Page 251 of Wild Then Wed
I can’t fathom what this feels like for them. A gain for us. But a loss for them, maybe. They’re giving up a granddaughter. Not because they want to, but because life gave them too much all at once.
And Anna—I can’t stop thinking about Anna. Signing papers that break her heart open so someone else can be whole. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything braver than that.
The nurse takes the folder quietly and steps out of the room.
Marisol turns back to us, her voice warm and a little teasing. “So. You two ready for a baby?”
Wren looks at me. I look at her.
And it doesn’t matter that the nursery still feels unfinished or that we don’t have a car seat or that we didn’t see this coming.
Because somehow—deep in my bones—I know.
“Yes,” we both say, at the exact same time.
Marisol laughs softly. “Well then,” she says, her smile stretching, “let’s get this baby home.”
And just like that, we’re parents.
Chapter 43
SAWYER
EIGHT WEEKS LATER
Parenting is not for the weak.
I used to think sleep deprivation was just something new parents exaggerated about. Some rite-of-passage badge they wore like a war hero. But it’sreal.Bone-deep. An exhaustion that makes you forget if you brushed your teeth or fed the dogs or answered that email from the county vet board.
Right now, Ruthie’s finally asleep in my arms. Her little head is tucked beneath my chin, her breath warm and rhythmic against my chest, and I am not about to do anything stupid like sit my ass down. Sitting somehow triggers the gods of infant unrest.
So I walk. Back and forth across the nursery floor, slow and steady like a damn metronome.
The room is dim except for the soft glow of the nightlight near the changing table. The walls are still that pale lavender, still covered in the hand-painted butterflies I couldn’t bring myself to paint over. But it doesn’t feel frozen in time anymore. Now there’s a basket of clean onesies by the rocker, a half-drunk bottle of formula on the dresser, and the faint scent of lotion and baby wipes in the air.
It’s been eight weeks since she came home. Eight weeks that have stretched me more than I ever thought I could stretch.
Between the clinic, the adoption paperwork, helping Dad and my brothers on the ranch, and trying to keep Hank and Winnie from losing their minds with all the new routines—I’m operating on fumes most days. Wren, too.
She’s stepped away from both training programs for now—just until Ruthie’s a little older. For the last six weeks, Wren’s world has been diapers and feedings and walks with the stroller and the dogs. She’s good at it. Better than she thinks. But we’re both learning that even the best kind of love comes with a new level of tired.
We haven’t seen much of Anna yet. She’s still recovering. She sends check-ins here and there—quick texts, a photo every so often. She said she plans to come back to the training program once she’s cleared by her doctor and her class schedule settles. We don’t push. I figure she’ll come around when she’s ready.
The adoption process has moved along smoother than I expected. Our home study came back positive—no surprise, but it still felt like a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We’ve passed all our background checks. Our references came in. Marisol said we’re in the final leg of it now—waiting for the court date to finalize everything.
Sixty days.
That’s how long it’s been since I watched Wren cup a newborn baby’s face in her hands and call her a ray of sunshine.
That’s how long it’s been since I became a dad in a barn on a cold April morning.
And now, I’m here, barefoot, walking tiny loops through the same nursery I used to avoid. And she’s here—Ruthie Ray Anna Hart. Her fingers curled around the edge of my shirt, her body soft and warm against mine.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhale the faint scent of her hair, and keep walking.
Even though I’m running on three hours of sleep and a shit ton of coffee…I’m grateful. I didn’t think I’d ever have this. I didn’t know if it was something I could ever hold again. Not after losing Violet. Not after living in this house with the same nursery for five years, the door shut tight and my hands empty.
But here she is. Hereweare.
