Page 85 of Cowboy
As we sit together in the garden, Saoirse's laughter floating back to us on the breeze, I think about the long road that brought us here. All the pain, the fear, the loss. But also the courage, the resilience, the unexpected moments of grace.
In a few hours, we'll go to the clubhouse, surrounded by the community that helped save us, that continues to support us. We'll celebrate this new beginning, this family we've created from the ashes of what was destroyed.
But for now, this quiet moment is enough—Ciarán's arm around me, Saoirse's joy, the knowledge that we are safe, we are together, we are home.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I look toward the future without fear. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together. The three of us, a family by choice and now by law. Unbreakable.
27
COWBOY
ONE YEAR LATER
The clubhouse is alive with laughter and music, brothers moving around with drinks in hand, old ladies gathered in clusters trading stories. I lean against the bar, nursing a whiskey, watching my family—both blood and chosen—with a contentment I never thought I'd feel.
My eyes find Caoimhe immediately, as they always do in any room. She's sitting with Grá, their heads bent together in conversation, Caoimhe's ring catching the light as she gestures animatedly. My wife. The thought still gives me a rush, even a year after we made it official in a small ceremony at Travis' ranch.
At her feet, Saoirse sits cross-legged with Bozo's twins, their small hands busy with some elaborate drawing project. She looks up, catching my eye, and gives me a gap-toothed grin. She lost her front tooth last week and hasn't stopped smiling since, especially after the generous offering from the "tooth fairy."
"Da! Look what I drew!" she calls, waving a paper in the air.
I push off from the bar, crossing the room to squat beside her. "Let's see this masterpiece, princess."
She proudly displays her artwork—a colorful rendering of what appears to be our family. There's Caoimhe with her long dark hair, me with what I assume is my cut—though it looks more like a cape—Saoirse in the middle, and a smaller figure beside her.
"Who's this?" I ask, pointing to the fourth figure.
"That's the baby we're going to adopt," she says matter-of-factly. "When it comes."
My heart squeezes. We've been talking about adoption with Saoirse for a few months now, ever since we got the final confirmation that Caoimhe's fertility issues were likely permanent. The doctors were brutally honest—the physical trauma she endured during her captivity, combined with severe malnutrition, had caused damage that couldn't be reversed.
Caoimhe had been devastated, locking herself in our bedroom for a full day. But then, in typical Caoimhe fashion, she emerged with red-rimmed eyes and a determined set to her jaw. "We'll adopt," she'd declared. "Give another child the home Saoirse found with us."
Now we're six months into the process, mountains of paperwork behind us, home studies completed. Any day now, we could get the call that will bring another child into our family.
"It's beautiful," I tell Saoirse. "Why don't you show Mam?"
She scampers off to Caoimhe, who looks up as Saoirse approaches. The love in her eyes as she takes in our daughter makes my chest tight with emotion. Christ, how did I get so lucky?
I stand, my gaze catching on the memorial wall as I do. The framed patches of Cruz and Hustler hang side by side, flanked by candles that never go out. Lost to us last year when some psycho with a grudge decided to take out half the criminal organizations on the east coast. The Fury Vipers had gotten off relatively lightly compared to some others, but the loss of two brothers still cut deep. We lost Jer, which hit me hard. Fuck, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him go down. I thought he’d get back up. The man always seemed invincible. But no, the bastard killed him too.
I touch my fingers to my heart then raise them in a silent salute to the fallen. In this life, nothing is guaranteed. You hold what you love close, knowing it could be gone in an instant.
"You good, brother?" Pyro's voice breaks into my thoughts as he claps a hand on my shoulder.
I nod, turning to face my president. "Yeah. Just remembering."
Pyro's eyes go to the memorial wall, his expression solemn. "Not a day goes by."
We stand in silence for a moment, honoring the memory. Then Pyro shakes it off, nodding toward where Caoimhe now has Saoirse in her lap, examining the drawing. "You hit the jackpot with those two."
"Don't I know it," I agree, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
"How's the adoption process going?"
"Slow," I admit. "But our caseworker seems optimistic. Says our history with Saoirse works in our favor—proven track record of taking in a traumatized child and helping her thrive."
Saoirse has indeed thrived. The nightmares that used to plague her have all but disappeared. She's top of her class at school, has made a solid group of friends, and charms everyone she meets. She still has moments, of course—triggers that catch us off guard, questions about her birth mother that we struggle to answer honestly without destroying her. But overall, she's a happy, healthy six-year-old who calls us Mam and Da with a confidence that suggests she's never known us as anything else.
