The sun dipped low over the Montana horizon, casting the Dutton ranch in a warm, golden haze that seemed to stretch across the whole damn valley. The fields were soft with wind, and the mountains—eternal, blue-shadowed and godlike in their quiet—stood watch in the distance. Somewhere behind the barns, a hawk cried once, then fell silent.

The baby shower was simple by most standards, but here, on the Yellowstone, it was something else entirely. The long wooden tables had been dragged out into the yard behind the house, covered in mismatched tablecloths and centerpieces made of wildflowers, sage bundles, and sprigs of pine. A clothesline hung between two trees, baby onesies in soft earth tones clipped like prayer flags in the breeze.

There was lemonade and cold beer in old tin tubs, finger sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and a cake that Beth had insisted on—half lemon, half chocolate, “because I don’t trust either of you to stick to one damn thing.”

Kayce stood near the barn, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips as he watched his wife laugh with Monica and some of the ranch hands’ wives. She was radiant in the truest, most grounded sense—glowing not with something ethereal, but with something solid, something real. Her hand rested protectively over her belly, now round and unmistakable beneath the soft cotton of her dress. She looked happy. Which meant he could breathe again.

“You look like someone who’s thinking too much,” John Dutton said, stepping up beside him with two bottles in hand. He passed one to Kayce without waiting for an answer.

“I’m trying not to,” Kayce replied, taking a sip. “Trying to just… take it in.”

John nodded. “That’s a skill. Doesn’t get easier. You’ve got to choose it every damn time.”

Kayce glanced sideways at his father. There was warmth in John’s voice, but it came laced with that familiar weight—like every lesson cost something.

“Think I’m ready,” Kayce said.

“You don’t have to be,” John answered, watching the breeze rustle the grass. “You just have to show up. And fight for ‘em when they need it.”

Rip wandered by not long after, looking freshly scrubbed and deeply uncomfortable in a collared shirt. “You sure this ain’t a trap?” he muttered, eyeing the pastel balloons tied to the fencepost.

“Pretty sure,” Kayce deadpanned.

“That cake better have whiskey in it,” Rip said, moving on before anyone could ask him to smile.

The laughter came in waves—gentle, rolling, real. Monica started a game that involved guessing baby names; Beth snorted when someone suggested “John.” Kayce’s wife made a joke about naming the baby “Storm” if he kept kicking like that. It was a good crowd. Not many outsiders. Just family, the ranch, the people who mattered.

When the sun finally dipped below the tree line, the fairy lights strung between the fence posts came on, flickering like lazy stars. Kayce’s wife opened a package wrapped in soft linen—inside was a quilt, hand-stitched and edged in elk bone buttons. He watched her trace one with her thumb, her smile smaller now. More private.

“This was his mother’s,” Monica said softly. “She wanted you to have it.”

His wife blinked once, then twice, nodding as she carefully folded it back into the box. Kayce’s hand found hers beneath the table. She didn’t need to say anything. Neither did he.

They stood together near the firepit as dusk settled in, her head resting against his shoulder, the murmured voices of family drifting around them like music.

“I didn’t think we’d ever get something like this,” she whispered.

“Neither did I,” he said. “But I think we’ve earned it.”

A beat.

Then, without looking at him, she asked, “Are you scared?”

“Every day,” he admitted. “But I’ve got you. That’s the part that makes it worth it.”

And when she looked up at him—eyes soft, tears just catching the light—he kissed her forehead. Gently. Reverently.