Page 5 of Love Wells Kept

I suspect she knows the real reason behind my sudden paleness and lack of energy, but I promised Jackson we’d tell everyone together after he gets home tomorrow night. And I’m grateful Beryl doesn’t push it further, instead resuming her morning routine.

“Can we listen to music?” Rhett pipes up from the table where he’s intently focused on folding a paper napkin into something. A boat? A swan? A pirate’s hat?

Without a single second of hesitation, Beryl’s tapping the power button on a small black Bluetooth speaker. “Great idea, baby.”

Rhett’s thrilled when we start with his favorite song by a talking cartoon snowman. He’s seated at the kitchen table, looking like a miniature version of his father, with a slight wave in his brown hair, curious almond eyes, and a tall-yet-stocky build. He sings along—loud and off-key—squinting out at the scant traces of snow left on the ground, feet merrily swinging under the table.

After a few moments, Rhett busies himself with stacking wood blocks into a precarious tower on the floor. And Beryl moves with quiet efficiency behind me, checking items off the grocery list and muttering under her breath when she can’t remember if we’re out of baking powder or baking soda.

It’s peaceful, in its own chaotic, domestic way. The rhythm of shaping bread is oddly meditative. Roll, tuck, turn, set aside. The counter’s quickly filled with soft, rounded mounds of dough.

“Morning!” Cecily’s voice cuts through the music as she steps inside, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, cheeks flushed from the cold, or maybe it’s that pregnant glow she wears like it’s natural. Of course she looks effortlessly radiant in a stretched-out T-shirt and leggings.

“Morning, honey,” Beryl says as she looks up from the multi-page shopping list she’s scribbling at the kitchen table. “Need anything from the grocery store?”

I do a double take, eyes cutting from Cecily to Beryl. “Wait—I thought I was going today?”

She gives me a look that dares me to argue. “No, ma’am. Nope, you’re going to take a long nap after the bread is done. With this one”—she hooks a thumb toward Cecily, who’s tugging the hem of her shirt down to try and cover her exposed stomach—“just about into her third trimester, we need you healthy.”

“Okay, well, I’m not a napper. But I appreciate the sentiment.” I pick at dried dough around my nail beds. “I’m perfectly healthy. No need to worry about me.”

The front door closes with a slam that reverberates through the hundred-year-old farmhouse, vibrating in the old floorboards and echoing through thin walls. It’s followed by heavy footsteps, and Austin Wells steps into the room. Hair still damp from the shower, wearing a long-sleeve navy plaid shirt, and with his signature scowl already in place.

He instinctively moves toward his wife, spreading a large hand across her round baby bump and planting a kiss on top of her head. Austin’s grumpy, gruff demeanor shifts when she’s around. It’s not dramatic, but to those of us who have known him for years, it’s noticeable. It’s good.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Beryl says.

“Smells like a bakery in here.” Grabbing his usual mug from the cabinet, he makes a beeline for the coffeepot.

Beryl shrugs. “With how much your guys eat, that’s basically what this place is.”

He pours the steaming dark roast into his cup. “Could always buy the cheapest bread they have at the grocery store instead.”

Cecily gasps, wide eyes trained on her husband. “How could you suggest that? Kate’s bread has ruined me for anything else. I could…Wow. I could actually cry thinking about not having fresh bread every day.”

I throw my hands up, laughing. “Great, Aus. Now you’re gonna make your pregnant wife cry.”

“Jesus Christ. It was a suggestion. Ignore me. Just a stupid man here.”

“Hey, you said it.” I shrug impishly.

Austin starts toward his usual spot at the kitchen table. Even before Cecily came into his life, he spent mornings here with Beryl and me. He takes ranch phone calls, pores over financial paperwork, or reads his cattlemen’s magazine. He’s never been one to socialize with the ranch hands, so there were many times over the years when Beryl and I were the only people he talked to for days on end.

He trips over Rhett’s blocks, fumbling his coffee mug, and miraculously catches himself before he’s spilled a single drop. “Seriously, buddy? In the middle of the floor? Come on.”

“I’m building a tower.”

“Great.” Austin exhales, settling into his seat. “But can we not build it in the middle of the highway?”

Rhett grumbles but pushes his blocks a few inches to the left.

The tea and scone did the trick for a while, but nausea is curling in my stomach again, and I need a minute to sit.

At that moment, someone flies through the front door of the big house, and their heavy panting breath is heard throughout the kitchen long before they’ve reached us.

“Kate,” a man shouts from the hallway. Red appears in the doorway in filthy jeans and a tattered plaid button-up, his face flushed and hair disheveled. “Kate. Austin. You need to come.”

“What’s going on?” Austin’s mug clunks against the tabletop.