Page 245 of Wild Then Wed
And I just stand there, a little stunned, watching the girl who came into the barn screaming and terrified now holding her daughter like she was made to do this.
They wheel Anna toward the barn doors, wrapped in flannel blankets and the faintest halo of steam from the paramedics’ breath as they talk into radios and secure the straps. The baby’s still on her chest, tucked against her.
But just as they reach the threshold, Anna lifts her head, her eyes locking onto mine.
“Wren,” she says, her voice hoarse but urgent.
I step closer. “Yeah?”
She reaches out and grabs my hand with a surprising strength. “Come with me.”
“What?”
“To the hospital.” Her voice cracks. “I don’t want to be there by myself and it’s going to take my parents a couple hours to get there.”
I glance at Sawyer on instinct, like my body doesn’t know how to make a decision without him anymore. He’s standing behind the stretcher, eyes already on me. He doesn’t hesitate—just gives a small, quiet nod and mouths,Go.
My heart swells, sharp and warm all at once. I nod back.
Anna turns to the paramedics. “She’s my best friend. I don’t have anyone else here.”
The older paramedic glances at me, assessing. “You her emergency contact?”
“One of them,” Anna says. “She’s someone I’d call first.”
He nods once. “Climb in.”
So I do.
They help me up into the back, and I slide onto the narrow bench beside Anna. It smells like antiseptic and metal and something sterile underneath it all, and my jeans are damp from kneeling in hay and melted snow, but I don’t care. I’m here. That’s what matters.
As we pull away from the barn, the siren stays off—no rush now. The baby is quiet, her eyes still shut, her cheeks flushed a pale pink against the blanket swaddling her.
Anna’s head tilts down, watching her daughter like she can’t believe she’s real.
I watch her watching her, and something inside me twists.
I want to feelonlyhappy. That’s what I want. For Anna, for the baby, for this tiny miracle that just came out of a freezing barn floor and a tangle of fear and sweat and screaming.
But my throat tightens, and my eyes sting, and I know myself too well to pretend it’s just joy.
There’s grief here, too.
Not bitter, but just here. Heavy in the background. Because I want this, too. I’ve always wanted this. And maybe I won’t have it—not in this way, not in the way Anna does now, not in the way I used to dream about.
But I’ve learned that both things can be true. I can hold her hand and feel her joy and mean it. I can be proud of her and awed by her and want every good thing in the world for her.
And still—still—there can be a piece of me that aches.
Both things can live inside me without canceling each other out.
They just sit beside each other. Like me and Anna. Quiet and breathing and holding on.
Chapter 42
SAWYER
Hospitals always smell the same. Antiseptic and over-processed air. Something vaguely sweet beneath it, like cherry-flavored cough syrup or old flowers. And bleach, of course. Always bleach.
