The screen door creaked open with a familiar groan as Jim Langston stepped inside, boots heavy with dust and the scent of sunbaked cedar clinging to his coat. He’d just finished mending the south fence, sweat still drying on his brow, when the sound hit him—shouting, crying, and the unmistakable thud of something wooden hitting the floor.

He paused in the doorway, steel-blue eyes sweeping across the scene.

Ranger tore past first, tail tucked, ears pinned back, and—Lord help him—wearing a crooked pink bow on one ear and a pair of tiny underpants slung around his middle. The twins were hot on his heels, shrieking with laughter one second, then bursting into tears the next.

“We ain’t mud babies!” one of them wailed, tears streaking down a freckled cheek.

“You are too!” came the smug voice of the eldest boy, arms crossed, chin high. “Pa found ya in a puddle, remember? Said you were squallin’ like frogs.”

The twins gasped in horror, their little faces crumpling.

“You take that back!” the older daughter snapped, shoving her brother hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall. “You’re just mad ‘cause you smell like the barn!”

The twins burst into giggles, pointing at their big brother, who now looked ready to launch himself at his sister.

“Pa!” both older kids shouted at once, spinning toward the door. “Tell ‘em to stop!”

Jim didn’t say a word at first. He just stepped inside, slow and deliberate, the floorboards creaking under his boots. His gaze flicked to you—slumped in the rocking chair, hair mussed, eyes glazed with exhaustion, a wooden spoon still clutched in one hand like a white flag.

He exhaled through his nose, set his hat on the hook, and rolled up his sleeves.

“Alright,” he said, voice low but firm, “that’s enough.”

The room froze.

“Ranger’s a dog, not a dress-up doll. And he sure as hell don’t need drawers, even if they are clean.”

The twins sniffled, nodding solemnly.

“As for you two,” he said, turning to the older pair, “if I hear the words ‘mud babies’ again, I’ll have you both haulin’ water from the creek ‘til your arms fall off. That clear?”

“But she pushed me—!”

“And you ran your mouth,” Jim cut in, raising a brow. “Ain’t one of you innocent in this mess.”

He stepped forward, crouched beside the twins, and gently wiped a tear from one of their cheeks with his thumb.

“You ain’t mud babies,” he said softly. “You’re mine. Every last one of ya. And I don’t care if you came from a puddle or the stars—you’re loved. Now go wash up. Supper’s soon.”

The twins nodded, sniffling as they shuffled off. The older two exchanged a look, then followed, grumbling under their breath but keeping their distance.

Jim stood, stretched his back with a quiet grunt, then turned to you. He crossed the room in a few strides, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You look like you’ve been through a war,” he murmured, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Why don’t you go sit out on the porch a spell? I’ll wrangle the rest of this circus.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile—tired, but full of love.

“Go on now. I got it.”