Page 254 of Wild Then Wed
To Julia.
We visit her grave every year on her birthday, which is in just a few days. Sawyer always brings fresh flowers—usually violets. I bring a letter.
I didn’t know her, but I write to her like I do. Because sometimes loving someone means loving the people who loved them first. And maybe it’s selfish, but it helps me sort things out—how grief and joy can live in the same house without tearing it down. It helps me remember that love doesn’t erase what came before. It builds on it. Quietly, sometimes. But it builds.
I glance out the window.
The yard stretches wide and bright, a full Montana summer wrapped in golden light. Picnic blankets and lawn chairs dot the grass. Tables are crowded with plates of food, birthday gifts half-opened, balloons tangled in the breeze. There’s a bowl of fruit salad sweating under the shade of the pop-up tent, and someone—I’m guessing Ridge—is loudly arguing with Boone over the grilling technique near the smoke.
Sage is on the grass with Ruthie in her lap, brushing crumbs off the front of her little red gingham dress. The dress was clean for maybe seven minutes this morning. Now it’s streaked with barbecue sauce, sidewalk chalk, and something suspiciously glittery. Ruthie’s two now—talkative and wild and full of opinions she’s just learning how to explain. Her cheeks are still round and pink, her curls are thick and dark, springing out in every direction. Her hazel eyes catch the sun like glass, constantly shifting—more green in the morning, more brown by the evening.
She wriggles out of Sage’s arms and takes off across the yard in that full-throttle toddler sprint, heading straight for Anna, who already has her arms out, laughing. Ruthie launches herself into her like she’s coming in for a crash landing.
Paul, Anna’s dad, sits nearby in a lawn chair, his cell phone in hand, trying to take a picture. I can see him squinting at the screen, moving it back and forth. I make a mental note to print some pictures for him later this week.
Ruthie doesn’t sit still long. She’s already darting toward the drink table, where Ridge is unwrapping a birthday gift. She calls his name, and he looks up and grins at her—wide, easy. She grins right back.
That’s who she is. Bright and fast and never still. She collects rocks, hates socks, and talks to bugs. She thinks every animal is her best friend and every door in the house should be left open. And she has no idea how deeply she’s stitched into the center of this family.
She’s our girl. And she’s everything.
The adoption process was slower than I wanted and faster than I was ready for. We had to meet with a caseworker once a week for the first couple of months—home visits, background checks, paperwork so thick I thought my hand might fall off from signing. There were questionnaires about our parenting values, our discipline philosophies, how we planned to support Ruthie emotionally, physically, spiritually. They asked us things I’d never said out loud before. Things I hadn’t even known I believed until I heard myself answering.
And then there were the interviews. The home study. The waiting.
But we were lucky. Anna had been clear. She told every social worker and legal rep who would listen that she wanted Ruthie with us, that this was her decision and no one had forced her into it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way she looked in court the day everything became official—nervous, but strong. Brave in the quietest, fiercest way.
When the judge said Ruthie Ray Anna Hart out loud, I felt it in my chest. Something loosening. My throat burned, and Sawyer squeezed my hand under the table.
She was ours. Not just in heart, but in name. And even now, all this time later, I still can’t believe I get to be her mom.
We’ve made it a point to keep Anna close. Not just in theory, but in the actual, lived-in ways that matter. Ruthie knows exactly who she is—there’s no mystery, no confusion, just love. Anna comes over every week, sometimes more. Sometimes to train, sometimes to study for school, sometimes just to lay with Ruthie in the grass and count clouds. Ruthie calls her “Nanna,” a nickname she came up with on her own that somehow stuck, and Anna never corrects her.
She’s training full-time on the Hart ranch now—strong, focused, quietly brilliant with the horses—and she’s in school too, working toward her degree in equine science. She manages a 4.0 GPA like it’s no big deal, even though she’s juggling more than most adults I know. Sawyer and I are both in awe of her. The way she’s rebuilding her life, piece by piece, with so much intention. With so much grace.
We tell Ruthie all the time how lucky she is to be so loved. But the truth is, we’re all lucky we get to love her.
Joel and Nova are posted up near the dessert table, half-listening as Lark tells a story to them, Miller and my mom, who all look equally amused and concerned. Their daughter, Lottie, breaks free from Nova’s legs and takes off toward Ruthie and Lily—Boone and Lark’s daughter, who’s only six weeks younger than Ruthie—the three of them now elbow-deep in clover flowers near the fenceline.
Emily swoops in and herds them into a circle, starting a game ofRing Around the Rosie.Ruthie trips halfway through and collapses in a fit of laughter, Lily right behind her. Lottie looks around like she’s just realized she’s part of a full-on production and starts giggling, too. From here, I can hear Emily’s voice gently urging them to stand back up for round two.
Joel’s saying something to Lark now that makes her cackle and roll her eyes, while Nova just smiles into her drink. Joel’s the dad who makes up bedtime stories on the fly and somehowconvinces Lottie that broccoli gives you superpowers. He and Nova moved to Bozeman a little over a year ago, and from the start, it felt easy. Familiar. Like they belonged in the folds of our lives before I ever met them.
Nova and I had already gotten close by the time Ruthie was born, but something shifted after that. Something deepened. She started showing up twice a week without asking, driving two hours one way—sometimes with groceries, sometimes with coffee, sometimes with a look that saidget in the shower, I’ve got her.
Once, when Ruthie was teething and I hadn’t changed my shirt in three days, Nova walked in, took one look at me, and said, “You get a nap. I’ll handle the tiny tyrant.”
And just like that, I had a best friend. Not one that you see every few months. One who sends you screenshots of shoes she’s buying and checks in just because. One who folds your laundry without asking and doesn’t judge the state of your kitchen.
I didn’t know how much I needed that until she gave it to me. I think I used to believe I had to do all of it on my own. That needing someone meant failing at something. But Nova never made me feel like I was failing. She made it feel normal. Shared.
I hear Ruthie before I see her, tugging insistently on the hem of Emily’s shirt, her voice rising. “Horsies! Horsies!”
Emily glances down, already smiling. “No horsies right now, Ruthie girl.”
Ruthie’s curls bounce as she plants her feet wider. “Moo moos?”
Emily tries to hold in a laugh. “No moo moos right now, either. Later, okay?”
