Chapter 79

Chapter 79
Dallas

By the time we get inside Dad and Ashlynn’s house, I know two things.
One, the smell of cobbler and barbecue has every kid in a five-mile radius acting feral.
Two, my wife’s trying way too hard to look comfortable.
Nobody else catches it right away because nobody else has spent the last year learning the difference between Cheyenne’s normal tired and the version where she’s hiding effort under a smile. But I catch it the second she steps out of her sandals and presses the heel of her hand into the small of her back before pasting that expression away.
I keep my mouth shut. Not because I’m ignoring it. Because the fastest way to make Cheyenne dig her heels in is to announce that you’ve noticed anything before she’s ready to talk about it.
The house is loud enough to feel alive. The twins are racing Matchbox cars down the hallway baseboards. Nora’s trying to organize Lydia and Ollie from Aspen’s lap like they’re dolls with poor listening skills while Miles kicks from the carrier by her feet. Lily Marie’s dragging a blanket through the kitchen and babbling at Brooklyn’s boys while they blink up from a play mat like tiny old men who’ve already seen too much. Sawyer spots Dad and immediately starts chanting “Papa” like it’s a battle cry.
Dad lights up and scoops him up without hesitation. “That’s right, buddy. Come save me from all these women.”
Ashlynn points a spoon at him from the stove. “Keep talking, and you’ll save yourself from dinner too.”
He kisses Sawyer’s cheek and grins like he didn’t just get threatened in his own kitchen. “See what I live with?”
“Joy and accountability?” Aspen says as she eases onto one of the stools with a baby on each arm and the third in a carrier at her feet. “Terrible burden.”
Normally Cheyenne would fire something back before the sentence finished landing. Tonight she smiles, laughs at the right beat, and heads for the dining room a shade too carefully.
That settles it, and I follow her. She turns when she hears me behind her. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re two seconds from trying to manage me.”
I lean against the doorway and lower my voice. “You okay?”
She blows out a breath. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not in crisis either.”
That’s closer to the truth, which I’ll take.
“You’re having contractions.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Because you are.”
She glances toward the kitchen where everybody’s still talking over each other, then back at me. “A few.”
“Are they regular?”
“No.”
“Painful?”
“Which one of us is a medical professional?” she asks, glaring, and when I just glare back without giving in, she caves. “Yes, but they’re not awful.”
“How long have you been having them?”
She hesitates long enough to answer without meaning to.
I nod once. “Okay.”
“Don’t say okay like you’ve made some giant decision.”
“I haven’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe a little.”
She almost smiles at that, then braces both hands under her belly and shifts her weight. Another contraction hits, and I can see it in the way her shoulders lock. The way her mouth tightens. She breathes through it without sound, which tells me it’s stronger than she wants anyone to know.
I step in close and put a hand on her lower back. “That one looked worse.”
“It was a little worse.”
“How far apart?”
She looks offended that I’m still asking. “Dallas.”
“Chey.”
Her eyes close. “Maybe twelve minutes…ish.”
That’s enough for my pulse to kick, but not enough for me to panic.
I’m not built for panic anyway. I’m built for noticing and moving.
“Okay,” I say again, this time meaning something with it.
She points at my chest. “There it is. I hate that okay. It sounds judgemental.”
I kiss her forehead because I know better than to argue while she’s contracting. “I’m just concerned, not being judgemental. Now, eat something, sit down, and quit acting like I’m making a scene.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “That’s why I’m listening.”
When we go back into the kitchen, nobody’s looking at us. Boston’s telling some story about an intern and a bone saw that’s making Brooklyn laugh hard enough to snort. Jackson’s trying to keep one of his sons from yanking a charger out of the wall with the same focused intensity he probably uses in interrogation rooms. Lincoln’s on the floor building a block tower with the twins and Sawyer while Lily climbs over his thigh like he’s furniture.
This is what the room feels like after a year of fighting for it.
Not perfect, but earned. Cheyenne settles at the table. I load her plate for her because she won’t do it right now if left to her own devices. More protein, less sweet, and water first. She pretends not to notice the pattern. Ashlynn notices it immediately because nothing gets past that woman when it comes to her people.
She comes up beside me while I’m carrying over the cornbread. “How close?”
“Maybe twelve minutes apart.”
Her eyes flick to Cheyenne and back. “And she told you that voluntarily?”
“After I annoyed her into honesty.”
Ashlynn nods like that tracks. “Good. I’ll keep the room as calm as possible.”
That’s the thing about family when it’s functioning right. Sometimes the help doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like a woman adjusting the pace of dinner so nobody feels rushed while still quietly making space for what’s coming.
Dad catches the shift too, even if he doesn’t know exactly what changed. He moves without asking and starts getting the younger kids through plates faster. Brooklyn and Raleigh steer conversation. Aspen keeps the babies corralled with the kind of exhausted competence that deserves a medal.
I sit down beside Cheyenne and slide my hand onto her thigh under the table.
She looks at me sideways. “Subtle.”
“I’m a mystery.”
“You’re a control freak in a good shirt.”
“That’s flattering.”
She gets two bites in before the next contraction hits. This one makes her set the fork down.
Boston sees that. Of course he does. He doesn’t go into doctor mode, because he knows better than to act like her OB when he’s her brother and her surgeon credentials don’t change that she has an actual labor team. He just leans back in his chair and asks, almost casual, “Need timing help or you good?”
Cheyenne glares at him. “I hate all of you.”
“That bad, huh?” Brooklyn asks.
“Worse because you’re all smug.”
“Nobody’s smug,” Raleigh tells her.
“That’s because you already had yours and now you’re all sitting there with healed vaginas and opinions for days.”
The table goes dead quiet for one beat, then explodes.
Lincoln nearly chokes on his drink. Jackson folds over laughing. Aspen slaps a hand over her mouth and fails to contain anything. Even Dad has to look away.
Cheyenne points around the room while the contraction eases. “You laugh now. I’m haunting all of you.”
I kiss her temple. “You’re doing great.”
“I know I am. I’m still mad about it.”
That only makes everybody laugh harder, which thankfully improves the whole vibe enough that nobody can accuse me of making a scene when I start timing for real under the table.
Nine minutes, then eight. Then another at seven and change, and this one makes her grip my wrist hard enough to leave marks.
That’s when I stand. The room settles almost immediately, not silent, but focused.
Cheyenne looks up at me. “Don’t you dare carry me out of here like I’m in a movie.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“Good.”
I crouch by her chair so I can look her in the eyes. “We should go.”
She holds my gaze for a second, weighing pride against pain. Practicality wins. It usually does with her once the line’s obvious.
“Okay.”
That one word flips the room into motion. Not chaos, just motion. Ashlynn’s already grabbing the casserole leftovers and shoving them at Dad with instructions he’ll absolutely fail to follow unless she repeats them twice. Lincoln has two kids on his hips and a third by the hand while yelling for somebody to find Sawyer’s shoe. Brooklyn gets Cheyenne’s purse before anyone asks. Jackson reaches for the hospital bag I left by the hall tree because he clocked it the second we walked in, and apparently detectives are exhausting even when they're off duty. Boston’s beside me with that steady expression that says family first, medical opinion second.
“How far apart are they?”
“Seven minutes.”
He nods once. “Good call.”
Cheyenne pushes up from the chair and braces through another contraction halfway upright. I get both hands on her before she can wobble and keep my voice low by her ear. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re cursing in rhythm.”
“Still breathing.”
“Okay, maybe.”
She laughs once in the middle of it, which feels insane and exactly right for us.
Dad comes into the foyer with Sawyer on one arm and one of the twins clinging to his leg. “You need me to follow?”
“No,” I tell him. “We’ve got it.”
His face changes anyway, pride and worry and love all of it in one hit. “Then go.”
Ashlynn steps in front of Cheyenne and cups her face for one quick second. “Text when you get there.”
“Yes, mom.”
“You know I love you.”
Cheyenne smiles despite herself and leans into her hand just for a second before another contraction steals the softness clean off her face.
I get her to the truck. Jackson tosses the bag in. Brooklyn buckles Sawyer into the seat behind us because my hands are full and everybody’s moving like they’ve done this before, because in some ways they have, not this birth, but this family, this part where one person needs something and the rest of us close ranks till the path clears.
By the time I get behind the wheel, my pulse is up, but my head’s clear.
Cheyenne grips the handle above the door and breathes through the next wave while I start the truck.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No.”
“Fair.”
She turns her head and gives me a look through pain and sweat and annoyance. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t answer like that.”
I reach across the console and take her hand. “I love you too, Baby.”
“That’s better.”
The drive feels longer than it is because labor has a way of turning minutes into separate countries. I keep one eye on the road and one on the clock. Six minutes now. Then a little under. She goes quieter as they get stronger, which is how I know we’re getting close enough that joking’s becoming work.
I call ahead at a red light, and her OB’s already been paged while triage gets ready.
Boston texts while I’m pulling into the hospital circle.
Boston: Parked and coming in. Family’s good. Go do your thing.
That steadies me more than it probably should. I park, get around the truck, open her door, and put both hands on her before she can try to prove she doesn’t need them.
She looks up at me, sweaty and furious and beautiful. “If anybody says anything about the miracle of life, I’m punching them.”
“I’ll screen for language.”
“Good.”
I kiss her once, quick and sure, then help her toward the entrance.
Automatic doors slide open. Bright lights. Cold air. Wheels somewhere down the hall. Nurses at the desk moving already because whoever took my call knew enough from my voice not to waste time.
Cheyenne stops dead halfway to triage when another contraction hits and bends into me with a sound that goes straight through my ribs.
I hold her up, hand firm at her back, mouth at her hair.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Come on, Baby. We’re here.”
When it finally eases, she looks up at me with tears in her eyes and murder in her voice.
“Tell your daughter to quit headbutting my cervix.”
I would laugh if I weren’t seconds from losing my mind over how much I love this woman.
Instead I kiss her forehead and guide her forward.
The baby’s coming, and for once every part of me is exactly where it ought to be.