Ladies,” she snaps. Instantly, they jump back to their work.

I roll my eyes, settle my attention back on Reese. Where it belongs.

Sometimes I forget Reese is a superstar. At the ranch, she’s my wife, my Birdie Girl. Chicken wrangler, junk food eater. And now…Mom.

Though it’s been seven years since her kidnapping, I’m still an overprotective bastard. When she tours or fans are around, it’s a constant reminder that she was almost taken away from me. But I fight those dark thoughts every damn day.

Hell, if I thought I was protective over Reese before, her being pregnant amped it up into overdrive. After the chaos that was Meadow’s birth, I’m not taking any chances. Her entire pregnancy, I’ve been following her around with a fucking padded pillow.

Doctor Weir settles between Reese’s legs. “Reese, it’s time to push.”

Her terrified eyes flash to mine. “Ford.”

I lace her fingers through mine. “You got this, Reese. I’m right here. I’m right fucking here.” Emotion clogs my throat. “I loveyou so fucking much for giving me everything. My entire world. My reason for breathing.”

“I love you, Ford. So damn much.” Reese chokes on a sob, then those brave green eyes flick to me, and she grins. “Now let’s get this baby out of me.”

I run a finger down my son’s downy cheek, tuck him in tighter into his swaddle. “Look at him,” I marvel. “He’s perfect.” I lie next to Reese in the bed. I’m never moving from this spot.

Reese rolls her head across the pillow, tears in her beautiful green eyes. So damn beautiful she steals my gaze. “He’s so small,” she whispers.

I fight emotion, using a free hand to stroke her hair. “You did good, baby. So damn good.”

Forever a warrior, my wife. Reese slams it out of the park with each new movie, each new album she releases. Plays her guitar at Nowhere on Friday nights. She’s an advocate for survivors. Her Bluebird Foundation, founded two years ago, helps female musicians find their paths and avoid predatory agents.

Words aren’t enough for what this woman means to me. She’s given me peace. Loves me for who I am. Stands beside me as my best friend. Now, she’s given me our beautiful son.

My dream girl.

Every day, I live in awe of her resilience and strength.

I stare down at my son, curled in my arms. Tiny and perfect and dark-eyed. He cocks his head and looks at us, a small, adorable yawn scrunching his face and button nose. “He’s so beautiful,” I marvel.

“Takes after his daddy.”

I chuckle, kiss her temple. “Nah, baby, that’s all you.”

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