Chapter 3LARK
LARK
It’s midnight, and I’m on my third glass of wine.
A good one, too. One of those bottles Miller picked up from that fancy winery an hour outside of town, where the owners wear linen shirts and talk about tannins like it means something.
I don’t know what the hell a tannin is, but I know this wine is smooth and warm and doing a damn good job of numbing the chaos in my head.
Miller Ashford is perched on my couch, draped in designer like she was born in it.
A tailored blazer over some effortlessly chic top, dress pants that probably cost more than my mortgage, and heels sharp enough to stab someone.
Her short dark hair is sleek and precise, cut just above her shoulders with intentional perfection.
I’ve never seen this woman in sweatpants. I’m not convinced she even owns any.
She’s been my best friend since high school, one of the only people who can read my moods before I even know I’m having one.
I groan, pressing my glass to my forehead. “What the hell am I going to do?”
Miller tilts her head, her green eyes flashing with amusement. “You’ve got yourself in a pickle, that’s for sure.”
“Well, no shit.”
She laughs, nudging my foot with hers. “Hey, I’m just here for moral support and legal expertise. Not miracles.”
I sigh, leaning back into the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Miller is one of the best lawyers in all of Summit Springs. Family law. She’s the one people call when marriages implode, when custody battles get ugly, when there’s more at stake than just who gets the house and the dog. She’s seen it all.
I rub a hand down my face. “What if he tries to take custody or something?”
Miller takes a slow sip of her wine, considering.
“Depends. Legally speaking, he’d have to prove that you’re unfit in some way.
That Hudson’s safety or well-being is in jeopardy.
And, considering you run a successful business, have provided for him his entire life, and have built a stable home—” She gestures around the living room. “—that’s not going to happen.”
I exhale, letting my eyes drift around the house.
It’s not big, but it’s mine. A modest two-bedroom, two-bathroom home with a small backyard and a kitchen that’s just big enough for Hudson to sit at the counter while I cook dinner.
It’s a step up from the one-bedroom apartment I had when he was born, the one with thin walls, a leaky faucet, hardly any hot water and neighbors who fought so loudly I learned their entire relationship history through the drywall.
It’s taken me years to get here. Years of saving, years of working, years of proving to myself—and to everyone else—that I could do this.
And now Boone Wilding is back.
I close my eyes, take another sip of wine.
I’m royally fucked.
I sigh, tipping my head back against the couch. “What are the odds of him even having to find out?”
Miller levels me with a look, her eyes narrowing like she can’t believe I just asked that.
I blink at her. “What?”
She sets her wine down on the coffee table, crossing her arms. “Lark.”
I throw my hands up. “His family never comes out this way. That’s exactly why they don’t know about Hudson yet. It’s too far from the ranch. They’ve got no reason to be in town unless they have to be.”
She squints at me. “You’re telling me no one’s figured out who Hudson’s dad is? Not a single Wilding? Not one nosy neighbor in a town with, what, ten people and a gossip chain faster than the Wi-Fi?”
“No,” I say, pressing my palms against my knees. “I told Alice when I found out and made her promise not to tell. She kept her word. And after that…I just stopped talking about it.”
Miller gives me a look. “He looks exactly like Boone.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. I’m aware.”
“I mean, come on. The curls? The eyes? The freaky obsession with baseball? That kid is pure Wilding.”
I sit back against the couch and rub my thumb along the rim of my glass.
“People asked questions at first. Especially when he was a baby. But I kept the story simple—I said Boone and I broke up right after graduation, and that I dated someone else that summer. Just a short fling. Said he moved out of state before Hudson was born. I let people assume whatever they wanted after that.”
Miller stares. “That’s it?”
I nod. “That’s it. Most people didn’t push. I think they could tell I didn’t want to talk about it.”
She shakes her head, still stunned. “So you and Boone were together for, like, two years, and no one stopped to do the math?”
“Four years,” I say quietly. “And no. I guess not.”
“Jesus, Lark.”
“I know.”
Miller shakes her head, grabbing her glass again. “You have to tell him.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off. “What if he’s here to stay for good?”
I freeze, gripping my wine glass tighter.
“Summit Springs is too small for him to not find out eventually,” she continues.
“The fact that his family doesn’t know yet is a miracle in and of itself, but Boone and his siblings come to town more often than Molly does.
And people talk, Lark. You think someone’s not going to put two and two together eventually, especially with Boone being back and his little clone walking around? ”
It wasn’t meant to be a secret. I just didn’t know, not right away.
The nausea came and went. So did the dizziness.
I figured it was stress—working late at the diner, not getting enough sleep, finishing up my senior year, helping Alice plan my dad’s funeral.
I’d been grieving and my body was in survival mode.
I stopped keeping track of my cycle somewhere in the middle of all that chaos.
It wasn’t intentional. It just…slipped. Everything had.
Until one day, standing behind the counter at Bluebell, it hit me that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had it.
I was already five months along before a doctor confirmed it.
I tried to tell him. Sat on Alice’s porch night after night with a pen in one hand and a blank sheet of paper in the other.
Wrote letters I didn’t know how to finish.
Called the base. Left messages. They told me that new recruits couldn’t respond right away.
That I could write, but there were no promises.
So I wrote. Again and again. Told him I needed to talk. Told him it was important. Begged him to call.
And then I waited.
No letters. No phone calls. Just silence.
By the time Hudson was born, the silence was loud enough to feel like an answer.
I never showed up at the ranch. Never called Molly. Never knocked on the front door with a baby on my hip and asked someone else to fix what I couldn’t.
I knew what would happen. They’d take him in without hesitation.
They’d love him, raise him, protect him—because that’s what Wildings do.
They take care of their own. They don’t half-love anything.
But Boone? He would’ve come back, even if he didn’t want to.
He would’ve done the right thing because that’s who he is.
And I couldn’t risk Hudson growing up as someone’s obligation .
I wanted him to be a choice. I didn’t want Boone to resent me for making him put his life on pause when he clearly didn’t want to be here in the first place.
Hudson was mine, and mine alone. And I was going to keep it that way.
I take another long sip of wine, letting it sit on my tongue before swallowing. It’s ridiculous how good this bottle is.
“I don’t even know where to go from here,” I admit. “Legally, is there anything I can do to make sure Hudson stays with me?”
Miller sighs, swirling the wine in her glass before taking another slow sip. “Is Boone listed on the birth certificate as his father?”
I nod, pressing my fingers into my temples. “Yeah.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “That means he already has legal rights. Technically, he could petition for custody if he wanted to.”
My stomach twists.
“But,” she continues, holding up a finger, “that doesn’t mean he automatically gets it.”
I exhale, slumping back against the couch.
Miller watches me for a beat, her green eyes taking me apart piece by piece, the way she always does.
“Look, Lark, you’ve been Hudson’s sole guardian for twelve years.
You’ve provided for him, given him a stable home, put him first in every possible way.
The court isn’t going to overlook that. Judges care about continuity, about keeping a kid’s life as steady as possible.
Boone might be his father, but he’s never been his parent. ”
I pick up my wine glass again, running my thumb along the rim. “So what can I do?”
Miller leans back. “There are steps we can take. You could file for sole custody officially, get a court order in place. You could put legal protections in place that establish you as Hudson’s primary custodial parent, even if Boone decides he wants to be involved now.”
I swallow hard. “And if he fights it?”
Miller’s lips press together for a moment before she says, “Then it becomes a case. But, Lark, you have a damn good one. He’s never provided financial support, never been present, never even known his kid existed. No judge is going to look at that and suddenly hand him partial custody.”
I nod slowly, my fingers tightening around my glass.
“But,” Miller says, softer this time, “you need to ask yourself what you really want here. Are you trying to keep Hudson from Boone entirely? Or are you just scared of what happens if Boone decides he wants to be his dad?”
My chest tightens at that.
I swallow, staring into my wine like it holds some kind of answer. “I don’t know.” The words feel heavy, admitting that. “I never thought this far.”
Miller doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waiting.
“I mean, why would I?” I let out a humorless laugh. “He’s been gone for twelve years, Mills. That’s long enough to make you think someone’s never coming back.”
Miller lifts a shoulder, takes another sip of wine. “And yet, here he is.”
I shake my head. “So what now?”