Jamie Dutton

The Montana sky was clear, washed in the pale blue of early spring, and the chill of the morning was softened by the promise of sun. Easter Sunday at the Yellowstone Ranch meant no cattle drives, no branding, no heavy labor. Instead, the day belonged to family and faith, to tradition and a feast that would stretch long into the evening.

You stood on the wide porch of the ranch house, smoothing the front of your dress over the curve of your belly. The fabric—a soft cornflower blue trimmed with white—had been chosen with care that morning, its ties loose enough to give you comfort while still presentable for church and company. A wide-brimmed straw hat shielded your face from the sun, though a few loose strands of hair escaped and blew in the mountain breeze.

Beside you, Stetson Lee tugged impatiently at your hand. At three years old, he was a bundle of restless energy, his little boots scuffed from running the yard, his shirt neatly tucked into small denim overalls. A pale yellow bow tie—Beth’s idea—sat crooked at his throat, and his straw hat wobbled with each excited bounce. In his other hand, he clutched a brightly dyed Easter egg like it was gold. “I’m faster’n Rip,” he declared proudly, thrusting the egg aloft.

“Faster at eatin’, maybe,” Rip grumbled from where he leaned against the porch railing, but the twitch at his mouth betrayed a smile. His usual black jacket was swapped for a freshly pressed shirt, collar open, though he still looked every inch the foreman.

Beth appeared behind him, setting down a tray of hot cross buns on the railing with a flourish. Her dress was fitted and floral, though paired with her signature boots. She lifted her glass of champagne in a mock toast. “Don’t anyone touch these before the blessing, or I’ll skin you.”

Stetson giggled so hard his hat tipped forward over his eyes.

John stepped out from the house then, jacket freshly brushed, his hair combed neatly, though time had carved lines into his weathered face that even Easter morning could not soften. He surveyed the gathered family—their chatter, their laughter, the way the ranch hands mingled on the lawn preparing tables—and his eyes settled on you. His hand brushed gently across your back, steady, grounding, before slipping to rest at your waist. His gaze flicked briefly to your belly, then softened further.

“Alright,” John said, voice carrying with the quiet authority that never needed to be raised. “Church’ll be short, dinner’ll be long, and anyone caught sneakin’ pie before the blessing answers to me.”

Beth rolled her eyes but smirked into her glass. “Don’t test me, Daddy.”

Kayce and Monica came up the path just then, Tate bounding ahead of them in his Sunday best: a little vest and neatly combed hair. Monica wore a pale cream dress with soft embroidery at the hem, her arm looped through Kayce’s, who looked uncomfortably crisp in a clean white shirt and dark jacket. “He wrangled into that tie himself,” Monica said with a laugh, nodding toward Tate.

“Looks better than his uncle ever did in one,” Beth quipped.

Rip shook his head, muttering, “Careful.”

Meanwhile, Stetson had wriggled free, running down toward the corral where Colby and Ryan were hiding eggs in tall grass and fence posts. Teal and pink shells winked in the sunlight as the ranch hands chuckled at his determination. Stet’s straw hat bobbed as he sprinted, his boots clattering over the dirt yard.

You pressed a hand over the swell of your belly as your daughter shifted inside you, stirred by her brother’s laughter. The life within you felt as much a part of this day as the warm smell of baking bread wafting from the kitchen, the sound of horses shifting in their stalls, and the murmur of ranch hands setting out long wooden tables for the feast.

Jamie’s arm came around your waist, his hand lingering at your side, thumb tracing softly. His voice was quiet, meant only for you. “She’ll be here by next Easter. Two little Duttons runnin’ underfoot.”