Chapter 8 - The Season of Gold
By October, the Michigan valley was transformed into a breathtaking canvas of fiery red, orange, and deep gold. The autumn air was crisp and invigorating, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and apple cider across the orchard.
The white farmhouse was filled with warmth and life. Inside the spacious kitchen, Megan was standing at the butcher-block island, rolling out dough for fresh cherry pies. Her small baby bump was now comfortably visible beneath her cozy cream sweater.
Clara sat on a high chair beside her, her face covered in flour as she happily played with a small piece of dough, attempting to mimic her mother’s movements.
The back door opened, and Dominic walked in, carrying an armful of freshly chopped oak logs for the fireplace. He looked healthy, broad, and deeply relaxed, his dark hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck.
He set the logs into the copper rack beside the hearth, then walked over to the island, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Clara’s flour-dusted head.
"You're a mess, little bit," Dominic chuckled gently, wiping a speck of flour from Clara’s nose.
Clara let out a loud, toddler laugh, holding up her sticky hands. "Dada! Look! Pie!"
"Very good pie," Dominic praised, before turning to Megan. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his hands over her visible bump, resting his chin on her shoulder. "How are my favorite girls doing?"
"We're wonderful," Megan smiled, leaning back against him, placing her flour-dusted hands over his hands on her belly. "Dr. Evans confirmed yesterday... it’s a boy, Dominic."
Dominic went stock-still, his heart hammering against his ribs. "A boy?"
"A son," Megan whispered, turning her face to kiss his cheek. "A little boy who is going to grow up learning how to farm, how to build, and how to be just as honorable as his father."
Dominic closed his eyes, holding her tightly against his chest, feeling the quiet, beautiful rhythm of his family.
For thirty years, the name Dominic had been spoken in whispered terror in the dark alleys of Boston, Montreal, and Toronto—a name associated with blood, shadows, and lethal precision. But here, in this kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon and cherry pie, his name meant safety, warmth, and unconditional love.
"What should we name him?" Dominic asked softly, his voice full of deep emotion.
Megan smiled, turning in his arms to look up into his dark gray eyes. "I was thinking... Gabriel?"
Dominic raised an eyebrow, a soft smirk playing on his lips. "No. Definitely not Gabriel."
May you like
Megan laughed—a bright, ringing sound that filled the room. "How about Caleb? Caleb Dominic Vance."
Dominic looked down at her, his eyes filled with profound devotion. "Caleb. It means bold and faithful. It’s perfect."
