Page 269 of Lost Then Found
I kept thinking about what I missed with Hudson. How I didn’t get to see her like this the first time. Didn’t get to put my hand on her stomach to feel him kick or rub her back when it ached. Didn’t get to tell her she was doing great when it was so hard.
But I got it now. And I didn’t take a second of it for granted.
I did everything I could to make it easier for her. I rubbed her feet at night. Learned how to make whatever she was craving, even when it changed by the hour. I ran her a bath every evening, checked the water twice to makesure it wasn’t too hot and left a towel on the edge so she didn’t have to reach.
On the days when the heat settled into the house and wouldn’t leave, she walked around in my old T-shirts, hair up, legs bare, a bowl of watermelon in one hand and a popsicle in the other. She’d tell me she was fine and then groan dramatically when she couldn’t get comfortable on the couch.
I refilled her water bottle without her asking. Set timers for her prenatal vitamins so she wouldn’t forget. I sat with her on the floor of our closet one afternoon while she cried because nothing fit anymore. I didn’t try to fix it. I just held her. Let her cry until she stopped. Brushed her hair off her face, kissed her temple and told her she was still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen—and I meant it.
I didn’t do any of it because I wanted a gold star. She was growing two entire humans inside her. That body I already loved was working overtime in ways I’d never be able to fully understand. So I did what I could. Quiet things. Small things. The kind of things that might not seem like much, but felt like the closest I could get to saying thank you for carrying our babies. For doing the hard, holy work I’ll never be able to repay.
The twins came in early April. Right in the middle of a late-season blizzard that shut down half the county. That’s Montana for you—sunshine one day, whiteout the next. Spring shows up when it feels like it, and winter never leaves without a fight.
I woke up at three a.m. to Lark standing over me, calm as ever, saying, “Boone, my water broke.” I barely got my boots on before we were in the truck, crawling through whiteout conditions like I was driving on glass.
She never screamed. Never panicked. Just squeezed my hand and breathed through it like a goddamn warrior. By the time we made it to the hospital, her contractions were so close together they nearly had to wheel her in.
Jack Harvey Wilding came first. All quiet and wide-eyed. Elaine Alice Wilding followed four minutes later—screaming like she was pissed to be second. We call her Lainey, or just Laine, most days.
Watching Hudson hold them for the first time wrecked me. He was socareful with them. Studied their little faces. Called them “his babies” before anyone else did.
Sometimes I look at the three of them—Hudson with Jack sleeping on his chest, Lainey curled up on Lark’s lap—and I still can’t believe this is my life.
But hell, am I glad it is.
Lark’s still upstairs, sound asleep. She doesn’t get mornings like this often, but on the weekends, I’ve made it a hard rule—she stays in bed, no exceptions. I told her after the twins were born that weekends were mine. I delegate what I need to on the ranch, shift things around with the guys so I can be home for a few hours. She spends all week pouring herself into the kids, into the Bluebell, into making sure none of us fall apart—and I see the way it wears on her, even when she doesn’t say it out loud.
So on Saturdays and Sundays, I make sure she sleeps. And every day, I make sure she gets time to herself. Time to run, which she’s started doing again lately, more often than not, or time to read.
The twins start babbling to each other in those high-pitched little voices that make no sense to anyone but them. I set their pancakes on their trays cut into pieces, with a side of blueberries, and they clap like I just handed them the keys to the kingdom. Lainey grins like she owns the place. Jack shoves two pieces in his mouth at once and nearly chokes.
Hudson shuffles into the kitchen a few minutes later, still half-asleep, hair sticking up in every direction. He climbs onto a stool at the island, rubs his eyes, and mumbles, “Can I have chocolate chip instead?”
“Sure, buddy,” I say, already reaching for the bag.
He rests his head on one arm while I pour the batter, watching me through heavy eyelids. He’s quiet like he always is in the mornings—slow to start, but steady once he does.
“You ready for your game later?” I ask, flipping the pancake.
He nods, lets out a small breath. “Yeah. Should be an easy win. The Willow Creek Hawks suck this year.”
I let out a laugh and glance over my shoulder. “Love the confidence.”
He gives me a crooked smile, then reaches for a fork like he’s still half-asleep.
He’s fourteen now, and I swear every time I look at him, he’s taller. All legs and elbows and messy hair that he suddenly cares about. He looks like me—same dark curls, same brown eyes—but he’s got this light in him that’s all his own. He’s figuring himself out. Starting to pull away in small, quiet ways. Still my boy, but not a little kid anymore. There’s an edge of independence to him now.
Lately, he’s been talking about girls. Not a lot. Just little things. A classmate he says is “funny,” a comment about someone’s lip gloss that made Lark raise an eyebrow so fast I thought her face might stick that way. He gets awkward when he brings it up, mumbles under his breath like I might tease him if he says too much. But I don’t. I just listen. And when I tell Lark that we might be entering the next era—the girl phase—she goes a little pale.
What hasn’t changed is how good he is with the twins. He doesn’t just play with them—he watches them. Pays attention. Picks Lainey up when she’s getting frustrated, hands Jack a toy to distract him when he starts getting overwhelmed. He reads them books in silly voices, sings songs that make no sense, lets them crawl all over him when he’s trying to watch a game or do his homework. He’s patient and never acts like any of it’s a burden. He fits into the role of big brother like it was made for him.
Last summer, I took him on a surprise trip. Just the two of us. We flew to LA, went to a Dodgers game at Dodger Stadium—his first time on a plane, first time seeing palm trees in real life. He didn’t stop smiling for three straight days.
Wren and Sage came to stay with Lark while we were gone. They moved into the guest room for a long weekend, told Lark to rest and stop worrying, said they’d take care of the babies and order takeout and keep the house from burning down. And they did.
Meanwhile, Hudson and I ate our weight in churros and soft pretzels, watched the Dodgers batting practice like it was a religious experience, took a photo in front of the field like tourists, and stayed up way too late watching SportsCenter in the hotel. It wasn’t anything extravagant, butit felt big. Important. It felt like hitting pause in the middle of a life that never lets me slow down, and I know it’s something I’ll remember when he’s older and too busy to come sit next to me on the couch.
Because these small windows—where he still wants to hang out with me, still looks up when I walk into a room—they’re starting to close, and I don’t want to miss a damn thing.
