Page 224 of Wild Then Wed
We went for a walk after we left the nursery. The air was cold and still, and our boots crunched over frost-covered gravel. We didn’t talk much, just stayed close, walking in step like our bodies were still catching up to everything our hearts had just been through.
And when we came back inside, Sawyer didn’t close the nursery door.
He walked past it like it was just another room. No pause. No quick glance over his shoulder. No key turning quietly in the lock. The light from the hallway stretched into the lavender space like it had every right to.
For as long as I’ve lived here, that door has stayed shut—sealed off like the grief inside it might leak out if it weren’t. But this morning, without ceremony or explanation, it was wide open.
Sawyer didn’t say a word. Just stepped out of his boots, flipped the light on in the kitchen, and grabbed a mixing bowl so we could start making breakfast like letting that light in wasn’t one of the bravest things he’s ever done.
We’re halfway through our pancakes when there’s a knock at the front door.
I pause mid-bite and glance at him. “Were you expecting someone?”
He shakes his head, his mouth still full, and grabs a towel to wipe his hands as he stands.
The second he opens the door, a blur of pink and glitter launches into the house. “Uncle Sawyer!”
A small human cannonball throws her arms around his legs like she hasn’t seen him in years. She’s covered in Band-Aids like they’re stickers, wearing sparkly rain boots and a plastic tiara that’s slightly askew on her head. Her blonde pigtails bounce as she slams into him, and he bends to catch her, laughing.
“Hurricane Nora,” he says, lifting her with both arms. “Hey, bug.”
And then the rest of them come in. All of them.
His parents stepped in behind her first—Estelle with her hair swept up and makeup already done, carrying two pies and a couple of Tupperware containers like she’d been prepping since dawn. Vaughn had a jacket folded over one arm and a tray of something that smelled incredible in the other. Then came his siblings, layered up in coats and scarves, talking over each other, arguing about who left the car lights on. Even Anna came, trailing in last, looking polished and put together, a soft cream sweater stretched gently over her pregnant belly.
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of everything. My hair, which I haven’t brushed. My morning breath, which I haven’t dealt with. The shirt I stole from Sawyer’s closet.
Estelle spots me and smiles like nothing is out of place. “Wren, sweetheart,” she says, voice warm, already walking toward me. She sets the food on the island and pulls me into a hug that smells like lemon pie and expensive perfume.
I pat her back gently. “Hi, Estelle.”
Anna’s right behind her. Her hair is softly curled, and she looks good in that effortless way people in their second trimester seem to pull off. She hugs me too—less intense, but just as real.
“Hope it’s okay I came,” she says, already setting down a stack of wrapped gifts on the edge of the island. “The Harts said I could spend Christmas here with them so I don’t have to drive two hours back home on the icy roads.”
I nod, still trying to catch up. I’d forgotten she mentioned she was living in Juniper Falls for now—a city a couple hours north of here. Not ranching country like Summit Springs. More coffee shops than feed stores. More sidewalks than dirt roads.
She’s been staying with the Harts while she trains with me a few days a week. It’s temporary, but still. There’s something about her being here, wrapped into all of this, that makes it feel a little fuller. Like she belongs, even if none of us really expected her to.
“I thought you were spending it with the adoptive parents?”
She shrugs. “They took a trip to the coast in Oregon. Said they wanted one last Christmas, just the two of them.”
“Oh.” I pause. “Yeah. That makes sense, I guess.”
She doesn’t offer anything else, and I don’t press.
By then, Sawyer’s got his niece perched on his hip while she tells him, in great detail, about a dream she had involving a talking llama and marshmallows. His siblings are already in the kitchen. Someone’s pulling mugs from the cabinet. Someone else is unwrapping foil from a tray of cinnamon rolls like this is just a regularly scheduled family brunch.
And I’m still standing here, Sawyer’s shirt swallowing me whole, surrounded by all of it.
Anna looks around, her eyes wide. “Thisis Sawyer’s house?”
I nod.
She blinks once, then glances at me with a crooked smile. “Well. I guess it’s your house, too.” She nudges me gently with her hip. “Mrs. Hart.”
It catches me off guard—not because it’s not true, but because I’m not used to hearing it said out loud like it’s a real thing, not just something written on a piece of paper at the courthouse. But I smile, because itistrue. Somehow. This is my home now.
