Under the Midnight Sky (Hawthorne Ranch #3)

Prologue

Lily Hawthorne

“Towels are in the bathroom cabinet, and breakfast is at eight.”

I smile at the elderly couple staying in room four as they nod politely, already halfway out the door, eager to explore.

September always brings a certain kind of guest, the kind that arrives curious and leaves a little softer, a little quieter, like Wyoming has settled into them.

Fall in Lander does that. Everything turns golden and crisp, the air carrying that first hint of cold, and people never expect it to be this beautiful out here.

I watch them go for a moment longer than necessary, then turn toward the stairs just as Grace cries.

I know that cry.

Sharp, offended, deeply wronged, like the world has personally betrayed her by waking her too soon.

I move quickly down the hall and into her room, lifting her from the crib before she can work herself into a full storm. She quiets almost instantly, her small body curling into mine like it belongs there, like it was always meant to fit against me this way.

“Did you wake up already?” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her head. “You only slept thirty minutes. I bet you’ll be grumpy by noon, huh.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me, those eyes that were once blue and are now slowly turning green, studying my face like she’s trying to decide something important. Then her lips curl, soft and certain.

“Mama.”

There it is. My undoing.

“All right,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I guess you’ll help me prepare lunch.”

I tickle her belly and she laughs, that full, unfiltered baby laugh that fills the space between us and makes everything feel lighter than it is.

I’m halfway down the stairs when the phone rings.

I pause for a second, already tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, then set Grace gently into her play box before reaching for the receiver.

“Hawthorne Ranch and B&B, how can I help you?”

“Mrs. Hawthorne, hi. This is Principal Sloane.”

I close my eyes briefly.

This is the third time this month.

“Hi,” I say, careful with my tone. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” he replies, and there’s no hesitation in it. “I’m afraid it’s not. Your son, Dexter, had one of his episodes in class today.”

The word settles wrong.

Episodes.

“He refused to listen to his teacher,” the principal continues, “and threw himself on the ground, screaming. We strongly suggest you make an appointment with the local children’s neuropsychology department and have him evaluated.”

I exhale slowly, my hand tightening around the edge of the counter.

“Evaluated?”

“Yes. More than one teacher is convinced there may be something wrong with him.”

Something wrong with him.

My gaze drifts to the wall across from me, to the framed photograph of the ranch in winter, white stretching endlessly in every direction.

“There is nothing wrong with my son,” I say, my voice tighter now, less controlled than I would like.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” he replies, and his tone shifts, polite but firm, the kind that doesn’t leave room for argument, “if Dexter continues like this, he will not make it. He may have to repeat first grade. We highly recommend you make an appointment.”

My heart cracks open at that, fear rushing in before I can stop it. Fear of doctors and labels and words that stick. Fear of someone else deciding something about my child that I cannot undo.

I know Dex can be a lot. Energetic, forgetful, loud in ways that make people uncomfortable. I’ve told his teacher more than once not to rush him, to give him space, to let him move, to understand that he needs a little more time than the others.

“I’ll make an appointment today,” I say, already feeling the weight of it settle on my shoulders.

Three weeks and several phone calls later, I sit in the waiting room of Dr. Dresden’s office with both boys.

He asked me to bring them together. Twins, he said. Important for comparison.

Jude sits quietly beside me, legs tucked up beneath him, completely absorbed in his copy of Harry Potter, the rest of the world fading out around him like it doesn’t exist.

Dexter, on the other hand, has already moved through three chairs, touched every framed picture on the wall, and is now kneeling on the floor, inspecting the baseboard like it might be hiding something only he can see.

“Dex,” I murmur softly.

He looks up at me, eyes bright, curious. “Did you know this paint is different from the other wall?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the door opens before I can.

“Hawthorne?”

“That’s us,” I say, standing, reaching for Jude’s hand. Dexter hops to his feet, hesitates for a second, then sighs dramatically before taking my other hand.

“Is he the doctor you said was of no use?” Dexter asks loudly.

My eyes widen.

“Dexter Hawthorne,” I whisper sharply. “You shut that mouth right now.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “But you said so in the car.”

Heat rises to my face as Dr. Dresden watches us with a knowing smile.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, but he waves it off gently.

“It’s all right, ma’am. Please, come in.”

Inside, he asks questions. So many questions. Pregnancy, birth, milestones, sleep, tantrums, food, every small detail that somehow feels bigger under his attention. I answer them all, carefully, thoroughly.

Then he leads us into another room.

It’s filled with toys.

My stomach sinks.

Dexter lights up instantly, already moving, touching, testing, exploring every corner before the doctor even finishes speaking. Jude sits where he’s told, quiet, steady, watching everything.

“Dexter,” I call softly, trying to keep my voice calm. “Read what he asked you to read.”

“No, ma’am,” the doctor says gently. “Please don’t interfere.”

“But with all these toys…”

“They’re part of the test.”

I press my lips together and watch my son move through the room like something bright and restless that refuses to be contained.

Weeks pass.

Forms. Appointments. Observations. More tests. More waiting.

When we return for the final time, Dr. Dresden asks me to come in alone. A nurse stays with the boys.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” he says, folding his hands on his desk, “after running all the tests and spending time with both Dexter and Jude, we’ve found that both boys meet the criteria for ADHD.”

The words sit between us.

They don’t land right away.

“Both?” I whisper.

My throat tightens. Jude? My quiet, thoughtful Jude?

“ADHD doesn’t look the same in every child,” he explains gently. “Dexter shows a more hyperactive presentation. He’s impulsive, restless, always moving.”

I picture Dex swinging his legs off every chair he’s ever sat on.

“Jude,” he continues, “has the inattentive type. He drifts. He disappears into his thoughts.”

My chest aches.

“So he’s not… okay?”

“He is okay,” Dr. Dresden says firmly. “They both are. Their brains simply work differently. The danger isn’t the diagnosis. It’s the world misunderstanding them.”

Tears blur my vision.

“They’ll need different kinds of support,” he adds, “but with the right guidance, they’ll be just fine.”

Different.

Not broken.

“They’re still just my boys,” I say softly. “Is this somehow my fault?”

He smiles, kind and steady. “No, Mrs. Hawthorne. ADHD develops before birth. Like eye color. Like the shape of their smile. This isn’t something you caused or could have prevented.”

Something in my chest loosens.

“There is nothing wrong with your children,” he continues. “They simply have more to work with. They’ll need guidance to learn how to use it.”

I think of Dexter building things out of scraps, of Jude losing himself in books, feeling everything deeply.

“Gifted,” I whisper.

Dr. Dresden nods. “Gifted.”

I straighten my shoulders.

“Then that’s exactly what I’ll tell them.”

We’re back in the car, and his words are still echoing through me when Dex speaks.

“Mama?”

“Yes?” I pull over, turning in my seat to look at them, really look at them. My boys. Perfect.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

He’s looking down at his hands.

“Look at me, Dexter,” I say softly, smiling at him the way I always do. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. The doctor told me the opposite. You and Jude both have a gift.”

Dex looks up. Jude watches me carefully.

“Dex, you have a special mind. Creative. Full of energy.”

“Like Sonic?” he asks.

I smile. “Exactly like Sonic.”

I turn to Jude. “And your mind is thoughtful and intuitive. You see things others don’t.”

He studies me, and I hold his gaze. “You’re observant. Kind. So incredibly smart.”

I reach for both of them, making sure they’re looking right at me.

“But no matter what gifts you do or don’t have, to me…” My voice softens. “You are absolutely perfect. You’re Dex and Jude Hawthorne. The same boys you were yesterday.”

They glance at each other, then back at me.

“So nothing will change?” Jude asks quietly.

I smile. “Do you remember when Spider-Man found out he had powers?”

They both nod instantly.

“He had to learn how to use them, right?”

They nod again.

“Well, you’ll have people who help you learn how to use yours. Teachers, helpers, and one day…” I squeeze their hands gently. “One day those powers will help you do things no one else can.”

Dex’s eyes widen. “Really, Mama?”

I nod.

Jude tilts his head, thinking. “Like what?”

I take a breath, choosing my words carefully.

“Dex, your energy and the way you build things will help you create something amazing one day. And you, Jude… the way you understand people, the way you feel things others don’t…”

He leans in slightly.

“That heart of yours will help people in ways no one else can.”

They both smile, something lighter settling over them.

“And boys,” I add, my voice steady, full, “no matter what anyone else thinks or says, you are Dex and Jude Hawthorne. And I am so proud, so honored to be your mama.”

Emotion tightens my chest.

“I think other moms would wish for children with powers like you… but God chose me.”

I smile through it.

“And I will always be grateful for that.”

They lean into me, arms wrapping around me, and I hold them close.

And in that moment,

my heart is full.