The True Cowboy of Sunset Ridge (Gold Valley #14)(70)

That was all he could do. Just stare at her. And from the depths of his soul came the most profound pain that he’d ever known. There was a fear biting at the back of it, one that he could scarcely quantify.

He had never felt anything like this. Like the ceiling was pressing down on top of them, like the floor was rising up to greet him, like the whole universe was going to swallow him whole.

And there he was, made of stardust and impending doom and responsible.

Responsible.

For this life. Because this moment had come toward him and he’d had to meet it. He had no choice. He wouldn’t have made a different choice even if he could have.

He looked down at her, and her wiggling there, all helpless and tiny and small. And she wasn’t part of making any of these decisions—people were just making them for her. “I know how you feel.”

That’s how he felt... For most of his life. Ever since that moment he lost his parents. Like that great big cosmic hand was just doing things, and he hadn’t been consulted.

And he looked down at Lily. And no, she didn’t have any control, but he had her. He had her. His chest seized up, because right then he wondered.

If someone had him too.

If he’d been held this whole time and he didn’t even know it.

He swallowed hard, and he felt it then. This sense of being safe. Of being held. Of being right.

This moment. This was the moment he’d been running from for eighteen years. Because here he sat, in a house he bought, holding his child.

His mother’s grandchild. Her first grandchild.

“You would be proud, Mom. You would be proud.”

Because this was brave. The kind of brave she’d always believed in, not the kind of brave that threw himself on the back of a bull and chased glory in the rodeo. This kind of love, and the softness it took to hold the baby, the strength it took to decide to step up.

That was the kind of brave that she’d seen in him, and it was the kind of brave he’d been running from.

Because this kind of brave took his whole heart. This kind of brave took your soul. And it had been devastated the day that she died. And he told himself all kinds of stories about it. But this was what remained, and it didn’t matter what he thought was right. It didn’t matter what he thought was wrong. It simply was. So it was what was supposed to be, because there was no other choice.

There was no other reality.

And if he believed in fate, then he had to believe that he belonged here. If he believed in faith, then he had to believe that this moment was made for him. And he was made for it. And he was strong enough for it. He was brave enough for it. And it was just love. That was all it came down to. And it was the most singular, most terrifying thing that he had ever known.

Because he was made to be her father. Because all the steps had been leading here. Because it mattered. Because he mattered.

And it was the hardest thing. The hardest thing. To believe in that. Because it made him want. It made him feel. He didn’t want to feel.

He’d spent all these years trying not to feel. But Trent had gotten under his defenses and made him want to be a better man. Made him want to be someone a person could look up to. He’d taken blame on himself because it was easier. Because it made grief feel just a little bit softer. Because guilt was easier than just trying to live.

That was the truth.

With guilt you could be stuck in bargaining forever. But once you let it go, you just had to move on. And then what? You had to be brave.

He hadn’t wanted to be brave.

Oh, he told himself he was brave.

He was masculine; he was reckless. Fearless. But not brave.

True bravery was harnessing all your strength and making it tender so that you could care for the vulnerable.

It was looking inside of himself and asking if he could find a way to remember his parents. So that he could be a good father. So that he could give to this child the things that they’d given to him. It was asking himself to be that boy he had been. Sensitive and raw. That boy who’d lain down and wept the night his mother had died. The night he lost his father. Who wanted to do good, before he told himself that when he tried to help he only broke things.

Because that was an easy thing to tell yourself. It was damned easy. If you could convince yourself that you only broke things, that you never tried to hold the beautiful or the delicate, and you never tried to care. And damn, he’d spent a long time doing that.

But now there was Lily.

And downstairs there was Mallory.

And all of these things were bigger than him. Bigger than this one moment. They were the culmination of things. And it made him feel...

“I’ll protect you, forever,” he said. He wanted to speak vows to this child. So that she would know. “And if it was all for this. If it was all for you... It’s enough. And I’ll be the best I can be. Because that’s what you deserve. You don’t deserve any less. There’s a lot of imperfect love inside me.”

But he was beginning to realize that perfect or not, love was what mattered. Perfect or not, it was what carried you through.

And he told himself a lot of tall tales because it meant he didn’t have to care.

And caring like this broke you open.

He was broken open.

A flood of grief, a river of pain. But within that there was beauty.

Within that, there was joy.

Because for the first time he felt... For the first time he felt right. And like he was exactly where he needed to be.