Page 61 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Except Charlotte didn’t look confused or upset. Just pleased, like she'd discovered a secret she'd suspected all along.

“It’s polite to knock before bursting in, Char.”

"Sorry. My bad.” She didn’t sound the least repentant. “Are you guys having a sleepover?" Charlotte asked.

"Sort of," Mike said. "Liv had a hard night, so I stayed to make sure she was okay."

"Oh." Charlotte nodded, solemn. "Like when I have bad dreams and you let me sleep in your room?"

"Exactly like that."

Charlotte studied them both for another moment, then smiled, bright and knowing in that way six-year-olds sometimes were. "Okay. But you should probably get up now 'cause Arletta said if you're not in the kitchen in ten minutes she's starting the biscuits without you and she's gonna use the wrong flour on purpose just to prove a point."

Mike groaned. "That woman's a tyrant."

"She said you'd say that." Charlotte bounced on her toes. "She also said to tell you that tyrants get things done, and if you want breakfast before the guests eat it all up, you better move your—" She stopped, looked at Liv. "She said a word I'm not supposed to say."

"I bet she did," Mike said, fighting a smile.

Charlotte skipped toward the door, then paused. "Miss Liv?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"I'm glad Uncle Mike stayed with you. He makes you look happier." She said it simple and matter-of-fact, like she was commenting on the weather. Then she was gone, pigtails flying.

Liv and Mike looked at each other.

"Well," Mike said. "That was?—"

"Mortifying?"

"I was gonna say 'inevitable,' but sure." He grinned, then leaned over and kissed her, quick and sweet and morning-warm. "Come on. If Arletta starts those biscuits without us, we'll never hear the end of it."

The kitchen was already controlled chaos when they arrived—Arletta directing her sons with the efficiency of a field general, Heather measuring out ingredients, Charlotte "helping" by sneaking bites of cinnamon sugar when she thought no one was looking.

Joe sat at the kitchen table with his laptop and a mug of coffee. Lyle was at the stove making eggs, and Kenny was by the window, coffee in hand, watching the driveway with the stillness of a man who'd spent years waiting for threats to materialize.

No one commented when Mike and Liv walked in together. Late. Which was why someone else was manning the stove besides Mike.

But Heather's eyes crinkled with a smile, and Arletta said without looking up, "About time. I was starting to think I'd have to send Charlotte back with a bullhorn."

"Your faith in my ability to wake up at ungodly hours is touching," Mike said, stealing a piece of bacon from Lyle's pan.

"It isn’t your ability I question. It's your priorities." But Arletta was smiling. "Now wash your hands and get over here. We've got sixty biscuits to make before the guests come in, and I’m not doing it alone."

Liv moved to the sink, Mike right behind her. His hand settled briefly at the small of her back, so quick anyone not paying attention would've missed it.

Heather didn't miss it. Neither did Joe, who glanced up from his laptop with the faintest hint of a smile before returning to whatever he was researching.

They fell into the rhythm of breakfast prep, the scratch of fork tines against dough, the smell of coffee and bacon and home. Charlotte narrated her plans for the bake sale in elaborate detail, and Arletta hummed old hymns while she worked, and the morning sun streamed through the windows like a blessing.

Normal. Grounding. Real.

The back door banged open and a voice boomed. "Joe called. Said that Harris bastard's still sniffing around and we're mounting a proper defense. Figured I'd best get out here before you boys botch the whole operation."

Everyone turned.

Grandpa Quentin stood in the doorway, tall and lean and ornery as a rattlesnake, shotgun slung over one shoulder and a white bakery box in his other hand.