But the thought doesn’t horrify me. The opposite, in fact. I love having Wyatt. I always wanted more kids. A full house. A family that felt whole instead of fractured down the middle.
Just not with Ashley.
I take a pull of my beer and spot Reese still sulking on the couch with his lawyer buddies. He doesn’t even look over at me. Knows not to push me when I’m pissed off. Over the years, we’ve had our fair share of differences. We come from different walks of life, want different things, and handle situations in ways the other one can’t always stomach. But he’s never pissed me off like he did today.
And the way he spoke to Lola? He deserved a lot worse from me.
But I need to play this carefully. Because he’s a friend I’ve had my entire life. He is like a brother to me. And I don’t take that lightly. I need to figure out a way where I can have both. Where I don’t ruin my friendship, but I still get the girl.
Because she’s made it more than obvious she wants me back.
“Daddy!” Wyatt shrieks from across the room. “Look!”
He starts wildly punching the bag, little fists flying, his whole body swinging with the effort of it. Colten holds the base steady and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Wow. Good job, bud.”
And the second he spots Gary, the gloves are off. Literally. He rips them off with his teeth, sprints across the room, and throws himself on the floor to wrap his arms around his pet goat.
We have four in total. But Gary is his. Gary is the pet. The others work. Gary gets cuddles and birthday cake and sneaks into places a goat has no business being.
“Can he stay in my room tonight, Dad?” Wyatt asks, using that cute, super polite tone kids use to get their own way.
I laugh. “Absolutely not. But he can stay inside for a while.”
He pouts. I ruffle his hair. “What about Rex? I’ll put his bed in your room?”
His eyes light up so fast it’s like someone’s plugged him into the mains. Rex adores Wyatt in a way that makes me think the dog understands exactly what that kid means to me.
“Yes please!”
I watch him scramble to his feet and tear off toward the back door to find Rex, Gary bleating after him, and for a second, the tightness in my chest loosens. This is what matters. This kid. This life.
I take another sip of my beer and lean against the counter, letting the noise of the party wash over me.
That’s when I hear the gravel.
Not a truck. Not a car pulling in late to the party. The slow crunch of multiple vehicles rolling up the drive with no urgency and no music. The kind of approach that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up before your brain has caught up to why.
Ace hears it too. His head snaps toward the window, and then he grabs Wyatt, moving him away.
Jett sets his beer down.
I push off the counter and walk to the front door. Through the glass, I can see the red and blue lights cutting through the dusk. Two cruisers. A black unmarked sedan behind them.
My blood cools by several degrees.
“Hunter.” Ace is beside me. His voice is low and stripped of everything casual. “What is this?”
“I don’t know.” But something in my gut does. Something buried and patient and terrible that has been waiting for this knock for a very long time.
I open the front door before they reach the porch.
Sheriff Dawson steps out of the first cruiser. I’ve known him since I was a kid; he coached Little League the same years my dad ran the concession stand. He’s flanked by two deputies I don’t recognize. Their hands are resting too close to their belts for a social call.
“Evening, Hunter,” Dawson says. He doesn’t tip his hat. Doesn’t smile. His face is carved from something heavier than I’ve ever seen on him.
“Sheriff.”