Page 138 of Promised to the Cowboy

I’d put my hands on my waist if I still had one. “I am not having a goat at my wedding.”

Jenna grins, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with three different shades of lipstick laid out on a towel. “Did you put it in writing?”

“I didn’t realize I needed legal counsel.”

Luna laughs softly from beside the window. “Legal counsel is always wise in this family.”

Shay mumbles something as she kneels at my feet with a needle clenched between her teeth.

“What?” I ask.

She removes the needle. “I said, this is what happens when you marry into a family that treats livestock as wedding guests.”

I glare at Kitty. “Your husband is the one who brought it.”

From downstairs, Tom yells, “Cheese Puff is an independent citizen.”

Maggie’s reply is too quiet to hear.

A door slams, then silence.

I look around the room. “Is the goat gone?”

Kitty tilts her head, listening. “No hoofbeats.”

She returns to the small circlet of greenery in her hands. Moss, tiny white flowers, and trailing leaves that she identified by their Latin names while my eyes glazed over. Somehow, she’s turned a lot of green foliage into something delicate enough to wear.

My dress drapes my body in soft cream folds. The waist sits high enough to fall cleanly over the curve of our daughter, who’s been awake since dawn, when she decided to play soccer with my bladder. I love that the fabric skims my pregnant belly rather than hiding it.

That matters to me. I spent too many years making myself smaller for a man who wanted me quiet, grateful, and easy to control. Today, I plan to take up every inch of space I have.

Mom steps behind me to pin the last section of my hair. She arrived two days ago in a dusty truck towing a horse trailer, with two duffel bags, three bridles, and a red mare she insisted she could not possibly leave with anyone else.

Gabriel took one look at the horse and said, “Figures.”

Mom has spent the last few days moving through Stoneridge talking horses with Gabriel, arguing feed ratios with Jacob, and letting Maggie put food in front of her without pretending she isn’t hungry.

We mentioned Alexander only once, in the kitchen on Mom’s first night here, after I told her everything he’d done.

She went still for a long moment. Then she crossed the room, put both hands around my face, and said, “You never have to speak to him again.”

No questions or guilt. Just certainty.

I watch her in the mirror now.

Her hair is more silver than I remember, and she has new lines around her mouth. We share the same eyes and nose and high cheekbones. I have more of my mother in me than my father, which I’m grateful for.

“You all right?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“That sounds convincing.”

“I’m getting married.” I press a hand over my racing heart. “Oh God, I’m really getting married.”

Mom sets down the final pin.

“That man loves you more than his own life,” she says softly.