Page 270 of Lost Then Found
My eyes drift to the duffel bag by the front door. His glove is hanging out the top, a sleeve of baseballs wedged into the side pocket, cleats clipped to the handle.Hudson Wildingis printed in big block letters across the front—stitched in white, clean and simple.
He asked for that not long after Lark and I got married.
We were sitting on the porch one night—just the two of us—sharing a bowl of popcorn he’d dumped half a bottle of hot sauce on. He was quiet for a while, then out of nowhere he looked up at me and said, “I want my last name to be Wilding too.”
We started the paperwork that week. The whole process took a few months—court forms, a hearing, some signatures. But when the judge read it out loud—Hudson James Wilding—he stood a little taller. Smiled like something in him had clicked into place.
It didn’t change anything about how I saw him. He’s always been mine. But I think it changed something for him. Made it feel real. Permanent. Like he belonged not just in our house, but in our name.
And now every time I see it—on his duffel, on his school ID, on the scoreboard when he’s up to bat—I feel it all over again. What a gift it is to be chosen by him.
Hudson scrapes the last bite of pancake off his plate, then glances toward the window. “Hey, can we go up to the main house for a little bit?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Grandma probably wants to see all of you anyway.”
She always does.
Mom revels in being a grandma again—soaks up every second she can get. She’s always been great with Hudson, but there’s something different this time around. Maybe because she knows how fast it goes. Ormaybe because there’s something healing in getting to start over.
Sometimes I catch her watching the twins while they play, just sitting quietly at the table or curled up on the couch with Lainey asleep against her. She’ll get this far-off look in her eyes, soft and a little sad.
I know she’s thinking about my dad when she’s like that.
About what it would’ve looked like if he were still here. If he’d lived long enough to be “Grandpa” instead of just a story we tell.
And sometimes I think maybe this—Jack and Lainey, a second chance at grandparenthood—maybe it would’ve softened him. Just a little.
After breakfast, I wipe syrup off tiny hands and cheeks, then get Jack and Lainey dressed without waking Lark. She’s curled up on her side, hair falling across her face, completely still for the first time in days.
I leave her there—quiet, peaceful—and carry the twins out to the truck, one at a time. Hudson follows with their diaper bag already slung over his shoulder.
We pile into the cab, and I back out slow, watching the morning light spill across the gravel.
The ranch stretches out in front of us—wide and quiet under the sharp November sky. The fields have faded from gold to a muted brown, the grass dry and brittle underfoot. Most of the trees have already shed their leaves, their bare branches clicking together in the breeze. A few stubborn crickets still hum in the weeds, and the horses, thicker-coated now, flick their tails against the morning chill.
It’s colder, sharper, but still beautiful in its own rough way.
There’s work to be done—there always is. Cattle to move before the first snow, fence lines to check before the ground freezes solid.
Wren was out before dawn checking on the troughs again. We’ve had water issues the last six months—pressure dropping in the southern line, runoff acting strange. Not enough to panic, but enough to keep both of us up at night.
Whatever’s going on, it’s bigger than just a couple of slow troughs.
That aquifer runs under more than just our land. It feeds the grazing pastures, the cattle pens, the irrigation lines for half a dozen ranchesaround here. If it shifts, if access gets blocked or usage gets restricted—hell, it could cripple operations for every ranch between us and the state line. No water means no cattle. No grass. No life. When it comes to ranching, if you lose your water, you lose everything.
Wren’s been trying to untangle it. Quietly, methodically, like she always does. Because that’s what she does when things get messy—she fixes them. Doesn’t ask for credit. Doesn’t make a fuss. Just keeps pushing forward, steady as ever.
And she’s not doing it for glory. She’s doing it because she loves this land. Because it’s in her bones same as it’s in mine.
By the time we roll up to the main house, Hudson’s already unbuckled and halfway out the door before I’ve even cut the engine.
I snort, climbing out and unstrapping Jack from his car seat. He blinks up at me with those big, dark eyes, thumb already halfway in his mouth. Lainey’s kicking in her seat beside him, wild and impatient, a full-body wiggle.
“All right, all right.” I hoist Jack onto my hip before grabbing Lainey, who immediately flings both arms around my neck like she’s been trapped in the truck for eight years instead of eight minutes.
They toddle toward the porch on their own, chubby legs moving fast, Lainey’s curls bouncing, Jack a little more careful as always. The front door swings open, and there’s Mom in her apron, red hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the kitchen.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite delivery service,” she says, stepping down and scooping both twins up, one on each hip. They squeal, Jack giggling into her shoulder, Lainey planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
