BOONE
Epilogue
BOONE
Two years later
“Alright, so what’s it gonna be?”
Jack blinks at me, slow and skeptical, like I’ve just asked him to recite the periodic table.
Across the table, his sister starts clapping like I’ve done something worth a standing ovation.
Then she starts smacking her tray like it’s a damn bongo drum—applesauce in her hair, a crayon in one chubby fist, and this smug little look on her face like she knows she runs the place.
Because she does. We’re all just living in her sticky, chaotic little world.
“Look at that,” I say, pointing my spatula at her. “Jack’s out here contemplating his life choices, and you’re over there hosting a full-blown rave in a high chair.”
Lainey squeals like she’s proud of that.
I glance between the two of them—the wildest, loudest, most chaotic little masterpieces Lark and I have ever managed to create, besides Hudson. Then I hold up a hand like I’m taking roll call.
“Option one: banana pancakes. Option two: cheesy scrambled eggs. Option three: leftover cinnamon crumb cake from last night—only if we eat fast and your mom doesn’t catch us.”
Jack kicks his feet under the tray with a grin and a high pitched squeal.
“Oh, now you’ve got opinions?” I laugh, reaching over to ruffle his curls. “You didn’t even blink when I asked you five seconds ago.”
He narrows his big brown eyes at me, serious as ever. Eighteen months old, and he already looks like he’s plotting world domination—or at least how to sneak the syrup bottle off the counter.
He’s got my hair—thick, dark, already curling around his ears—and Lark swears he’s got my quiet curiosity too. Always watching, always thinking. He’s not the first to jump in, but he’s usually the one who figures out how something works before anyone else.
Lainey’s the opposite—hell, she’s a wildfire in a baby body.
Curls so pale they catch the sun, big blue eyes that don’t miss a damn thing, and lungs strong enough to wake the cattle three pastures over.
She shrieks when she’s happy, throws herself on the floor like the world’s ending when she’s not, and claps like she’s leading a damn parade every time someone walks in the room.
They’re twins, born four minutes apart, but couldn’t be more different if they tried. Jack’s got the patience of a monk. Lainey’s already climbed out of her crib twice this week and figured out how to open the snack drawer on her own.
So basically, she’s gonna give me gray hair by the time she hits kindergarten.
“Alright, alright,” I say, turning back to the stove. “Banana pancakes it is. But don’t go telling your mama we skipped the fruit cup again, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Their twin giggles bounce off the kitchen walls, loud and nothing short of pure joy.
Lark and I got married a year and some change after I proposed, right here on the ranch.
Early October, just as the leaves were turning that golden amber color, like someone lit the whole valley from the inside out.
It was warm enough we didn’t need jackets, but cool enough the groomsmen didn’t complain in their suits.
Lark wore this elegant, silky dress that hugged her in all the right places and complimented her baby bump.
She was four months pregnant at the time and looked like something out of a damn dream, her blonde hair pinned back with little daisies tucked in, her skin flushed, her eyes shining like she already knew every moment of that day would live in my chest for the rest of my life.
I remember standing there, watching her walk toward me across the field, with tears in my eyes and my heart thudding so loud I could barely hear the music.
The barn looked like a fairytale that night. Wren, Sage, Miller and Mom hung soft white drapes from the rafters and strung up hundreds of warm lights. Well, Miller stood back and told everyone else where to put things, so there’s that.
There were linen-covered tables, candles in tall brass holders, and simple wildflower arrangements that looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. It was still us—but dressed up like the kind of night you remember forever.
Mom and Loretta made all the food—rosemary roasted chicken, beef tenderloin with horseradish cream, buttery fingerling potatoes, fresh green beans, and warm rolls.
They baked the cake too. Lark’s favorite.
A cinnamon crumb cake layered with whipped mascarpone and sugared berries. She cried when she saw it.
Ridge spent most of the night trying to get Miller to dance with him. The man was relentless—pulling out every move he had. Miller dodged him like it was her full-time job. At one point, I think she actually ducked behind Loretta to avoid him.
Eventually, he pivoted. Started working the crowd, flirting with anything that had heels and a pulse, throwing compliments around like confetti.
And of course, the women ate it up—laughing, twirling their hair, leaning in a little closer every time he spoke.
Miller just sipped her champagne and rolled her eyes like she was over it, but I saw her.
She watched him more than once when she thought no one was paying attention.
Hudson was buttoned-up in a black suit, hair combed back, shoes he kept scuffing because he refused to sit still. He danced with Lark once—arms wrapped around her—and smiled so big I swear my chest cracked open.
Later, he crawled up in one of the chairs outside and fell asleep with cake on his face and his hands still clutching the glow sticks someone handed him.
It was a hell of a night. The best night of my life.
Well—until Jack and Lainey got here.
After Lark and I got engaged, she didn’t waste a lot of time.
After a year of living together she was ready—really ready—to have more kids.
She got her IUD taken out the week after we sat down and talked about it, even though I didn’t need convincing.
Not even a little. We figured it might take a while.
It didn’t. She was pregnant a month later.
I remember the look on her face at that second ultrasound. Wide-eyed. A little pale. Like she could see it before anyone else could. And then the tech turned the screen and said, “There’s Baby A…and there’s Baby B.”
I damn near hit the floor.
She laughed so hard she cried. And I sat there with my head between my knees trying to breathe while she rubbed my back like she wasn’t the one about to grow two whole humans at once.
Her body changed fast. It felt like one day she was still herself, and the next, she was carrying all of it—twice over. Her belly grew so quickly it surprised both of us. Her back ached, her ankles swelled, her energy dipped in ways that made her go quiet.
And still, I couldn’t stop looking at her. She was beautiful in a way I hadn’t known before. Something about knowing part of me was inside her—growing, becoming—made her feel even more like mine. Not in a possessive way. Just in a this is home kind of way.
I kept thinking about what I missed with Hudson. How I didn’t get to see her like this the first time. Didn’t get to put my hand on her stomach to feel him kick or rub her back when it ached. Didn’t get to tell her she was doing great when it was so hard.
But I got it now. And I didn’t take a second of it for granted.
I did everything I could to make it easier for her.
I rubbed her feet at night. Learned how to make whatever she was craving, even when it changed by the hour.
I ran her a bath every evening, checked the water twice to make sure it wasn’t too hot and left a towel on the edge so she didn’t have to reach.
On the days when the heat settled into the house and wouldn’t leave, she walked around in my old T-shirts, hair up, legs bare, a bowl of watermelon in one hand and a popsicle in the other. She’d tell me she was fine and then groan dramatically when she couldn’t get comfortable on the couch.
I refilled her water bottle without her asking.
Set timers for her prenatal vitamins so she wouldn’t forget.
I sat with her on the floor of our closet one afternoon while she cried because nothing fit anymore.
I didn’t try to fix it. I just held her.
Let her cry until she stopped. Brushed her hair off her face, kissed her temple and told her she was still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen—and I meant it.
I didn’t do any of it because I wanted a gold star.
She was growing two entire humans inside her.
That body I already loved was working overtime in ways I’d never be able to fully understand.
So I did what I could. Quiet things. Small things.
The kind of things that might not seem like much, but felt like the closest I could get to saying thank you for carrying our babies.
For doing the hard, holy work I’ll never be able to repay.
The twins came in early April. Right in the middle of a late-season blizzard that shut down half the county. That’s Montana for you—sunshine one day, whiteout the next. Spring shows up when it feels like it, and winter never leaves without a fight.
I woke up at three a.m. to Lark standing over me, calm as ever, saying, “Boone, my water broke.” I barely got my boots on before we were in the truck, crawling through whiteout conditions like I was driving on glass.
She never screamed. Never panicked. Just squeezed my hand and breathed through it like a goddamn warrior. By the time we made it to the hospital, her contractions were so close together they nearly had to wheel her in.
Jack Harvey Wilding came first. All quiet and wide-eyed. Elaine Alice Wilding followed four minutes later—screaming like she was pissed to be second. We call her Lainey, or just Laine, most days.
Watching Hudson hold them for the first time wrecked me. He was so careful with them. Studied their little faces. Called them “his babies” before anyone else did.