Page 75 of Wild Then Wed
The only difference is the eyes. Molly’s are warm and brown, easy to read. Wren’s are a sharp blue.
“Well, well,” Molly says, hands on her hips. “I’d know a Hart any day.”
I let out a low laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
She grins. “Oh, please. You’re a walking, blonder version of Estelle.”
That’s fair. I’ve heard it before. I’ve got my dad’s frame, but my mom’s everything else. “Yes, ma’am.”
Molly rolls her eyes like I just cursed in church. “Oh, don’t you start with thema’ambusiness. Makes me feel ancient. Molly works just fine.”
“Yes, ma—” I catch myself, smirking. “Molly.”
“That’s better,” she says with a wink, then leans a little against the doorframe. “You wanna come in?”
“Actually, I was looking for Wren. Any idea where she’s at?”
She sighs lightly, a soft affection in it. “Hard gal to pin down these days. But I think she might be over in the barn if she hasn’t wandered off somewhere else.”
She gestures past the house toward the structure a little ways up the path. The barn’s big—red with white trim, old but well-kept.
“If she’s not in there,” Molly adds, “you come back and give me a holler. I’ll try to track her down for you.”
I nod, already stepping off the porch. “Yes ma—” I glance over my shoulder. She’s already giving me that look. “I mean, Molly.”
“There it is. We’ll beat those old-fashioned manners out of you yet, Mr. Hart,” she says with a smirk before heading back inside and closing the door behind her.
I let out a quiet chuckle as I head toward the barn. I’ve always liked Molly. Spitfire, for sure, but with a soft heart. Just like her daughter.
The barn doors creak when I push them open. A few horses shift in their stalls, tails flicking, eyes following me as I walk down the center aisle. Dust floats in the air, catching in the shafts of sunlight spilling through the windows. The scent of hay, cedar, and something faintly floral—maybe whatever shampoo they use on the horses—settles around me.
And then I see it.
Near the back, where the barn opens up a little wider—there’s a tarp laid out on the ground. A paint palette resting on one side. A canvas propped on a low easel.
I stop walking.
The painting is…beautiful. Not just good, not just talented—striking. Like it doesn’t want to be stared at, but dares you to anyway. It’s a pair of hands—older, worn, the lines and grooves of a life’s work captured in the brushstrokes. Every tendon,every scar, every wrinkle painted like it matters. Like it’s worth honoring.
And it feels…familiar. Not in the way I know whose hands they are, but in the way I know what they mean. The weight of them. The quiet sacrifice tucked in the joints.
I’m still staring when the tack room door creaks open. Wren steps out, two paintbrushes in her hand.
She’s in black leggings and an old, over-sized Dolly Parton T-shirt that’s seen better days—splattered with dried paint and tied in a knot at her waist. Her hair’s piled in a messy twist on top of her head, loose pieces falling out to frame her face. She’s barefoot and there’s a smudge of blue paint on the side of her neck.
She stops when she sees me.
“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Uh. Hi.”
I smile. “Hi.”
She looks surprised, caught off guard in the way people do when they weren’t expecting company and don’t know whether to be flattered or mildly alarmed.
For some reason, I find it endearing as hell.
“I just…figured I’d swing by. See how you were doing,” I say, stepping a little further in. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
She nods, slowly, like she’s still catching up to the fact that I’m standing here in her barn. She walks over to the canvas, crouches to set the brushes next to the palette, and stands again, brushing her hands off on her thighs.
