Chapter 6 Wren
Wren
It’s been two days since I saw Hunter last.
Two days—and I can’t stop thinking about that handsome blue-eyed killjoy from the grocery store.
Nor can I stop picturing him in those faded, dirt-covered jeans, dusty work boots, and holey gray sweatshirt that hugged his broad shoulders like it was its sole purpose in life.
He might as well have been strutting the aisles in Italian couture, because those clothes were made for his physique.
And his hands.
My god, those hands . . .
They were generous and slightly weathered in the kind of way that tells you he can fix things. They didn’t appear soft, like those of a man who spends his days pushing paper. They seemed capable, competent, steady. And the small traces of earth beneath his fingernails only added to their appeal.
I spent the weekend running errands, hoping maybe I’d run into him again, though in a town of two thousand, there weren’t many errands to run and it took less than two hours to knock out my list.
It’s quiet today. Almost unnervingly so.
Atticus started his new day camp, though he seemed reluctant to leave this morning.
He’s turning into a wildling already—spending every minute he can outside, hair full of grass, jeans streaked with mud and bug juice, the happiest I’ve seen him in a year.
The boy who used to plead for extra iPad time now begs for me to “check the fences” with him.
Yesterday we caught a frog and started building a fort with sticks and rope and boundless imagination.
This place is already working its magic on him.
And in between all that magic, I’ve been teaching him to read. If I play my cards right, he’ll be a little bookworm like me in no time and have an affinity for embracing life’s adventures, big and small.
Later this afternoon, I’m going to look at that pony.
A little palomino Shetland named Sugarplum my mom’s neighbors are interested in rehoming.
She’s slow, gentle, practically a four-legged lawn ornament, but she’s perfect.
A starter horse, they called her. Amazing with kids.
Atticus doesn’t know yet, and I can’t wait to see his face if I decide to bite the bullet and bring her home.
But for now, I’m alone. Free. Resting in a rare, delicious pocket of stillness and fatigue. Tired but wired with a mind that won’t shut off.
A quick craving for coffee hits my tongue. That, and I could use an excuse to run into town again. While I love the peace and quiet out here, I’m still adjusting to the lack of people. Grabbing my phone and keys, I lock up the house—though I probably don’t need to—and head out.
The Bean and Biscuit coffee shop is half-full when I walk in, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood and the faint scent of espresso mingling with cinnamon while Ella Fitzgerald croons from overhead speakers.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, tucked into a lazy braid.
I order something with lavender syrup and oat milk, because a little part of me still misses the city.
It might not be home anymore, but it was my home for almost two decades.
The young barista informs me they don’t have either of those ingredients, so I order a vanilla cappuccino instead, carry my drink to a corner table near the window, and sip slowly, scrolling through listings of used saddles on my phone.
I don’t know the first thing about tack. I’m basically just googling “saddle that doesn’t kill me financially” and hoping for the best.
That’s when I feel it.
A shift.
The undeniable, invisible awareness of someone stepping into my orbit before I even see them.
The bell over the door jingles—and in walks Hunter.
Same beat-up jeans. Same dirt-brown boots. Same hard jaw, unreadable expression, and sun-kissed skin. Same dark hair tucked under a sun-faded burnt orange ball cap. Olive green Henley that clings to his wide shoulders like fabric draped over cut stone.
He struts with that same unbothered confidence, the kind I imagine only comes with men who don’t feel the need to explain themselves to anyone.
I try to swallow but can’t because I’m pretty sure my heart is beating in my throat. My ears burn cherry hot. I take a deep breath and try not to make it obvious I’m losing my cool over here.
He doesn’t see me.
Or if he does, he’s pretending not to.
He heads straight to the counter and orders a large black coffee.
The barista behind the counter—nervously twirling her strawberry blond curls—leans a little too far over the register when she talks to him.
Her emerald green doe eyes all but shimmer, and she hasn’t stopped fighting a grin since he walked in.
Hunter’s unfazed by any of it.
“You sure you don’t want to try one of our muffins?” she asks, smiling too big. “They’re cranberry orange today. Your favorite. Baked fresh so they’re still warm.”
“No thank you,” he says, voice low and even as he digs into his wallet for a five-dollar bill.
“You know . . . you could try a latte sometime,” she pushes, glancing at his hands like she wants him to pick her up along with his drink.
She’s a tiny thing. I bet he could easily hoist her up with one arm and throw her over his shoulder like a bag of seed.
The thought of it sends a quick sear of hot jealousy through me, so I shove it out of my mind as quickly as possible. “Change it up a little?”
Hunter shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m good.”
Behind the safety of my coffee cup, I continue to observe their exchange.
“Two dollars and forty-five cents,” she tells him, her smile absent now.
He hands her the five and tells her to keep the change.
A minute later, she slides him his drink. He turns, scanning the quaint little café once—eyes gliding past the pastry case, the tables, the windows—and landing on me.
But only for a second.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t do anything that could remotely count as a greeting—not that he owes me one. But there’s a flicker of recognition, a shift in his jaw—causing my stomach to somersault. And then it’s gone, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it.
He struts past me and takes a seat near the door, back to the wall, out of my line of sight, but I feel him there, his presence like gravity pulling at the edges of my space.
I tap the side of my cup, heart suddenly louder in my chest than it was two minutes ago.
Maybe it’s the caffeine buzzing through me like a live wire.
Or maybe it’s him.
God, he’d make the best romance lead. Mysterious and aloof. Gruff and unapologetically handsome. The kind of man who’d soften for a woman he never saw coming.
I’m suddenly feeling . . . inspired . . . again.
My fingers ache for a pen that isn’t there, for my sunflower notebook. I need to start bringing it with me.
I reach for my phone, opening the Notes app, and I’m well on my way to becoming lost in thought when the door jingles again and an elderly woman shuffles in, moving slow but steady with a floral canvas tote slung over one arm and a cardigan draped over the other.
She reminds me of someone who smells like powder and peppermint, the kind of woman who bakes the best banana bread in town and never misses a church bulletin.
She passes by Hunter’s table, gives him a little wave and a friendly smile. “Good morning, Hunter.”
He offers a respectful nod, lifting his ball cap. “Morning, Mrs. Harrison.”
She continues toward the counter, orders something in a paper cup, then turns to scan for a place to sit, eyeing an empty table in the middle of the shop.
Except on her way to take a seat, her tote catches the edge of a nearby booth, and the coffee sloshes violently before the lid pops clean off, splattering across the floor in a hot arc.
It lands with a series of wet, soft plops against the tile, a few brown droplets kissing the hem of her olive green polyester pants.
“Oh, my . . . clumsy old me,” she says with an embarrassed chuckle, her hand clenching at her blouse as every eye in the place homes in on her.
Hunter’s already moving.
Not a word. Just stands, grabs a stack of napkins from the condiment bar, and kneels beside her with the practiced quiet of someone who doesn’t hesitate to do what needs to be done regardless of the task.
“Now quit that.” She crouches down and swats at his hand. “I made the mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“You’ll burn your fingers,” he says with a practiced sort of calm confidence, like a man who doesn’t take no for an answer.
She sighs and lets him take over, stepping aside while he dabs the worst of the spill, then sets the ruined cup on the edge of a table.
“I’ll get you a new one,” he says before walking back to the counter.
A minute later, Hunter brings the fresh cup back, places it in front of Mrs. Harrison, who meets him with an appreciative smile as she pats his arm like he’s just changed her whole day.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Thank you.”
He returns to his table in silence, refusing to make a big deal out of her praise, and retrieves his coffee cup, tipping it back to swallow the last drops before tossing it in the trash.
A glance toward the door, and he’s heading out—the bell over the entrance barely jingling as it swings shut behind him.
My mouth opens with a half-formed thought, question, greeting—but he’s already outside. I was hoping he’d stay, that I could say hello, maybe introduce myself and ask him more about that grass-fed beef thing—any excuse to get him talking.
I turn in my chair just in time to catch sight of a big white truck backing out of a spot and easing down the street, Hunter behind the wheel.
No music.
No fanfare.
Just diesel and distance.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say to the elderly woman. “Do you know that guy? The one who cleaned up your coffee?”
“Oh.” She perks up, batting her mascara-caked lashes.
“That’s Hunter McCrae. Lovely man. I just adore him,” Mrs. Harrison says, her dainty palm pressed against her chest. “When my Orville had open heart surgery a few years back, Hunter planted over two hundred acres for us. Saved our farm. Wouldn’t accept a dollar for it either.
But that’s the kind of man he is. I knew his parents when they were still alive.
He’s a good one, that Hunter. They don’t make ’em like him anymore. ”
A good man who wants nothing to do with anyone?
A good man who walks around like he’s pissed off at the world?
Questions dance on the tip of my tongue—questions I have no right to ask.
“And what’s your name, miss? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Mrs. Harrison says.
“Wren Jensen,” I tell her. “I actually grew up here . . . just moved back with my son. We bought a little place by the river.”
Her thin gray brows knit. “By the river, you say? Hunter owns all the riverfront property in town. Well, except Rich Sanders’s place. You didn’t buy Rich’s place, did you?”
My throat tightens, though I don’t know why. It’s the way she says it, maybe. Like I did something bad.
“Actually yes, that’s the place,” I say.
Her face hardens into a wince for a moment, her lips pressing flat like she’s biting her tongue. Without saying a word, she’s got me under the impression I’ve done something bad, that I’ve committed some kind of Colton Valley faux pas.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of Hunter,” she says with a forced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “He’s your neighbor.”
I think of the white truck at the top of my driveway the other day, how he sped off before I could make it outside.
“You said he owns all the riverfront property around here?” I ask.
She nods. “In all of Jasperville County. I always thought he was going to buy Rich’s place . . . it’s quite odd that he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I can’t help but ask. The Sanders property is small. Only forty little acres, five of which aren’t even farmable. If Hunter owns that much land, surely he wouldn’t care about my little place?
The bells chime on the door once more, stealing Mrs. Harrison’s attention, and she waves to a trio of brightly dressed, silver-haired women who light up when they see her.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m meeting some friends for book club. It was lovely meeting you, Wren. And welcome back.” She leaves me and heads toward her friends.
I turn back to my cooling coffee, her words swimming in my head yet not clicking into place.
This man is nothing but walking contradictions.
I think of how standoffish he was to the butcher and barista, how cold he was to me, and how he watched me from the top of my driveway but drove off before I could introduce myself .
. . but he saved this woman’s farm? Cleaned up her spilled coffee and got her another one?
If Hunter’s my neighbor, then I at least owe him a proper introduction—and maybe even an apology for accidentally buying that land out from underneath him.
We don’t have to be best friends, but if it’s just the two of us (and Atticus) for miles and miles, it’d be nice to get acquainted.
Especially since I’m finally home.
And I don’t plan on leaving ever again.
I’m halfway home when my phone chimes with a text. My stomach plummets when I see who it’s from.
Nick: Wren . . . call me when you get a chance please. I know you probably hate me but it’s important.
With my heart in my chest, I pull over and catch my breath.
I hadn’t heard from Nick since he left me the day of the wedding.
He wouldn’t even come get his things—he sent his parents, who are easily some of the kindest people I’ve ever met, to do his bidding.
His mother sobbed while she boxed up his clothes, and his father’s face was laced in unspoken apologies—not that he owed me any.
They were wonderful people, and I miss them more than I miss Nick.
But Nick can wait a lifetime for all I care.
I won’t be calling him.
Not now, not ever.