POV Kameron

Ivory’s voice turned to steel. The warmth from moments ago vanished like smoke in a hard wind.

“My personal life is off-limits. I thought I made that clear when we agreed on conditions.” She stood in the doorway of her cottage, arms crossed. “I appreciate your help tonight. Both of you. But that doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Ivory, wait.” I stepped forward, frustration building in my chest. “Lily told me things while you were working on her brother. She said they’re five years old. Said they’re starting kindergarten this fall, and she’s nervous about making friends because—”

The door slammed in my face.

I stood there like a fool, staring at weathered wood and peeling paint. The porch light flickered overhead, casting shadows across my boots.

Behind me, Colt said nothing. Did nothing.

Just stood there like a damn statue while Ivory shut us out.

I rounded on him. “You could have backed me up in there. Said something. Anything. Instead you just stood there watching her slam the door in our faces.”

Colt’s expression didn’t change. His voice came out calm and measured, the way it always did when I wanted to punch something.

“Her child is sick. She’s exhausted. Frightened. Pushing her now would only make things worse. You know that as well as I do.”

I wanted to argue, wanted to hold onto the anger because it was easier than whatever else churned beneath it. But he was right. Ivory had spent the last hour fighting to save her son’s life.

The dark circles under her eyes, the tremor in her hands—she was running on fumes and fear. Guilt settled heavy in my gut, replacing the frustration.

“Whiskey,” Colt said. “Main ranch house. I think we both need it.”

“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the image of Lily’s small hand fisted in my shirt. “That’s exactly what this situation demands.”

We walked across the ranch property in silence.

The main house loomed ahead, its windows dark except for a single lamp in the living room. Hank had gone to bed hours ago, his trembling hands and shuffling steps a reminder of why we’d bought this ranch in the first place.

Colt poured two generous glasses from the bottle we’d brought from Texas.

Good stuff. Aged. The kind of whiskey that burned going down and settled warm in your chest.

I dropped into the worn leather armchair and stared at the amber liquid. “I’ve always been a dreamer, you know. Chasing horizons. Never staying in one place long enough to put down roots.”

“Casanova is more accurate.” Colt settled onto the couch across from me, his glass balanced on one knee. “You’ve chased more than horizons, Banks. You’ve chased every woman who caught your eye from here to California and back.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Adventure. That’s what I told myself I was after. Adventure with women, with rodeo, with life. Never responsibility.” I took a long swallow of whiskey, letting it burn. “Certainly never children. I don’t know the first thing about being a father. Never had one worth remembering.”

The silence stretched between us while Colt watched me with those calculating eyes, seeing more than I wanted him to see.

“Are you afraid?” His question cut straight to the bone. “The possibility of being those triplets’ father? That she might really have gotten pregnant that night six years ago?”

“Terrified.” The admission came easier than I expected. “Anyone would be, right? Three kids, Colt. Three. I can barely keep track of my own life, let alone be responsible for three small humans who need things like bedtimes and vegetables and someone to hold them when they’re scared.”

Colt swirled his whiskey slowly. When he spoke, his words knocked the breath out of me.

“I would be actually happy to discover those children were mine.”

The question burned on my tongue before I could stop it. “Hank, those children of Ivory’s—who’s their father? Why isn’t he around?”

Colt shot me a warning look. “Kam, this isn’t the damn time.”

But Hank lowered himself into the chair by the window with a heavy sigh, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-eight years.

“Ivory told us about her pregnancy something like two months after the harvest festival, I think,” he said quietly. “Refused to name the father. Wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t tell Ryan, wouldn’t tell anyone who asked. We pushed her to consider other options… Stupid men. I still regret what I’ve said to her that day.”

His voice softened, filling with a love that made my chest ache.

“But she wouldn’t hear any of it anyway. Said those babies were hers, and that was enough. She’s moved out to the spare cottage on the ranch property and raised them all alone ever since. Three beautiful grandchildren who call me Pops and think I hung the moon.”

He finished with a serene smile on his face, not actually realizing what he revealed and what was now happening in our minds since the words left his mouth.

The harvest festival.

Two months later.

Colt and I locked eyes across the room and we both understood that the math wasn’t complicated at all. That night in the tack room. Both of us were inside her. Both of us were gone by morning.

Five-year-old triplets.

Two possible fathers.

Those children belonged to one of us, for sure now. And Ivory had carried that secret alone for six years while we chased our separate horizons.

The whiskey turned to ash in my mouth.