Page 19 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
Five Years Later
There is snow outside on the ground almost up to my boot tops and the smell of pine and woodsmoke hanging in the air. Our Christmas lights flicker across the porch, soft and gold against the winter evening, and inside the house every candle is lit. It looks exactly the way Layla always dreamed Christmas should be.
Our son barrels past me in a blur of red pajamas and energy. “Daddy! Daddy, Papa Ron is cheating!”
Papa Ron, otherwise known as Aaron, my father-in-law, my best friend and my favorite man to argue with, lifts his hands like a saint. “The cards stuck together,” he says. His new wife laughs behind him, and Layla shoots her father a look that says she knows better.
Our daughter toddles toward me in footie pajamas with reindeer ears. She lifts her arms. “Up.” One word, sleepy and sweet. I scoop her up, breathing in the scent of cookies on her hair. She curls against my chest like she was born to fit there.
“Mama said no more cookies,” she informs me with the righteous fury of a two-year-old wronged by the universe.
I kiss her cheek. “Mama is probably right.”
Layla looks over from the kitchen, hands dusted with flour, hair piled up in a messy bun with a candy cane tucked inside it like a decoration she forgot about. She catches my eye and winks. Even with two wild kids and family in the house, she still manages to make my heartbeat feel too big for my chest.
Five years and she still does that to me without trying.
Her father clears his throat. “If anyone needs me, I will be teaching my grandson how to shuffle cards with integrity.”
“You mean how to lose with dignity,” Layla calls.
“Same thing,” he answers, already laughing as he disappears into the living room with our son bouncing after him like a snowflake with no brakes.
I shift our daughter to my hip and walk to Layla. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and vanilla and the kind of home you build with your hands and your heart. She leans up to kiss me, flour brushing against my jaw, and I feel like I am twenty again and falling for the first time.
She whispers, “Happy Christmas Eve, cowboy.”
“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.” I kiss her slow, deep enough to taste the sugar on her lips and the years of love behind it but chaste enough to keep things PG.
Our daughter pats my cheek. “Kiss Mama again.”
Layla laughs softly and whispers, “Apparently you have orders.”
I do as instructed, earning a tiny clap from our daughter before Layla gently takes her from my arms so she can help her “stir” something at the counter, which mostly involves tapping a wooden spoon on a bowl and humming.
I move behind Layla, sliding an arm around her waist. She leans into me, soft and warm and still mine in every way that counts.
“You remember when we spent our first Christmas here?” she murmurs.
I brush my lips against her neck. “I remember not wanting to leave.”
“You never did.” She smiles, and her voice turns quiet. “You kept your promise.”
“I always will.” I rest my hand on her belly lightly, the silent promise I renew every day. Her body, her heart, her dreams. All mine to protect and cherish.
In the other room our son shouts, “Papa Ron, no peeking!” The sound is followed by a dramatic gasp and then giggling.
Layla looks up at me, eyes shining. “Our family is loud.”
“Our family is perfect.”
She turns in my arms and cups my face. “I love you, you know that?”
“I have known since the night you kissed me like you wanted forever.” I press my forehead to hers. “Still feels like forever every time you look at me.”
Outside the porch lights flicker as snow begins to fall again. Inside, our kids laugh, her father grumbles playfully, music hums low from the radio, and the fire crackles.
Everything I ever wanted is right here.
