BOONE #2
Sometimes I look at the three of them—Hudson with Jack sleeping on his chest, Lainey curled up on Lark’s lap—and I still can’t believe this is my life.
But hell, am I glad it is.
Lark’s still upstairs, sound asleep. She doesn’t get mornings like this often, but on the weekends, I’ve made it a hard rule—she stays in bed, no exceptions.
I told her after the twins were born that weekends were mine.
I delegate what I need to on the ranch, shift things around with the guys so I can be home for a few hours.
She spends all week pouring herself into the kids, into the Bluebell, into making sure none of us fall apart—and I see the way it wears on her, even when she doesn’t say it out loud.
So on Saturdays and Sundays, I make sure she sleeps. And every day, I make sure she gets time to herself. Time to run, which she’s started doing again lately, more often than not, or time to read.
The twins start babbling to each other in those high-pitched little voices that make no sense to anyone but them.
I set their pancakes on their trays cut into pieces, with a side of blueberries, and they clap like I just handed them the keys to the kingdom.
Lainey grins like she owns the place. Jack shoves two pieces in his mouth at once and nearly chokes.
Hudson shuffles into the kitchen a few minutes later, still half-asleep, hair sticking up in every direction. He climbs onto a stool at the island, rubs his eyes, and mumbles, “Can I have chocolate chip instead?”
“Sure, buddy,” I say, already reaching for the bag.
He rests his head on one arm while I pour the batter, watching me through heavy eyelids. He’s quiet like he always is in the mornings—slow to start, but steady once he does.
“You ready for your game later?” I ask, flipping the pancake.
He nods, lets out a small breath. “Yeah. Should be an easy win. The Willow Creek Hawks suck this year.”
I let out a laugh and glance over my shoulder. “Love the confidence.”
He gives me a crooked smile, then reaches for a fork like he’s still half- asleep.
He’s fourteen now, and I swear every time I look at him, he’s taller.
All legs and elbows and messy hair that he suddenly cares about.
He looks like me—same dark curls, same brown eyes—but he’s got this light in him that’s all his own.
He’s figuring himself out. Starting to pull away in small, quiet ways.
Still my boy, but not a little kid anymore.
There’s an edge of independence to him now.
Lately, he’s been talking about girls. Not a lot.
Just little things. A classmate he says is “funny,” a comment about someone’s lip gloss that made Lark raise an eyebrow so fast I thought her face might stick that way.
He gets awkward when he brings it up, mumbles under his breath like I might tease him if he says too much.
But I don’t. I just listen. And when I tell Lark that we might be entering the next era— the girl phase —she goes a little pale.
What hasn’t changed is how good he is with the twins.
He doesn’t just play with them—he watches them.
Pays attention. Picks Lainey up when she’s getting frustrated, hands Jack a toy to distract him when he starts getting overwhelmed.
He reads them books in silly voices, sings songs that make no sense, lets them crawl all over him when he’s trying to watch a game or do his homework.
He’s patient and never acts like any of it’s a burden.
He fits into the role of big brother like it was made for him.
Last summer, I took him on a surprise trip. Just the two of us. We flew to LA, went to a Dodgers game at Dodger Stadium—his first time on a plane, first time seeing palm trees in real life. He didn’t stop smiling for three straight days.
Wren and Sage came to stay with Lark while we were gone. They moved into the guest room for a long weekend, told Lark to rest and stop worrying, said they’d take care of the babies and order takeout and keep the house from burning down. And they did.
Meanwhile, Hudson and I ate our weight in churros and soft pretzels, watched the Dodgers batting practice like it was a religious experience, took a photo in front of the field like tourists, and stayed up way too late watching SportsCenter in the hotel.
It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it felt big.
Important. It felt like hitting pause in the middle of a life that never lets me slow down, and I know it’s something I’ll remember when he’s older and too busy to come sit next to me on the couch.
Because these small windows—where he still wants to hang out with me, still looks up when I walk into a room—they’re starting to close, and I don’t want to miss a damn thing.
My eyes drift to the duffel bag by the front door. His glove is hanging out the top, a sleeve of baseballs wedged into the side pocket, cleats clipped to the handle. Hudson Wilding is printed in big block letters across the front—stitched in white, clean and simple.
He asked for that not long after Lark and I got married.
We were sitting on the porch one night—just the two of us—sharing a bowl of popcorn he’d dumped half a bottle of hot sauce on. He was quiet for a while, then out of nowhere he looked up at me and said, “I want my last name to be Wilding too.”
We started the paperwork that week. The whole process took a few months—court forms, a hearing, some signatures. But when the judge read it out loud—Hudson James Wilding—he stood a little taller. Smiled like something in him had clicked into place.
It didn’t change anything about how I saw him. He’s always been mine. But I think it changed something for him. Made it feel real. Permanent. Like he belonged not just in our house, but in our name.
And now every time I see it—on his duffel, on his school ID, on the scoreboard when he’s up to bat—I feel it all over again. What a gift it is to be chosen by him.
Hudson scrapes the last bite of pancake off his plate, then glances toward the window. “Hey, can we go up to the main house for a little bit?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Grandma probably wants to see all of you anyway.”
She always does.
Mom revels in being a grandma again—soaks up every second she can get. She’s always been great with Hudson, but there’s something different this time around. Maybe because she knows how fast it goes. Or maybe because there’s something healing in getting to start over.
Sometimes I catch her watching the twins while they play, just sitting quietly at the table or curled up on the couch with Lainey asleep against her. She’ll get this far-off look in her eyes, soft and a little sad.
I know she’s thinking about my dad when she’s like that.
About what it would’ve looked like if he were still here. If he’d lived long enough to be “Grandpa” instead of just a story we tell.
And sometimes I think maybe this—Jack and Lainey, a second chance at grandparenthood—maybe it would’ve softened him. Just a little.
After breakfast, I wipe syrup off tiny hands and cheeks, then get Jack and Lainey dressed without waking Lark. She’s curled up on her side, hair falling across her face, completely still for the first time in days.
I leave her there—quiet, peaceful—and carry the twins out to the truck, one at a time. Hudson follows with their diaper bag already slung over his shoulder.
We pile into the cab, and I back out slow, watching the morning light spill across the gravel.
The ranch stretches out in front of us—wide and quiet under the sharp November sky.
The fields have faded from gold to a muted brown, the grass dry and brittle underfoot.
Most of the trees have already shed their leaves, their bare branches clicking together in the breeze.
A few stubborn crickets still hum in the weeds, and the horses, thicker-coated now, flick their tails against the morning chill.
It’s colder, sharper, but still beautiful in its own rough way.
There’s work to be done—there always is. Cattle to move before the first snow, fence lines to check before the ground freezes solid.
Wren was out before dawn checking on the troughs again. We’ve had water issues the last six months—pressure dropping in the southern line, runoff acting strange. Not enough to panic, but enough to keep both of us up at night.
Whatever’s going on, it’s bigger than just a couple of slow troughs.
That aquifer runs under more than just our land.
It feeds the grazing pastures, the cattle pens, the irrigation lines for half a dozen ranches around here.
If it shifts, if access gets blocked or usage gets restricted—hell, it could cripple operations for every ranch between us and the state line.
No water means no cattle. No grass. No life.
When it comes to ranching, if you lose your water, you lose everything.
Wren’s been trying to untangle it. Quietly, methodically, like she always does. Because that’s what she does when things get messy—she fixes them. Doesn’t ask for credit. Doesn’t make a fuss. Just keeps pushing forward, steady as ever.
And she’s not doing it for glory. She’s doing it because she loves this land. Because it’s in her bones same as it’s in mine.
By the time we roll up to the main house, Hudson’s already unbuckled and halfway out the door before I’ve even cut the engine.
I snort, climbing out and unstrapping Jack from his car seat. He blinks up at me with those big, dark eyes, thumb already halfway in his mouth. Lainey’s kicking in her seat beside him, wild and impatient, a full-body wiggle.
“All right, all right.” I hoist Jack onto my hip before grabbing Lainey, who immediately flings both arms around my neck like she’s been trapped in the truck for eight years instead of eight minutes.
They toddle toward the porch on their own, chubby legs moving fast, Lainey’s curls bouncing, Jack a little more careful as always. The front door swings open, and there’s Mom in her apron, red hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the kitchen.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite delivery service,” she says, stepping down and scooping both twins up, one on each hip. They squeal, Jack giggling into her shoulder, Lainey planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
They love their grandma more than anyone. Not even a close race.
I follow them up the steps and into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh biscuits and something citrusy fills the air. Sage is leaning against the counter, orange slice in her mouth, flipping through a magazine.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up. “Mom’s been pacing again.”
Mom rolls her eyes and gently sets the twins down, who immediately start pulling magnets off the fridge like it’s a competitive sport.
“I wasn’t pacing,” Mom mutters, brushing flour off her apron. “I was baking.”
“Pacing while baking,” Sage quips, flipping a page. “It counts.”
I snag an orange slice from the bowl and toss it into my mouth. “Lainey refused to get in the car seat unless Hudson promised her a pony.”
Hudson plops into a chair, arms crossed like he’s eighty and exhausted. “I didn’t say when I’d get it for her, though.”
Sage flicks an orange slice at me. I catch it without looking, just to prove I still can.
“You’re raising a con artist,” she tells me.
“I’m raising a negotiator,” I shoot back, reaching for a biscuit. “There’s a difference.”
Mom slides a plate of lemon shortbread onto the table. “Eat first. Debate later.”
Jack toddles over with a magnet in each hand and crashes into my leg like a heat-seeking missile. Lainey’s already halfway into a lower cabinet, mumbling to herself like she’s got big plans in there.
The house buzzes with the low hum of conversation, kids, clinking dishes—nothing fancy. Just full. Alive.
A few minutes later, the screen door creaks open, and Wren steps inside, cheeks flushed like she’s been walking fast—or thinking hard. Probably both.
“Hey, guys,” she says, brushing windblown hair from her face. “I’m actually glad you’re all here.”
Sage and I look up at the same time, matching raised eyebrows.
That’s when he walks in behind her.
Sawyer Hart.
It’s hard to miss that giant motherfucker. He’s built like he could carry a cow on his back just for fun.
I’ve never asked what he does at the gym, but I’m starting to think I should. Whatever it is, it’s not normal. Man probably bench presses tractors and calls it a warm-up.
He looks like he’d rather be walking into a wildfire than be here. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since everything that went down with the Bluebell.
And now he’s here , in our kitchen. With Wren.
What the hell?
We all go quiet. Even the kids seem to feel it, like something just tilted in the room.
Wren glances at Sawyer—just for a second—then back to the rest of us. Her spine straightens. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“We, uh…” She swallows. “Well. I just thought I should tell you all…we’re getting married.”
The silence that follows is deafening. No one moves. No one breathes. I stiffen.
What the actual fuck?
She shifts on her feet, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, then holds out her left hand—just slightly, like she’s not sure if she wants us to look or not.
A ring catches the light. Beautiful. Flashy. A fucking expensive ring. This isn’t a mistake. This is real.
And Sawyer’s just standing there, staring at the floor like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Like if he avoids eye contact long enough, the moment might pass him by.
But his jaw’s tight. Shoulders stiff. That silence isn’t uncertainty—it’s restraint. He knows exactly what that ring means. And judging by the way he won’t look up, he’s got more to say than he knows what to do with.
Why the hell is he marrying my little sister?
“Surprise?” Wren says, like she’s not sure if she’s joking or apologizing.
And in that split second, I know that whatever the hell just happened between them is going to change everything around here.
For better or for worse .