Keeping it under wraps

Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.

You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.

But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.

Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.

Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.

Austin, October 8, 2026

I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.

I want to see everyone.

Everyone.

"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"

Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.

"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."

"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"

"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"

Emma laughed.

All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.

The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.

In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.

"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.

"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"

You smiled. "They did."

Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.

"Okay, and what did you miss?"

"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"

You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.

You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.

You turned to look at her almost immediately.

"Frankie?" she asked.

You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."

"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."

Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"

Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"

You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"

She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."

"Emma."

"With Luna and Jamie."

You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,

"Well, that makes sense."

"It does," Emma agreed.

"And where are they staying? With Helena?"

"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."

"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"

She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."

Okay. Recalculating.

Recalculating…

"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."

"Does he have a dog now?"

"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"

You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.

"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.

"Maybe."

Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.

You were genuinely happy for him.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."

As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.

A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.

If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.

You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.

Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.

"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.

You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.

"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."

"Want me to drive you?"

You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"

"He gets back at one."

"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"

"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."

You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."

Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."

You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"

She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."

"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"

"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"

A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.

You were finally home.

Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.

And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.

But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.

Even the best couples have weak moments.

"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."

On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.

"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.

"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."

"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"

"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."

"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"

"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."

"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.

"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"

"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."

"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."

"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"

Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."

"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"

"Will wanted us to move in together!"

"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"

"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."

"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."

"Alright, sweetheart, alright."

"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."

Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.

Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.

"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."

"But you needed it, didn't you?"

She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.

"Maybe."

When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,

"No need, I know he'll be there."

Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.

That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.

It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.

Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.

How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.

You were rooting for them.

"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.

"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."

Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"

You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."

"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."

"A mediterranean one, mind you."

"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"

You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."

"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"

You laughed. "No."

"Then what's the issue?"

"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."

"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."

"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."

Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.

It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.

To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.

There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.

I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.

For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.

Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.

Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.

It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.

Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,

"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."

"Need a hand?"

In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.

"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.

"Alright."

You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.

On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.

He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.

Thump!

You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.

The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.

And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.

You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.

Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.

With a quick push, he stood up.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."

He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.

As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.

Instead, you just stared.

Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.

Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.

You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.

"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"

It took Frankie a second to process.

"Uh, Will?"

You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."

"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."

"Oh. Okay."

Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.

You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.

Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.

She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.

"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."

Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."

Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"

"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."

"Oh, alright."

The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.

You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.

"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.

You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.

"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."

"It's fine."

"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."

"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"

She smiled. "It wasn't?"

"Nope."

"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"

"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."

Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.

And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.

Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.

The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.

"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.

Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.

"You got yourself a real gem here."

Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.

Emma was still keeping quiet.

"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.

Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.

"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."

"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.

"It's really nice."

"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."

"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."

His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."

You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.

Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.

"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.

Oh, she was absolutely loving this.

"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.

"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.

"Sure."

"Alright."

"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.

"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.

Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.

"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.

Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.

"Tell Will I say hi."

He smiled. "I will."

"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.

He stood completely, utterly still.

You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.

"I like your glasses."

Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.

"Thank you," he replied.

Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.

Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.

It's moving, and It's moving fast.

You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,

"You okay?"

You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."

You nodded again. "He looks so different."

"Yeah."

"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"

Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."

"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."

"Right."

"Oh God…"

"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."

"He looks so good," you groaned.

Emma laughed. "It's okay."

You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"

"He does."

"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"

"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.

Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.

"Hey," Will called out.

Frankie looked up at him.

"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.

"That's great. How much for the covers?"

Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."

Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"

"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."

"Y'all talk?"

"A little."

"And? What'd y'all talk about?"

"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."

Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."

"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."

"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."

"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."

Frankie frowned. "Oh God."

"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."

Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.

A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.

He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.

He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.

But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.

He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.

He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.

And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.

"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"

Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."

"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"

"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."

Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."

He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.

Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…

Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.

He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.

What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.

You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.

He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.

Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.

He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.

Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.

They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.

He was doing alright.

He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.

It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.

"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.

Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.

"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."

"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."

Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."

Wednesday, October 9th

You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.

He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.

No, you aren't thinking about him at all.

Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.

You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.

It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.

In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.

In one of them, you read:

His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.

It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.

At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.

But it was Bill who stepped through the door.

Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.

The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.

You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.

"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"

Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.

"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.

His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."

"You really have faith in me."

Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."

You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.

"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."

"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."

He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"

"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."

"And Santi?"

"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."

A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"

"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."

"Campfires and all that, huh."

"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."

"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"

"Austin?"

He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.

"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"

It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.

Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.

"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."

You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"

You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.

You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.

Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:

"You free this Saturday?"

Later

If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.

No. Not New York. Alex.

Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.

She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.

You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.

Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.

Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.

Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.

"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.

You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.

"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.

"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."

"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And what time is it now?"

You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.

"Quarter to seven."

She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.

She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.

Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.

She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.

Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.

Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.

After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.

Until Will came along.

At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.

There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.

Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.

You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.

Emma was in love.

"You look beautiful."

Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.

You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.

"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"

You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."

"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.

"What about you? How's everything with you?"

"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"

Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"

"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"

Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.

"No. Why?"

"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."

"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"

Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."

"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"

"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."

"Hmm."

"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"

"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.

"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."

"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."

"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."

You laughed. "Really?"

"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."

"What were you gonna say?"

"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."

"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"

At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.

You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.

"Not really," she replied.

You smiled. "Em."

"What? I’m serious."

"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."

"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."

"Sure."

"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."

"That’s not true!"

"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"

"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"

"No!"

"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"

Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"

"Oh no, that’s not—"

"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"

You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"

"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"

A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"

"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"

Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.

On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.

Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.

Hours later, at night.

Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.

The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.

Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.

"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"

The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.

Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.

"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."

"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."

Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"

You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.

"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.

She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.

Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.

Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.

Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.

If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.

And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.

That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.

It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.

The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.

You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.

Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.

The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.

You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.

Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.

What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.

She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.

"What are you thinking about?"

Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.

"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."

Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."

He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.

Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.

Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.

Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.

You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.

"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.

You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."

Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."

"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.

"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."

That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.

Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.

"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"

A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.

Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.

"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.

Santi watched him shake his head.

"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.

"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"

Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"

"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."

Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.

"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"

"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.

"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"

"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.

Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."

"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.

Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."

Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.

A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.

"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"

Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.

"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"

A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.

Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.

"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"

"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."

Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.

"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."

Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.

He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.

Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.

Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.

"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."

Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"

Santi let out a huff. "As always."

People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.

Well, you all took that advice to heart.

Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.

Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"

Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.

"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"

Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"

"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.

"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.

The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.

She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.

Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.

One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.

Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.

It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.

It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.

But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.

A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.

"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.

The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.

"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.

Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"

Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"

"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.

You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.

"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.

"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.

"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.

You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."

Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.

Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.

And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.

"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"

Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.

"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.

"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."

"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"

Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.

It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.

Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.

"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"

Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.

"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."

"I love her, I love her—ouch!"

"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.

"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"

Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"

Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."

"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.

Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.

Plse answt, one of the messages read.

wwe can't fondsanti

Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.

You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.

"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"

"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.

The phone rang once, twice, three times—

"Hey."

"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"

"Santi’s gone."

Oh God, he was slurring his words.

"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"

Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"

You nodded and put it on speaker.

"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"

"Where are you right now?"

"Here."

"Here where?"

"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.

"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."

Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"

"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"

You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"

"Yeah wait."

On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:

"Yeah?"

Francisco.

"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"

"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."

"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"

Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.

"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."

"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"

"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"

"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"

"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."

Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.

"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.

"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."

"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"

You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.

"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."

"Good. I'm not far, okay?"

"Okay."

Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.

"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"

"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."

Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"

"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."

Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.

You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.

You were going to kill Santiago.

If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.

"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.

Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.

You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.

Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"

"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"

Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.

He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.

"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"

Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."

"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"

Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."

"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"

He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.

"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."

No, you thought. And your stomach did such a massive flip you almost gasped. But on the outside, you just nodded.

"Alright," you said, catching sight of Frankie moving beside you out of the corner of your eye. "I'll keep texting you. Tell Grian to keep an eye out in case Santi comes back here, and to hold onto him."

"Will do."

You took a step backward and your back collided with something—No, with him.

As you lost your balance, his hands instantly caught your shoulders. He was right behind you.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," he murmured over your shoulder, his hands releasing you immediately. "Let's go."

He started walking toward the curb, stopping right there to wait for you.

Before moving, you looked at Emma with your eyes wide open, only to catch the mischievous glint in her gaze as she pressed her lips together, trying not to smirk.

Bitch.

Well, this felt familiar.

As you crossed the street, you turned back for a moment and saw your best friend on the other side, while you awkwardly approached your brother’s friend’s car. It was a familiar scene, wasn't it?

Unlike that first time in Dallas, Frankie held the door open for you. A gentlemanly gesture that caught you off guard. First, because you didn't recognize the car. It was a different one. Black or dark blue, you couldn't quite tell the color in the darkness of the night. It wasn't any of the cars you had seen at Will’s house, and this one was newer. And second, because it would have been easier for both of you to have just skipped the gesture entirely.

"Thanks." You settled into the leather seat, and he shut the door softly beside you.

During the brief seconds it took him to walk around to the driver's side and get in, you let out a deep sigh. Your eyes scanned the black dashboard and then moved up to the rearview mirror, where a small silver cat keychain and a green pine tree hung, filling the space with the scent of vanilla.

Frankie stepped inside like a gust of air and slammed the door shut.

Alright. Chill. This doesn't have to be weird.

"Where to?" he asked.

You pressed your knees tightly together. "Let's just drive around the block first."

Without a word, he started the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot, maneuvering smoothly as he kept a cautious eye on the street, while you locked your eyes on him the exact same way.

"Uh," you cleared your throat and looked straight ahead, "he couldn't have gone very far."

"He must be around here somewhere."

"You think he called a cab or something?"

"I have his phone."

"Right," you pursed your lips. "Of course."

You clasped your hands in your lap and laced your fingers together, feeling your palms grow sweaty as you stared out the window, holding back a sigh.

It smelled way too much like him in here. Like his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes—like him, because he was sitting right next to you, and that made sense, didn't it?

Your heart was beating so fast.

"He seemed a little down today," he noted.

You turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know, earlier," he looked back at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds before turning his eyes back to the street. "I figured he was just nervous about the wedding, so I didn't want to press him with questions."

"You think that could be it? You think he got scared?"

He shook his head. "No, no way. Santi isn't like that."

"I know he's not. But I dunno, it could be possible."

Through the window, the sidewalks and streets passed by with no sign of him.

"What did he mean when he said Yov was gonna be mad?"

Frankie pursed his lips and turned the corner. "I don't know, he wasn't making much sense. He started talking about trees, about how long they live and how big they can grow, and how it had been a really long time since he last visited the park. I asked him about it, but he said nothing. Then he said Yov was gonna be mad if she found out about the house. When I asked him what he meant, he just said it was stupid."

"I can't think of anything," you sighed, rubbing your hand over your neck in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense. Did something happen with his house? What on earth was he talking about?"

"He's drunk, I don't think much of what he said was supposed to make sense."

"But Santi isn't like that, you know him," you looked at him. "When has he ever said something he didn't mean?"

He sighed. "Never, I guess. Maybe tonight he was just in the mood to talk about live oaks."

You froze, watching Frankie’s profile as he looked straight ahead and scanned the sidewalk on his side while driving at a relaxed pace.

"Live oaks?"

"Yeah," he affirmed, looking over at you. "I didn't know he was that into trees."

Oh.

OH.

Your hand shot out to grab his shoulder. "I think I know where he is."

"What?"

"Turn around right here," you pointed with your hand, "now. I know where he is!"

Frankie accelerated to the corner and made a sharp left. "Where? Tell me."

"I'm not completely certain, but I'm almost positive," you brushed a strand of hair out of your face.

He chuckled. "Are you gonna tell me where or not?"

"Osbourne Park."

"Why?"

"When we were kids, we had this eco-week in school and they sent us to plant trees. Santi and I planted a live oak with Dad. We went there a lot after he passed away, and I am—Jesus, I'm almost positive he has to be there. Did he say anything about my dad tonight?"

"Yeah," he raised his eyebrows, "yeah, he did."

A relieved sigh escaped your throat and instantly, the car surged forward as he pressed on the gas.

"Take the next right. It'll get us to the ramp faster," you said, leaning forward in your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of the dashboard.

Without a word, he shifted gears and veered right. The streetlights flashed across his face, throwing shadows over his jawline and making his messy hair look even wilder.

Not the time to be looking at him like this!

"He's gonna be fine," he said quietly, grounding anchor against the worry rising in your chest. "If he’s at the park, he’s just clearing his head. He wouldn't do anything stupid."

"I know, I just hope he's there. Otherwise, I don't know," you murmured, staring out at the blurred shapes of buildings. "I don't have any other idea."

Frankie glanced at you, his expression softening before he turned his focus back to the road. "Easy. He's gonna be okay. And if he's not there, we can keep looking around."

Your heart did another strange, complicated flutter that had nothing to do with Santi. You swallowed hard and kept your eyes glued to the windshield.

The car flew past the exit signs, Frankie maneuvering through the light night traffic. He kept his foot steady on the accelerator, making the drive feel much shorter than it actually was. And within short minutes, the neon signs of the downtown bars faded away, replaced by the dark, towering silhouettes of the trees surrounding Osbourne Park.

He took the final turn into the park's entrance; the headlights cut through the heavy darkness of the empty parking lot, sweeping over the grass.

You popped the door open and scrambled out of the car as the heavy darkness of the park was broken only by the scattered park lights cutting through the night, and hovered by the car for two seconds, waiting as Frankie got out from his side and shut his door with a thud.

The moment you saw he was ready, you started moving into the park, your eyes darting everywhere, scanning every shadow. Then, you locked your gaze just to the right, past the paved, illuminated path that led toward the thicker wooded area where the tallest trees stood, and among them, the live oak.

Your pace quickened. As you got closer, cutting through the deep shadows, you managed to make out a familiar shape.

"There he is," you said, drown in anger and relief.

You broke into a fast walk, nearly a jog, while your heart hammered against your ribs as you felt Frankie’s footsteps keeping close right behind you.

As you got closer, you could make him out better. Santi wasn't on the grass; he was sitting on a park bench right in front of the little green space where the tree stood tall and still young among others.

Your footsteps naturally lost their urgency, your pace tapering off as you approached him from behind. He was half hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his head hanging down. His curls caught the bright glare of the overhead LED light, making them glint in the dark.

You stopped. "Santi?"

He jumped a little at the sound of your voice, straightened up at a relaxed pace, and turned his head just enough to look at you, his eyes unfocused.

"Bub? What are you doing here?"

His voice sounded completely congested and undeniably drunk.

"Frank," Santi smiled, "what are you two doing here?"

You let out a tired sigh and stepped closer to him. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? What are you doing here?"

Up close, he looked like a little kid. You could see his glassy, tear filled eyes, the soft curls falling over his forehead, and the utterly defeated look that took over every single feature of his face as he stared at you in pain.

Santi hung his head again.

"I'm sorry. It's just..." He swallowed hard. "I need time."

His voice was so low you had to furrow your brow. "What?"

He shook his head.

Confused, you glanced over at Frankie, who was keeping a short distance back. He was absolutely quiet.

"Our house is for sale," Santi said. "Our house."

You shifted to his side and sat down right next to him. Tilting your head to see him better, your chest tightened.

"Our house?"

"Our house," he looked at you, and right then, it clicked.

Santi wasn't talking about his house. He was talking about your childhood home.

"I drove past it the other day. I always do. It’s on my way to work, or… not really, I'm lying. I just like driving past it, I guess," he continued. "You remember the family that bought it? With those three little kids?"

"Yeah."

"They don't live there anymore. It's empty now, and there's this big sign outside with a realtor's face on it," he let out a humorless laugh.

You forced a smile even though your cheeks felt heavy, and you reached your hand out to his arm.

Instantly, Santi placed his hand over yours.

"I want it back, bub," his voice cracked. "It’s our house. How could we just let it belong to someone else?"

"You know how things were back then. It wasn't easy for mom—"

"Dad lived there. We grew up there. And she… she just got rid of it because it hurt? What about us? What about you, what about me?" he spat out painfully, the words hitting you straight in the chest.

You swallowed hard. "I know."

Santi’s face contorted with agony, and a sob broke through his lips. And as if he were terrified of you seeing him like this, he covered his face, burying his head in his hands, trying to hide in the shadow of his own body.

"Santi," was all you could manage to say as you threw your arm around his back, resting your head against his shoulder while thick tears began to pool in your eyes.

He let out a ragged breath and abruptly straightened up, making you shift away from him.

"I made an offer," he said.

"For the house?"

He nodded, looking at you with pure fear in his eyes. "I did. And Yov doesn't know."

"How… how? With what money—I'm sorry, but—"

"Our savings, and I'm planning to take out a loan—"

"Santi, wait," you shook your head gently, "you have to talk to her before you do anything like this."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, in pain. "She loves our current house. If she found out I wanted to sell it—I don't wanna disappoint her." A gasp broke through his words. "I'm gonna be a husband."

You smiled involuntarily at the realization. "Yeah, you will."

Santi sat completely still, barely moving, his eyes bloodshot as he stared down at his own hands, his body swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm.

"I'm gonna be a husband," he repeated, barely a scared whisper. "And a dad, someday."

"I am absolutely certain you'll be a great husband and dad."

His head snapped toward you, his eyes instantly flooding with glassy tears.

"You will," you reaffirmed, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."

He nodded at a very quiet, subdued pace. "I need him, bub."

A beat.

You nodded. "I know. I need him too."

"How can I ever be like him? How can I ask him what to do or how to do it if he's not here? He should be here," his words took on an angry edge right at the end. "On my wedding day."

"I honestly don't know," you murmured, your voice catching as you squeezed his hand tighter. "I ask myself the exact same thing every single day. But I know I have you, and you have me. And you can always, absolutely always count on me, for whatever, whenever. And I'm sure he's so proud of you."

Santi offered a faint, fleeting smile, his eyes searching yours. "I'm gonna miss you when you leave again. Nothing is the same without you sticking your nose into all of my business."

You let out a soft laugh, blinking back a new wave of tears. "You're gonna be way too busy starting your own family. You'll barely even notice I'm gone."

His smile faltered, a deep, raw sadness washing over his features. "How could you say something like that? You're part of my family too. I've missed you so much these past few months, you know that? First Mom, and then you," he said, his voice cracking slightly as a weak smile returned to his face. "Why is everyone so obsessed with leaving this place, huh?"

He turned his head around, his gaze shifting toward Frankie, who was still standing a short distance behind you both, keeping his respectful space.

Frankie offered a quiet smile, his eyes on Santi. "Hey, I came back, didn't I?"

Santi let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, you did."

Then, he turned back around to face the dark park, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He hung his head, dragging both of his hands over his face and up through his tangled curls, holding them there for a second.

When he finally lifted his eyes, he locked his gaze onto the live oak tree, staring at it in total silence for a long moment, as if soaking in the memory of your dad one last time tonight.

Finally, he spoke, his voice completely drained. "I wanna go to sleep."

You nodded silently, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak.

"Alright, let's go," you whispered.

Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the bench and reached out, pulling on his arm to help him stand. His weight shifted unsteadily, but right at that moment, Frankie was there. He stepped in instantly, his strong grip catching Santi by the arm, anchoring him and helping him keep his balance on his shaky, alcohol heavy legs.

In complete silence, the three of you made your way back across the grass toward the car. The only sound was the rustle of the night breeze through the leaves and the quiet scuff of your shoes. And when you reached the vehicle, you quickly pulled the back door open as Frankie guided Santi inside, carefully maneuvering him so he could settle into the backseat.

The second his head hit the leather, it was over. In less than two seconds, Santiago was completely out, his eyes shut tight as his breathing immediately slowed into a deep sleep.

Frankie drove in silence down the side street by the park, careful with every bump and easing through the road so the car’s movement wouldn't wake Santi. In the backseat, he was completely twisted and bent out of shape, yet fast asleep.

Less than a minute passed after you left the park area behind before a sigh finally escaped your throat.

Your phone lay in your lap, its screen dark ever since you read Emma’s last message a few moments ago. She was already at Will’s place with the guys, and apparently, Benny had crashed on the couch the second they walked through the door.

Frankie pulled up to a red light.

"You can take us to my place if you want, I’ll stay with him," you said, not looking at him.

He clicked his tongue. "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got him. Yov’s party is still going, you shouldn't miss it. I’ll take him to Will’s and crash with the guys. You and Emma can head out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he turned to look at you, "gotta fulfill my duties as bestman."

A helpless smile slowly formed on your lips as you looked at him, and his own lips mirrored the gesture a second later. His eyes held yours like a magnet, and your stupid heart skipped a beat again.

"So, uh, New York," he tossed out, breaking eye contact as he looked back at the road. "What did you think?"

You lowered your head, fixing your gaze on your hands in your lap.

"It's nice. It's a great city," you looked back at him, but his eyes were still fixed ahead. "And I… I’ve been writing a lot."

Frankie glanced at you again. "Yeah?"

You nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.

"Yeah. A book, actually."

"That's amazing," he smiled, "what's it about?"

"Uh, well, it's kind of a love story. It's mostly about Miles, and his relationship with Alya. They meet one night at a restaurant and lose touch for a year until they cross paths again, but Miles is this guy with a huge amount of baggage and things to work through," you waved your hands, showing just how huge Miles's problems really were. "And it's… it's a complicated story."

Frankie gave a half-smile, nodding slowly. "Does it have a happy ending?"

You pursed your lips and tilted your head. "I'm not telling you."

"Why? C'mon."

The traffic light turned yellow, and two seconds later, green.

"It has a happy ending, doesn't it?" he pressed, his eyes drifting back to the road as the car started moving again.

You huffed. "You really want me to spoil it for you?"

"Depends. How long do I have to wait to read it?"

"I haven't even finished writing it yet, so probably a while."

Frankie let out a soft laugh. "Alright. I'll wait."

Or maybe you could show him a few pages, you thought. Just a few, just to get his opinion.

It was just a thought. You didn't even know why you were so desperate to show him all of it.

"Emma told me you moved to a new place?" you said, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

He nodded. "Yeah. Over at Circle Ranch."

"Yeah? It's a nice area."

"It is, it really is," he glanced at you for a split second. "Bingley likes it."

You smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah. We have a big backyard now, lots of grass and a few trees. He loves it, but it freaks me out a little, y'know," he shook his head with a smile. "The other day he climbed up one of the trees and I spent half an hour trying to get him down."

"He probably would've come down on his own. Cats really like being up in high places."

"I know. But what if a dog gets him or something?"

You tilted your head. "Are there any dogs nearby? I mean, from your neighbors or...?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Then?"

Frankie laughed. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want anything happening to him."

"Mhm. Cats are really smart. Bingley is really smart," you assured him. "And if your yard is safe, you shouldn't worry too much as long as he stays inside it. Just make sure he doesn't escape."

"Yeah, I bought him a collar with a tracker."

You laughed softly. "That's cool. I should get Darcy one of those. You really are a protective cat dad, uh."

"Well, obviously," he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "He’s my roommate. If he goes missing, I gotta do my own dishes."

"Fair point," you smiled, looking out the window for a moment. "I'm glad Bingley is enjoying his new backyard. Sounds like he has his own little kingdom now."

"He definitely thinks he owns the place," Frankie chuckled, slowing down as you approached a quiet intersection. The playful tone in his voice softened, turning into something softer as he glanced over at you. "What about you? Are you staying at your apartment?"

"Yeah. It feels good to be back home. Even Darcy is enjoying it."

Frankie nodded, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. He went quiet for a moment as the car moved down the dark street.

Then, his voice dropped. "So... Uh, are you, are you going back to New York?"

A sudden hollow feeling carved itself deep into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away out the passenger window as the city lights blurred past. In your lap, you tightly laced your fingers together, squeezing your hands to ground yourself.

"I guess. I don't know yet."

You turned your head back to look at him just as the car approached another intersection. The traffic light flicked to a glowing red.

Frankie came to a stop and turned his head.

In the sudden stillness of the car, bathed in the soft crimson glow of the light, his eyes met yours. There was no teasing left in them, no easy deflection; just a brief searching intensity that seemed to pull the air right out of your lungs for a second.

He looked at you as if he were trying to read between the lines of your hesitation, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. "You like it there?"

Your heart squeezed.

Yes, you thought, but it doesn't feel like home.

Instead of saying it out loud, you looked away, answering softly, "I guess I do."

You turned your eyes back to him. Frankie was still looking at you, wearing a small encouraging smile. But you couldn't mirror it. There was something heavy sitting deep in your chest that anchored your lips in place.

Frankie noticed. "When Harry met Sally, uh?"

That pulled a small laugh from you. You shook your head.

Seeing your reaction, Frankie shook his head too, a chuckle escaping him as he quickly backpedaled. "No, no. They met in Chicago. Forget I said that."

You leaned your elbow against the car door, resting your face in your hand as you turned to look out the passenger window. The lingering smile stayed on your lips for a few seconds as the car moved forward, but it slowly began to fade, melting away into the quiet streets.

Beside you, Frankie just drove. He didn't push for more conversation or try to fill the space with words. He simply let the silence settle between you, steering through the night as the landscape outside started to blur into something increasingly familiar.

Will’s house wasn't far now. Just a few more blocks, a couple of turns, and this ride would be over.

And right then, a sudden ache hit you: you didn't want it to end.

The realization washed over you quietly, almost catching you off guard, of just how desperately you had missed this. Just being near him, sharing the same space, even wrapped in these sometime-uncomfortable silences.

You watched the streetlights sweep across the dashboard in waves, wishing the car would slow down, wishing the blocks would stretch out, just to keep the outside world away for a little longer.

But no matter how much you wished you could control time, sometimes wanting to speed it up, other times desperate to slow it down, the reality was that it just kept moving.

And while your heart hammered against your ribs like an untamed creature, craving more of him, Will’s house suddenly appeared ahead.

Frankie pulled the car into the driveway, bringing the ride to a final stop.

A beat later, he let out a quiet sigh and unbuckled his seatbelt, the click signaling the end of the line. The headlights caught the front window of Will’s house.

Your eyes drifted to him then. He glanced at Santi, still dead to the world in the back, before turning his face to yours.

"Frankie," you breathed, and the name felt forbidden on your tongue.

He didn't speak, but the slight tension in his brow gave him away. His hands remained clamped at the top of the steering wheel.

"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you," you said, knowing this probably wasn't the right time or the right place, but utterly unable to hold it in any longer. "About Henry, and... and everything that came after."

The silence stretched.

Frankie swallowed, giving a single nod. "Thank you."

"And it makes me real happy that you're doing better now."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed entirely dark. His gaze drifted down, anchoring somewhere between the two of you, as if measuring the distance that had grown since you left.

His hand twitched on the wheel, a microscopic movement toward you that he stopped just in time.

"Thank you."

You nodded.

Frankie seemed to hesitate. "And I... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his brown eyes lifting back to yours. "For hurting you and… and letting you down. You didn't deserve what I did to you."

You didn't offer an easy reassurance. You just let out a slow nod.

"And I'm really happy you're doing what you love," he added, his voice flattening out as he forced a smile. It was a tight, fragile thing. "I have no doubt everyone is gonna love your book."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Thank you."

Frankie’s smile faltered, dropping for a fraction of a second before he held it back up.

"And New York..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping from yours to look down at his own lap.

In that brief second of detachment, your eyes scanned his face with a desperate quiet hunger, memorizing him all over again. You traced the familiar slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, the new marks on his face. You searched every single feature, hunting for a crack in his armor, looking for a hidden twitch, a shadow of hesitation, anything that said stay.

But Frankie just gave a soft shake of his head, looking back up. His expression was clear and almost painfully serene.

"I'm sure New York loves you too," he said softly. "It’s a big city, but it fits you. You’re gonna do amazing things there."

A cold ache settled deep into your stomach.

Was this encouragement? Was this a gentle nudge out the door? Was he clearing the path for you, sweeping away the debris?

A sudden winter seemed to settle inside the small cabin of the car. You forced a nod, your eyes drifting back to the dashboard where the green light of the clock kept ticking forward.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Thank you, Frankie."

He unclasped his hands from the steering wheel, the leather letting out a soft stick and release sound that felt incredibly loud. And the space between your seats suddenly felt like an ocean.

You looked straight ahead and unbuckled your seatbelt, the snap breaking the trance. "We should probably get Santi inside."

Without waiting for a response, you pushed the car door open and stepped out, your lungs begging for air.

You took a deep grounding breath of the cool night wind as you walked toward the front porch. Pressing the doorbell, you could hear the heavy thud of Frankie’s door closing behind you.

Emma opened the door almost instantly.

"Hey," she whispered, stepping outside and crossing her arms against the chill. "Will and Benny are already passed out. What happened? How's Santi?"

"Nothing," you said, turning back toward the car where Frankie was gently shaking Santi’s shoulder. "Santi was just at the park. Everything's fine."

Emma nodded, watching as Frankie carefully hauled a groaning Santi out of the backseat. You stepped in, grabbing your brother's other arm to stabilize him.

"Careful," you murmured.

Santi blinked heavily, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked at you.

"I'm careful," he slurred.

The three of you shuffled toward the porch in an awkward synchronized stumble, Frankie carrying most of Santi's dead weight while you guided his steps. Emma stepped aside, holding the front door wide open to let the makeshift rescue team pass.

"Will and Ben are in the living room," Emma guided quietly, shutting the door behind you. "You can take him straight to the bedroom."

"Alright, keep your feet steady, man," Frankie muttered to Santi, adjusting his grip around his torso.

Santi let out a low grunt, his sneakers dragging lazily against the hardwood floor.

"Why didn't you tell her?" he mumbled into the space between them.

You frowned, staring at your brother. Just then, Santi rolled his head back to look at you, his eyes unfocused but teasing. "He didn't... he didn't."

Frankie didn't acknowledge it, his face a mask of focus as they reached the open bedroom door. He placed a firm hand on Santi’s back, guiding him over the threshold.

"C'mon. Bedtime."

Santi paused for a second in the middle of the room, clumsily tugging at the zipper of his jacket.

"It's too fucking hot in here," he muttered.

A soft chuckle escaped Frankie’s lips. You watched them from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, forcing a faint hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Hey."

Turning around, you found Emma standing a few feet away in the dimly lit hallway. You stepped out of the room, giving Frankie and Santi some space.

"What's the plan?" she asked softly.

"We're heading back to Yov's," you replied. "Frankie's staying with the guys."

Emma searched your face, her eyes lingering a bit too long. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

You slipped back into the bedroom. Santi was already sprawled out on the mattress, his jacket and shoes discarded on the floor, while Frankie pulled a thick blanket up to his chest.

"All good?" you asked quietly.

Frankie nodded, looking down at him. "Look at him. Like a baby."

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and walked out toward the living room. Emma was already on one of the armchairs. Across from her, Will and Benny were sound asleep on the couches, buried under a messy pile of blankets and breathing heavily.

"I'll call an Uber," you said, pulling out your phone.

Emma nodded. "Your mom texted me, by the way. Asked how long we were going to be. I told her we got held up because you had a stomach ache."

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Right. Did she buy it?"

"Seems like it," Emma said, shrugging her shoulders.

You nodded, your fingers moving quickly across the screen to confirm the Uber ride, while the soft snores of the Millers drifted from the couches. Emma watched you in silence for a beat.

"I’m completely sober now," Emma noted quietly.

You offered a tight smile. "Me too. The scare Santi gave me cleared the alcohol right outta my system."

On your screen, a driver accepted the ride, the map showing he was only two minutes away.

"I’ll text mom to let her know we’re on our way," you said, just as Frankie walked back into the living room.

"Santi's already snoring," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I don't think he’ll wake up until noon tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, neither will these two," Emma whispered, gesturing with her chin toward Will and Ben. "How much did they even drink? Weren't you supposed to have other plans after the bar?"

Frankie shook his head. "I lost count. Benny got a little too excited ordering rounds."

"You gotta work tomorrow?" Emma asked.

Frankie shook his head slightly. "Yeah, but not until after ten."

In the heavy silence that followed, you listened to their casual back and forth, the ordinary words mapping out a life you were no longer part of. You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes glued to the glowing screen of your phone.

"Are you too busy tomorrow?" Emma asked, leaning back against the cushions.

Frankie shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Nah, not really."

You let out a quiet sigh. Shifting your weight, you stepped away from the living room without a word, slipping back into the dim hallway toward the room where Santi was sleeping.

As you walked, you caught a movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced back and saw Frankie watching you from the living room, his dark eyes tracking your retreat. You met his gaze for barely a second before turning your head away, focusing entirely on your brother.

It's fine, you thought. What did you really expect?

You had known that coming back to Austin meant facing Frankie, and facing Frankie meant clearing up a few things. But you couldn't pretend that the world had been on pause all this time. You couldn't expect him to show more than he already had. Because no matter how many feelings you still harbored for him, or how many he kept for you, if he even had any left; time had kept moving. And maybe... maybe this was just it. The end of the line.

The phone vibrated in your hand. The Uber was outside: Eric, dark grey Toyota Camry.

Casting one last look at Santi, you stepped closer to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He barely stirred, completely and deeply asleep.

By the time you reached the living room, Emma was already standing by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Ready, babe?"

You nodded, tightly crossing your arms against your chest.

You couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Frankie, but you could feel his gaze burning into your profile; he was standing just to your left.

"Okay," Emma murmured, twisting the doorknob and pulling the front door open.

You stepped out first, your feet moving automatically as if you suddenly couldn't bear to be in his vicinity for a single second longer.

The night air hit your face like a splash of cold water, but it wasn't enough to clear the suffocating feeling in your chest.

"Tell Yov I say hi," Frankie’s voice drifted from inside.

Only when Emma stepped out onto the porch beside you did you finally turn your head to look at him. Frankie’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, but you didn't say anything; you just offered a small fleeting smile, turning on your heel before it could fade.

Walking down the driveway toward the car waiting by the curb, you didn't look back. Not before getting into the car, not after the door clicked shut, and definitely not through the window as the engine revved and the house began to recede into the darkness.

The only thing you knew for certain was that you desperately needed a glass or two of that champagne. Or maybe something a lot stronger.

"Hey," Emma’s voice broke through the quiet, her fingers touching your forearm. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"

You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, but your body betrayed you completely. Your eyes burned, blurring with hot tears, and your mouth trembled, puckering into a soft painful grimace.

"Hey," Emma repeated, her fingers tightening just a fraction.

"It's over," you whispered. You didn't sob. You didn't break down. But your mouth trembled as the hot tears finally spilled over, tracks of quiet fire burning down your cheeks.

"What?"

"Frankie. It's over."

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

What a way to meet your ex again after so long!

To borrow another Friends analogy—I truly believe that these two are each other's lobsters.

She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End

She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End

She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End

You stand there in the middle of Tommy's room holding the piece of paper. Eyes unable to stop reading the last line – over and over again. 

p.s. don’t forget Joel cares about you too 

Would Joel really even want you in his room? Yeah he showed you a little affection this past week for the first time, but that was him letting you in a smidge. You don't want to be too much too soon. He probably doesn't want to be bothered at this hour by his step-sister he's only just started to tolerate. 

Ughhhhh. Fuck. 

You know you’re making excuses. 

It's not like you would be going in completely blind. A few days after the doorway disaster, Tommy had pulled you aside and told you how the talk with Joel went. Said he'd laid it all out – how it was just the two of you keeping each other company on the bad nights, hangin’ out here and there, and just getting to know each other a little more, becoming friends. He'd added that Joel had gone real quiet after – the way he does when something gets to him. "I think he wants that too," he'd told you, shrugging.

It’s just that… Joel makes you nervous in a way Tommy never did. Because Tommy, even when he was against you, you always knew where you stood. Joel is an enigma – guarded and impossible to read, and you've never been good with the unknown. You don't want him to turn you away, your fragile little mind wouldn’t be able to take it. But you so desperately seek comfort right now. 

So you take a deep breath and muster up as much courage as you can find – placing a few little taps on his closed bedroom door. “Joel?”

“Yeah? Come in,” you hear his voice say beyond the barrier between you. 

You slowly open the door, poking your head in reluctantly. Your body follows, though it stays pressed up against wood that just separated you – clinging to the last thing that created isolation from Joel. 

He’s on his bed with a book. There's something so disarming about finding Joel reading. You never pegged him for a reader. It delights you. 

Your eyes take a quick sweep of his room. It looks nothing like Tommy’s. Everything has its place. The bed is made under him, his jeans from earlier hang on a wooden chair by the desk instead of being on the floor. Posters are hung straight and even on the walls. A work lamp is clamped to the edge of his desk, its metal neck bent downward over an orderly stack of school papers and pencils. There are a couple wooden figures near the lamp, the same ones you recall him showing Ric one night at dinner. He told his dad he made them in shop class. You remember him ducking his head when his dad praised the detail in them. On the other side sits his wallet, truck keys, and a pocketknife – right next to a framed photograph of a woman with soft dark curls.

“Everything okay?” Joel gives you a concerned look.

“Uh–” this is just as hard, if not harder than you thought it was gonna be. Why did you even come in here? You look down at your hands that are fidgeting with one another and swallow hard, “Could I—I stay with you tonight?” You think your words sound needy and intrusive leaving your mouth. He looks at you for what feels like an eon without saying anything. The seconds stretch as dread starts to churn inside of you and you're sure then he’s gonna say no and send you on your way. 

Joel pushes himself upright and slides the book onto his nightstand. “Yeah,” he says with a few nods, and a hint of a smile that seems like it wants to climb higher on his face but is being suppressed. “‘Course you can.”

You step all the way inside and close the door behind you. Feeling a deluge of relief wash over you, yet still slightly apprehensive. 

He shifts over on his bed, a visible invite to come over and join him. Joel watches you cross the room and perch yourself next to him. You sit at the head of the bed, legs criss-crossed, facing him. He turns a little more toward you, leaning on his forearm. “Bad day?”

“Yeah, school was… a lot,” you start, and before you know it the rest just spills out. “There was this group project in history. I did my part, did more than my part, actually, and when we presented, the other 3 acted like I’d hardly done anything. Then at lunch everyone was talking about some party I wasn’t invited to. Not even on purpose. At least… I don’t think. It’s just like they… forgot I was there.” You pause, feeling the deeper reason waiting there. “I felt like I did when I first moved in here,” you continue. “Who am I kidding, I still feel like that sometimes. Like the leftover piece. No matter how hard I try to fit, I’m always going to be the odd duck out. The one who doesn’t really belong anywhere.”

This is why you wanted to go to Tommy, he knows how you feel already – knows your insecurities. There would be no need for a conversation, only comfort. 

Joel moves a little closer on the bed. Then he reaches out and brushes the hair out of your face, tucking a strand behind your ear. 

The touch from him is so unexpected, it causes your heart to race. 

“You got a place here,” he says, holding your eyes. “Maybe it doesn’t always feel like it yet, but you do. With us. With Tommy. With me.”

You don't know what to do with the sudden warmth that’s flooding through you. It's almost too much – Joel telling you you’ve got a place at his side. You look down fast to hide your eyes. They’ll convey everything you’re thinking and feeling. The same way Joel’s always give him away. 

“You say things like that and I might start thinkin’ you actually like me,” you joke, trying to deflect with a little humor.

“I do like you.” He furrows his brow. “I’m sorry if I've made you think any differently,” he says earnestly, shaking his head before the side of it rests against the headboard. He draws one leg up, the other stretched out along the blanket.

You want to shift gears, lighten the mood, so you glance around the room behind him. "Who's that?" you ask, head gesturing over to his desk. "In the picture."

Joel peers over his shoulder to where you're looking – staring so long that you almost apologize for asking. But his head comes back to rest against the headboard once more, staring at the empty space on the bed between you.

"That's my mom."

Your eyes find the photo again and you don’t know how you didn’t see it before. Joel has her eyes, Tommy her dark, dark curls. You think about the absence of her that you pondered the night when Tommy fell asleep in your lap. Part of you wants to ask. Part of you is scared too. But Joel keeps her here. Framed. Facing his bed. Whatever happened, he's the one who couldn't put her away. That has to mean it's safe to ask him, at least. Doesn't it? 

"She's really pretty," you decide on, trying to start out light.

"Yeah. She was."

Was. Ohhh shit. So much for lightening the mood. 

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "Joel, I didn't know. No one's ever—"

“Talked about her." He finishes for you.

"Yeah." You feel stupid now for asking. "I didn't mean to—" 

“No, it’s okay,” he says, looking back over at the photo. “‘Ur right, nobody really talks about her. Easier that way, I guess. For Tommy mostly but Dad too.”

“Joel—” you start, shaking your head. “"You don't have to talk to me about this or tell me. If you don't want to." 

"Nah, It's alright. You’re part of our family now… you should know too.”

He doesn't speak for a minute. You wait, trying not to fill the silence, even though every part of you wants to.

"Dad had to work all the time," Joel finally says. "Couldn't afford not to. Mom really wanted to stay home with us. She was a good mom, but she started drinkin’. Tommy was 5. I was 6. At first I didn’t understand what was wrong with her. Just knew sometimes she’d sleep too hard and sometimes she’d lose her balance or get sick. With Dad gone at work.” He exhales through his nose. “I’d try to keep Tommy quiet, busy playin’ ‘n whatnot. Help Mom if I could.”

You shift a little closer to him.

“As time went on, Tommy and I… we kinda took it on together… tryin’ to take care of her. We did what we knew. Water. Blankets. Tryin’ to get her to eat somethin’. If she got sick, we cleaned it up.”

The picture in your mind hurts to make. Two small boys dividing tasks that shouldn't have been theirs.

“A couple years passed, she got worse. Dad found out she’d started taking pills too. Not just the drinkin’. Dad had money put aside, he'd been savin' for a long time. He used it all to send her to rehab cause the insurance wouldn't cover it. She went for three months and came back."

"Was she better?" you ask, fully invested in Joel’s words.

“For five months… she was her again.” You can see the memories dance behind his eyes, as he looks down and smiles.

"And then?" 

“Then she relapsed. Dad didn’t have any more money to send her back,” he says. “She just kept spiralin’. Me and Tommy, we'd roll her on her side when she’d pass out. Dad had showed us how – so if she threw up she wouldn't choke on it. Showed us how to check her breathing, her pulse.”

You don’t realize you’ve reached for him until your hand is on his forearm. Joel looks down at it but continues.

“It went on like that for a while. I was 11, Tommy 10, when one mornin' we woke up to a buncha noise. We ran upstairs, just in time to see 'em wheelin' her out in a body bag. She'd overdosed in the bathroom in the middle of the night. Dad didn't find her 'til mornin'."

"Oh, God, Joel," you squeeze his forearm. "I'm so sorry."

He rolls his head back toward the ceiling. "It’s alright, was a long time ago." 

5 years isn’t really all that long, but you get that it probably feels that way to him.

"Doesn't mean the hurts not still there,” you tell him.

"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "Hit my dad hard. He loved her—” Joel stops, knowing that word isn’t big enough for what he means, for the love he saw his dad give his mom. “Loved her like crazy. Even at the end when she was harder to love, he never stopped. Loved her more then actually. I could tell it wasn’t easy for him, but he did his best to never let us see it – he was always there for me and Tommy.”

You think of Ric – his gentle demeanor, his kindness, the dad jokes, the way he dotes on your mom. You'd never have guessed he was carrying that underneath. 

"And Tommy—" Joel runs his fingers through his hair. "It was worse on Tommy. He was mama’s baby, ya know? Always with her.” He shakes his head slowly. "Even at first, before things started really going downhill – she sang to him, danced with him, held him, kept him close. I could start to see her problems affect him more after she relapsed – she wasn’t there for him as much. When she died… he lost a lot. Took it really hard. He still rarely talks about her, even with me. Big changes have been harder on us ever since.”

You watch him, listening.

“Things were finally starting to feel normal again. Then my dad met your mom and everything happened so fast and you and your mom were moving in.” Joel takes a breath, makes himself look at you. “I know it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. But it felt like our world being turned upside down all over again. Tommy took it out on you, and I… I let him. I stood there and watched him call you Goody for months and didn't tell him to cut it out. Times when I laughed and went along with it. I should’ve stopped it.” 

"Joel it’s—”

He cuts you off. "Please hear me out."

Nodding, you let him continue. 

"He's my little brother, he looks to me. He's always looked to me for guidance. If I'd told him to quit, he'd have quit and I didn't tell him. I should've reined him in. I should've been kinder to you. I watched you try to be invisible, and I didn't do a fuckin’ thing about it.” Joel reaches out, placing his hand on your knee. “And I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You study his eyes as yours start to burn hearing his apology. Tommy apologized too, weeks ago. But Tommy's apology was about what he did. Joel's is about what he didn't do and hearing that hurts in a way you weren’t prepared to acknowledge, because Joel is telling you he saw you suffering and chose not to stop it. He is handing you the ugliest version of himself and trusting you not to leave the room.

"I don't like seein' you sad, and I know I ain't made it easy for you to come to me. But you can. You don't gotta only go to Tommy… I care for you too.”

He admitted it. Joel flat out admitted he cares for you. You look back up at him and give him a small smile. “Okay… I will.”

He moves, swinging his legs over to the side of the bed.

“And Joel—,” you say, causing him to look back at you over his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me about your mom.”

He replies with a tight lipped, half smile and nods. He gets up and dims the work lamp on his desk till it's almost out, as you head for his door. 

“Where you goin’?” 

You turn around to see Joel already back in his bed, sliding under the covers. "I thought you wanted to stay with me tonight?" he says, his eyes looking sad.

You turn back around to fully face him, looking down at the ground then back up to him. “I do… I—I just didn’t know if you still wanted me to.” You heard what he just told you but part of you still has a hard time believing it.

Joel’s brows come together in confusion. “Of course I do. C’mere.” Lifting the blanket beside him in further invitation. He watches a smile come across your face in the low light as you walk back over to his bed. He loves watching you smile, especially at him. He has spent the past few months watching you smile at Tommy from across rooms, watching Tommy earn those smiles easily, and every time, Joel craved to be someone who could make you look like that too.

You climb into the bed and under the covers with him. Lying on your side, facing him. Surprised when he turns onto his side too. Facing you. Then even more surprised when he reaches across the small space. His hand finding your waist. 

"C'mere," he says again, pulling you close. 

You scoot in, anxious, and breathing faster. Your forehead finds a place under his chin. Your nose ends up tucked against the collar of his t-shirt – where everything that makes him smell the way he smells is waiting for you, and you breathe in. His scent makes you calm and nervous at the same time. Your hand goes around to the middle of his back. His arm comes around you, hand settling at about the same place. His other arm curls up behind your head, resting on your shoulder, pulling you as close as he can up next to his body. He’s wanted this for so long. 

For a minute you just lie there, breathing each other in. Your upper leg keeps shifting, trying to get comfortable. Joel lifts his upper leg a few inches. Just enough for you to take the hint. You slide your leg between both of his. The position is intimate, the shape of you together going from two people lying near each other to something else – a perfect fit.

"This okay?" he asks.

You reluctantly pull away from his neck. You cheek finding his chest as you turn your head towards the ceiling to answer. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he replies, squeezing you tighter for a second. And you can hear the happiness in his voice. 

As Joel holds you there in his arms, you can’t help notice on his ceiling, the green glow of stars just like the ones Tommy has in his room. Just fewer of them arranged in what you realize, after a second, is an actual constellation. Orion. The belt gives it away. "Did you put those stars on your ceiling?" you inquire.

“No, Tommy put 'em up there when we were younger.”

You smile against his shirt. Of course it was Tommy. Tommy who scatters his energy across every room he enters. 

"Why Orion? Is it your favorite or something?”

"Tommy picked it ’cause it was easy.” Joel chuckles. “You know it?"

You contemplate for a moment on how open Joel was with you about his mom. And because he gave you his, you decide to give him a piece of yours. 

"Yeah," you say, quieter now. "I know it." You keep your eyes on the little green cluster. "I went through this whole space phase when I was a kid. Knew all the constellations, the planets, how many moons they had and all their names.” You feel Joel's chest rise and fall under your cheek. "My dad gave me this book about it one year for my birthday. Big glossy thing, pictures of nebulas and galaxies. I think I read it cover to cover about a hundred times." A small, sad laugh works its way out of you. "He promised he'd take me to this planetarium that had a big aerospace exhibit. I was so excited. Figured space must be his thing, so I made it my thing too. Learned everything I could about it." You pause, thinking about your futile efforts. "He was always comin' and goin' back then. I thought maybe if I knew enough, had enough to talk to him about, he'd want to stick around. Or at least come back sooner." Your throat tightens. "He never took me. Just left one day and didn't come back at all." 

His grip on you tightens on you again, in an attempt to bring you comfort. Joel doesn’t know anything about your dad aside from what you just told him. But from that alone he knows the man's a coward. He can’t understand how a dad just up and leaves his daughter behind, someone small and trusting, not wanting with every fiber of his being to protect you.

Before he can say something. You fill the silence, trying to lighten up the heavy. “Did you know Orion’s sword will point you south?”

Joel joins you, looking up at the ceiling.

"No," he admits, his thumb moving slowly against your back. "Can't say I did."   

"I used to think that was so cool. That the sky could help the people below it navigate the world.”

Joel zeros in on one of the tiny stars above. Thinking about a girl who taught herself all these things for a man who just left her. And how regardless of not having him in your life, you still shine so bright, just like the stars in the sky.  He looks back down, mouth resting atop your head. His hand across your back comes up to hold your face, thumb moving back and forth across your cheek. 

"Estrellita," he says, his heart beating faster.

You lean back a little to look at his face, a little confused. "What?"

His eyes search yours, hand still cradling your face. "It—it means little star.”

Your stare holds his, while your face starts to flush and smile. His expression shifts just slightly with a hint of self-consciousness. He looks back up at the ceiling, not quite believing he said it. But it's true, you’re like a beacon in the night – that’s pulled him and Tommy in. 

“Yeah?” you ask, fully smiling now, looking at the side of his face. You find him adorable when he’s a little embarrassed. 

“Yeah… it—it just fits you.”

The nickname makes you feel effervescent. Nobody's ever looked at you and reached for a word that meant you shine and were worth looking up at. First chica, now this. Your step-brothers concealing their tenderness inside their native language.

You study Joel for another moment while he watches the ceiling, part of you feels sad for all the months he didn’t allow you to see this version of him. But the sadness lasts only a second before gratitude pushes through and takes its place. Because you're here now. He let you in. 

You stretch up, pressing your lips against his cheek, surprising him. "Thank you," you say against his skin. "For everything tonight."

You nuzzle back into his neck, melting into his embrace, with an even bigger smile on your face. Hearing his heart pound a million miles a minute. “Night, Joel.”

His cheek comes to rest against your forehead. He’s trying to catch his breath. In no way was he expecting you to reward him with a peck to his cheek with your soft lips. “Goodnight, Estrellita.”

Before falling asleep, you lie there in Joel’s arms, thinking about the new facets of him that have been revealed to you. About a 6 year old boy bringing water to his mother. About a 9 year old who knew the words rehab and insurance the way other kids knew the words recess and homework. About an 11 year old at the top of a staircase watching his mother leave in a bag. And about the 16 year old who keeps his mother's picture on his dresser and has a shelf of paperbacks. The enigma that was Joel before you walked into his room tonight isn't fully gone. But you understand him better now. You think about all the time you spent thinking he didn’t care for you, afraid of him in ways. When this complicated but caring guy was what waited on the other side of this door all along.

This whole time Joel kept you at arms length. He hated himself for it now, now that he’s held your warmth in his arms and learned more about you. But it had all been for a good reason. His wanting started before you left for camp. That night Tommy made you cry in the bathroom. He wanted then, to hold and comfort you. But when you got back, that wanting morphed more, into another type. A type that he shouldn’t feel for his step-sister. So he buried it under distance. Then Tommy got close to you in a way that didn’t cross lines. Joel wanted in on that. He had thought fine, if he couldn’t have you the way he really wanted, he’d take what he could get.

And now that’s what you’ve been building with him too, a friendship. Though he figures it’s probably not coming as easy as it did with Tommy.  

One day on a whim, Joel invites you along to the thrift store – says he’s on the hunt for some band tees. You happily tag along. The place smells like a grandma’s powdery perfume.

Joel heads straight for the t-shirt racks, flipping through hangers. You trail behind him, really just there to keep him company, but somewhere around the third rack, your eyes wander and you spot them. Wedged between two pairs of acid-wash jeans. You pull them off the rack, already schemin’.

By the time Joel's got a stack of tees over his arm and heads for the dressing room, you're ready. You shove the hanger at him, the shirts concealing most of the item. It’s plain to see he's a little annoyed – the way his eyes drop to the hanger and then back to you. But you can tell he hasn’t really taken in what the item is.

"Just humor me," you say. "Try the shirts first if you want. I can wait." 

He gives you a long, flat look, and disappears behind the door. You lean against the wall outside and listen to the rustle of fabric, the occasional grunt, a this one's alright muttered mostly to himself. He cracks the door once to show you a Suicidal Tendencies tee and you give it a thumbs up. Cracks it again for a faded Pearl Jam one, you smile and nod. He's actually kind of into this, you realize. It's cute. 

There's another rustle, followed by a pause. Then you hear him. 

"Oh no. Huh-uh." 

You dip your head down to peek under the dressing room door. His Chucks are off and you can tell he’s holding up the item you so kindly provided him. 

"Come on, Joel.” You bite your lip. “Please just try them on. For me?"

He gets huffy. Then goes quiet. You wait. And wait. And when nothing happens, you figure that's that. He's not doing it. You push off the wall and start to walk back toward the racks, a little disappointed but not surprised, because it's Joel, and Joel doesn't— 

The door squeaks open behind you.

You turn around. And you fold your lips all the way into your mouth, biting down hard, little bursts of air escaping through your nose while you try your damndest to contain your laughter.

There Joel stands in a pair of baggy-ass wide-leg JNCO jeans that drag the ground and swallow him whole. The heavy denim pulling down at his hips, the band of his boxers peeking out over the top. He looks… miserable. 

"Give me a little twirl?" you request, already losing the fight against your laughter. 

Joel just shakes his head. But you see the way his lips pucker and press, fighting a smile against his will.  

You cross your arms and tilt your head, giving him a once-over. "Somethin' tells me you’re not really feelin’ ‘um.”

His brows shoot up, eyes widening. "Ya think?"

And that does it. You lose it completely, doubling over, hands on your knees, the laugh ripping out of you is loud enough that a lady browsing the shoe section glances over. Joel's still standing there in the doorway, arms out a little from his sides like look what you did to me. But now he's laughing too, because your laughing has always made him laugh, he just usually hides it better than this.

"Okay," he says, reaching to catch the waistband before the whole thing slides off him. "Okay, that's enough. Show's over."

You wave him back into the dressing room, still heaving. He goes, grinning the whole way – that one grin you've only started getting recently.

You find yourself out in the garage with him more now. Like tonight, you walk out there, finding half his body protruding out from under the car, on his rolling creeper. The hood of the project car propped up and a caged light bulb hooked on to it and hanging from it. You boost yourself up onto the stool next to the work bench, arm knocking into the coffee can full of nuts and bolts. 

Joel chit-chats more here than anywhere else in the house, you’ve noticed. At dinner he lets Tommy and your parents carry the conversation. In his room, it's long silences that don’t need filling, yet you still feel a closeness all the same. Your homework spread across the foot of his bed while he reads or does his own homework.

But out here, his hands are busy and his eyes have somewhere to be that isn't your face – not that you don’t think he doesn’t like looking at your face. He'll tell you about the engine, about what he's fixing and why, and you don't understand half of it but you like the steady rumble of his voice. 

"My dad bought this car the year I was born," he tells you, while his hand blindly searches for a tool on the ground next to him. "Drove it 'til the engine gave out, then it just sat. Always said he'd fix it up one day." He pauses, hand finally finding the tool. "Started workin' on it with me and Tommy after Mom passed. Gave us somethin’ to do. Somethin’ to keep our minds busy.”

"You've been working on it for a while then?”

“Handful of years now. Be a miracle if it ever actually gets finished.”

“I hear good things take time.” 

Kinda like your relationship with him.

“Look at you, givin’ out a little pearl of wisdom.” He laughs. “Hand me that ten-millimeter, would ya.” You look down at him, half his body still buried under the car with his arm stuck out, palm open and waiting. 

You glance over at the workbench – at the spread of tools laid out across a stained shop towel, sockets and wrenches in a dozen sizes that all look exactly the same to you. "I, um." You pick one up. Set it down. Pick up another. "Which one's—" 

Joel grabs the front end of the car and rolls out from under it, until he’s looking up at you. Sees you hovering over the tools, with a soda in one hand and the cutest lost look on your face. He starts snickering.

“Hey!” You point the Coke can at him. I told you I don't know this stuff." 

"I know, I know." He's still grinning as he pulls himself up off the creeper, coming towards you. "My fault. Forgot who I was askin'." 

You’ve got one elbow propped on the bench beside you, feet hooked around the legs of the stool so your knees fall open. He steps right up in front of you – between your legs, leaning past you to sort through the tools. You can’t help it, your head tips towards him. He smells like grease and his Irish Spring deodorant. You hold still, delighting in his aroma, until he finds the one he wants. “This is a socket. Goes on the ratchet. The number's the size – see, stamped right here." He holds it up so you can read the little 10 etched into the metal. "Ten-millimeter. Most-used tool in any garage, and the one that goes missin' the most. Nobody knows where they go. Great mystery of mankind."  

You're smiling now, watching his face. He sets one in your palm and closes your fingers around it with his hand – his rough, warm hand folding over yours. "There you go. Now you know one thing."  

"One whole thing."

"Gotta start somewhere.” Joel says, still standing over you, right there in the gap between your knees, and neither of you moves to fix the distance. He’s looking down at you. His eyes drop, briefly, to your mouth, then come back up like he didn't mean to let them. His breathing seems to pick up. You start to feel like you can’t breathe at all, the room getting hotter and hotter by the second. You should say something, create a break in whatever hell is happening. Just as your lips come apart to speak, he clears his throat and shifts back half a step. His gaze lands on the Coke in your hand, finding sanctuary there.

“That cold?” he asks, looking back up at you.

You nod, cat still holding your tongue.

"Gimme a sip?" He holds up both hands, palms out and streaked black with grease and the new socket pinched between two fingers. 

You take the hint, lifting the can, bringing it to meet his mouth, and tipping it up. You watch him the entire time. His lips caressing the metal, his eyes closing as the liquid starts to flow, his throat moving as he swallows. You bring the can back down and a little of it catches at the corner of his mouth and his tongue comes out to chase it. 

“Thanks, sis,” he says, giving you a stunted smile. 

Sis.

It feels like a cold bucket of ice water has been dumped on your head. You start rewinding the whole thing in your head. His eyes on your mouth. The way his breathing changed – or the way you thought it changed. Maybe you imagined all of it. He was between your legs because that's where the tools were. That's all. He looked at your mouth because – because people's eyes move, because you were about to talk, because it meant nothing. 

He wouldn't have said that if his head was anywhere near where yours just went. You don't call a girl sis in the same breath you're thinking about kissing her. Did he say it as a reminder to you? Fuck it kinda sounded like that…like, This is what we are. Don’t make it weird. 

God. You feel the room getting hot again for a whole different reason now. 

But there was that stunted little smile after. It didn’t quite sit right on his face, like the word felt wrong coming out, like he’d grabbed for it as something safe to hide behind. Jesus, you’re not sure. You're never sure with Joel. That's the whole problem with him. Tommy you can read like a flashing billboard. Joel you still have to guess at, and any time you think you've got him figured, he does or says something that rips the rug clean out from under you. 

Fine. If that's the game – if he's gonna stand here and sis you after all that – then two can play. A little tit for tat. You paint a huge smile on your face and decide to hit him with, "No problemo, big brother." 

You watch his face for whatever info you might be able to gather. You can tell it catches him off guard. He winces slightly, trying to hide it with a smile to match yours, before he finds his way to the floor again, sliding under the car. 

Well that helped clear up nothing.

And you hate to say it but that entire interaction with him makes you nervous and overthink everything. But it's not just that one interaction. He’s been so wishy-washy with how he treats you since you’ve started to get to know him more. This is just the one that brought it all to a point in your mind. So for the next couple of days you avoid going to his room at night. Either going to Tommy’s or just staying in your own room. 

As you're trying to fall asleep you get a knock at your door. The moonlight coming in from your window above is the only thing illuminating the room. “Yeah? Who is it?” 

“It’s Joel. Can I come in?”

Joel. What does he—

“Uh. Yeah, come in.”

You sit up in bed, watching him slide through the door “What’s going on?”

He comes over and sits at the end of your bed. His breathing turns shallow, he still hasn’t looked up at you. “I just… I’ve missed you.”

You’re floored by his confession. “Missed me?”

"Yeah." He finally lifts his head, in the moonlight you can see him working up to something. "You been goin' to Tommy's the last couple nights. Or stayin' in here." He stops and shrugs. "Figured maybe I did somethin'." 

You don't answer right away. You're not about to hand him the whole tangled mess of what's been keeping you out of his room. But you know you need to tell him something. “I have a hard time telling where I stand with you. I’m always second guessing, unsure if you really do want me around you—” You admit, taking a breath. “Sometimes your words or actions feel like you want to push me away, other times, like you want to pull me in.”

He nods slowly, with a pained look in his eyes. "I don't mean to do that to you," he says. "The pushin' away – it's not ‘cause of you, it's not about not wantin' you here—” Joel lets out a shaky breath. “It's the opposite, if that makes any sense. Which it probably doesn’t." He shakes his head at himself. “I don't want you steerin' clear of me. That's the last thing I want." You drop your eyes to his hand, watching it slide back and forth across the top of his thigh with anxious energy. "Got used to you stayin’ with me, is all… miss you stealin’ my blankets.” He confesses with a chuckle.

Your jaw playfully drops, appalled by his allegation. “I most certainly do not steal your blankets.”

"Oh, you don't, huh?" There's a glint of mischief in his eye now, the pained look melting clean off his face. "Every single mornin', I’m freezin' my ass off while you're rolled up like a burrito." 

“That’s a lie—” But before you can get another word out his hands are at your sides, fingers digging in, and you shriek, twisting away from him and folding in on yourself. 

"Joel—Joel, stop—" You can barely breathe or get the words out through the laughing, kicking at the blankets, trying to squirm out of reach. "Okay, okay, I steal 'em! I steal the blankets!”

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He gives you one last poke just to hear you yelp, then relents, both of you panting and breathing hard, when he lies down next to you. 

You settle back against your pillow, heart still thumping from being tickled half to death, and look at the side of his face there in the dark. God, you missed him. It's only been a couple days, but it felt like so much longer than that. 

"Hey." He turns his head on the pillow, voice low now, all the teasing gone soft. "Can I stay in here tonight? With you?" 

Like you'd ever tell him no. 

"Yeah, I’d like that.”

His arm comes across you, hand finding your waist, and he draws you in until your face tucks into that spot beneath his chin – the one you’ve already claimed as yours in your head. He takes a deep breath breathing you in, he’s missed you more than you’ll ever know. Then exhales, long and slow, pulling you both down into a calm place. You fall asleep like that – wrapped up in Joel, in your own bed this time. For the first time in days, you drift off, having a better grasp of where you stand with him.

Over the next month you bing-bong back and forth between the brothers' rooms – hardly ever sleeping in your own anymore. Your room is just a shell now, a place where your things reside and where you get ready in the mornings. 

Tommy's door is always cracked. You don't even knock anymore, just push it open and waltz in. And always at the end of the night, you curl around each other, and there is never a moment of hesitation where you wonder if you are welcome – at least for now. Tommy is a sure thing.

Joel's door stays closed. You always knock. He always says come in, and every single time, the copious amount of relief that floods your bloodstream is embarrassing — disproportionate to the two small words spoken, but you can't help it.

The friendships you have with both of them, you hold near and dear. Nearer and dearer than anything you've had before, which is exactly what makes it so frightening. Because you've started to notice your constant need to check and recheck that you haven't worn out your welcome.

You know how easy you are to walk away from. Your father taught you that at 6 years old, when he didn't even bother to say goodbye. He made leaving look simple. Effortless. And that lesson — that people leave, that you are the kind of person people leave — has lived inside you ever since. Outlasting every good thing that tries to prove it wrong. It's there when Tommy grins at you. It's there when Joel holds you. It's there when you sit between them on the couch –feeling more whole than you've ever felt– screaming in your ear that this too is temporary, enjoy it while you can. Because you hold on too tight. You're too needy. You read too much into things. And the brothers have yet to see the full extent of this.

A couple of times it's gone past worry and into full fledged panic attack. Once, sitting on Tommy's floor while he played guitar, the panic arrived so suddenly you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom, where you sat with your back against the tub, riding it out alone, because the thing you were panicking about was the very thing you couldn't tell either of them. When you came back, Tommy asked if you were okay. You said yeah, weird stomach thing. He nodded and kept playing. You hated yourself for lying to him.

And you are wanted in all the right ways by both of them but one. And that one is very important and it starts to hijack everything else. It shouldn’t. You know it shouldn’t. You have two boys who hold you, listen to you, make you laugh and let you sleep in their beds. That should be enough. It should fill you up, satisfy that void that lives in you.

But it doesn’t.

You want more. You want hands on you that don’t stop in safe places. You want a mouth against yours, swapping saliva. You want to know what it feels like to be wanted not just emotionally but physically, completely. 

The obvious candidates sleep next to you at night and it's not like you haven't thought about it, you know they find you attractive, and The Miller brothers are hot. Tommy with his bleached curls, his lazy grin and the way his hand looks wrapped around the neck of a guitar. Joel with his soulful brown puppy dog eyes, his newly broadening frame and the way he pulls you into him.  

You've thought about both of them in ways that would mortify you if anyone could read your mind. But they are your step-brothers, you can't go there. Because the moment you reach for one of them, that would mean setting fire to it all, including the friendships you’ve built with them. 

And who would you even choose? Joel or Tommy. Tommy or Joel.

You pick Tommy, and Joel, who took months to let you through one door, would retreat back behind that door for good, and you'll never get him back. 

You pick Joel, and Tommy would smile and try to be happy for you but his eyes would tell you the truth – they’d empty out, and you couldn’t live with that. Picking one means losing the other. You can't pick. You won't pick.

Which is why when Tate shows up, you let him in, because you need somewhere safe to put all this want.

Oh naur! There's trouble on the horizon! I'd love to hear your thoughts so far! Let's chat! How we feeling?!

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She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End

I love a happy ending (especially without Tom 😆).

She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End