Page 246 of Wild Then Wed
I rub the sticker on my chest with my thumb—white with blue block letters that say GUEST. It’s curling at the edges already.
The walk from the front desk to Anna’s room feels longer than it should. Not because it is—but because everything in me is still moving in slow motion. Like I haven’t caught up to the day yet. Or maybe the day hasn’t caught up to me.
I delivered a baby. A real one. A human one.
And for a moment—one brief, awful moment—I thought she might not make it.
I’ve done hundreds of calvings, some with complications worse than this, but that moment…that baby…that silence right before she cried…it did something to me I still don’t know how to name.
Afterward, I took Hank and Winnie to my parents’. Checked on a couple of the heifers that are close, then drove straight here.
And still, it doesn’t feel real.
I pass two nurses who nod politely, and a guy in flannel who claps me on the shoulder like we’re old friends. That’s the thing about small towns—every hallway’s familiar, even when the walls are sterile and gray and closing in.
When I find the right room, the door’s cracked open.
Anna’s lying in the hospital bed, propped up by pillows, smiling. There’s a faint flush in her cheeks, and she looks more rested now. She’s talking to a couple sitting against the far wall—they must be her parents.
But it’s Wren that stops me.
She’s sitting on the other side of the room, cradling Anna’s baby in her arms.
Her head is bent low, her red hair falling over her shoulder, and she’s smiling down at the little girl. The baby’s tiny fingers are wrapped around one of Wren’s, and her other hand moves gently down the bridge of the baby’s nose.
Wren looks…different.
Gentler. Quieter. Almost luminous. And I don’t mean that in some poetic sense—I mean she’s literally glowing. From the inside out. Like everything’s been softened in her. Like holding that baby opened up a part of her I’ve never seen before.
God, I love seeing her like this.
Anna looks up and spots me. “Sawyer,” she says, her face brightening. “Hi! I’m glad you came by.”
Her parents stand as I walk in.
Her dad steps forward first, sticking out his hand. “Are you the one who delivered my granddaughter?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, shaking his hand.
He nods hard, his eyes glossy. “I’m Paul,” he says. “And I can’t thank you enough.”
Anna’s mom steps up beside him. “You saved her. You helped her through something that must’ve been terrifying. Thank you.”
I shake my head. “It was no problem at all. I was happy I could be there.”
I glance toward Anna, then nod toward the baby. “Mind if I come closer?”
“Please do,” she says, beaming. “She wants to meet her hero.”
I grab some hand sanitizer from the wall dispenser and rub it into my hands as I walk over, the chemical scent sharp against the air.
Wren doesn’t look up when I sit down beside her in one of the flimsy hospital chairs. My knee juts awkwardly against the plastic rail. These chairs weren’t made for men my size.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Wren murmurs.
I nod, my throat thick. Beautiful doesn’t seem like the right word.
She’s angelic. Otherworldly. Tiny and pink, with dark hair that’s already curling slightly at the edges. The nurses stuck a little pink bow just above her temple. Her cheeks are round and chubby. Her lashes—dark and long—sit against them like they’re painted on. Her lips are in a soft little pout.
