Page 212 of Lost Then Found
“I know so.” She shifts in the saddle, eyes on the horizon. “He’s good at pretending he’s fine. Always has been. But lately? He doesn’t look so tired all the time. Even Ridge noticed.”
“Ridge just wants free food for life when the Bluebell reopens.”
Wren laughs, bright and soft and a little contagious. “Okay, that might be true. That boy isalwaysworking an angle. But I’m serious. Boone’s…lighter. Like he can breathe again.”
I don’t say anything at first. I didn’t come here looking for that kind of reassurance, but it sticks anyway. Quiet and steady.
“Hudson’s happy too,” I say. “He’s never had this before. A real place. Family.”
Wren’s quiet, then says, “He’s got it now. He’s a good kid.”
“He’s stubborn.”
She gives me a look. “Wonder where he gets that from.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
She smiles, then tips her head slightly like she’s really looking at me. “This life…it fits you.”
“What, parenting a preteen and trying not to fall off of wild horses?”
“No.” Her voice softens a little. “Being here. With Boone. It looks good on you. You seem happy.”
I don’t answer right away. Just breathe it in—the air, the place, the truth of it.
I look out at the hills, at the way the light hits them now, gold along the edges. I don’t say anything for a second, because there’s too much to say. But I feel it—that thing she’s talking about—the rightness of being here.
Of being home.
I clear my throat—too sharp, too quick—but it’s that or start crying, and I’m not doing that. Not out here. I keep my eyes on the horizon like there’s something worth looking at, even though there’s not. I just need a second. Something solid to focus on besides the burn behind my eyes or the knot in my throat.
“Alright,” I say, voice a little too forced, too light. “Got any secret lovers stashed away I should know about?”
Wren laughs, her head tipping back as Ringo twitches an ear at the sound. She steadies him with a gentle squeeze of her leg, like it’s nothing. Like it’s muscle memory.
“Secret lovers?” she repeats, grinning. “Not a chance.”
I shoot her a look. “Not even one?”
She shakes her head, the smile still there but softer now. Her fingers work at the reins, twisting the leather like she’s thinking through something.
“I’ve never had a real boyfriend,” she says after a beat, voice low.
That catches me off guard. “Never?”
Wren shrugs, just one shoulder, her cheeks turning pink beneath all those freckles. “I’ve hooked up with a few guys. Nothing serious. Never really meant anything.” Her thumb moves in slow circles over the saddle horn like she’d rather look at that than at me. “Truth is… I don’t have much experience with any of it.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am.
I’ve heard the talk—hard not to when you work at the Bluebell. Ranch hands, drifters, locals running their mouths after one too many beers at the bar down the road. Wren’s name comes up a lot. So does Sage’s. Usually in the same breath, and usually it has something to do with how beautiful they are. The Wilding sisters.
What gets me is how wrong people are about them.
They lump them together, like one package deal. But they’re nothing alike.
Sage is water. Soft, deep. She feels everything—lets it move through her. She’s gentle in a way that comforts people without them even realizing it.
Wren’s sunlight. Bold, sure, but quiet with it. She’s all long limbs and tanned skin, strong from early mornings and hard work. Freckles everywhere—arms, hands, collarbone. Her copper hair’s a wild thing, thick and untamable, and those eyes—clear, bright blue—could level a guy without her even trying.
