Chapter 12 Wren
Wren
Atticus is warm, clean, and finally not smelling like river sludge. His damp curls rest against the pillow, still carrying the faint scent of lavender shampoo. He’s tucked under a sunflower quilt my grandma stitched before I was born, the corners fraying just enough to feel like home.
His breathing has slowed, one thumb tucked loosely under his chin. He fought sleep for a good twenty minutes, tossing and turning mostly—probably residual adrenaline. I don’t blame him. That water was cold. Fast. Unforgiving.
And that whole scene scared the hell out of me.
He had to have seen the fear in my eyes and heard the terror in my voice.
I didn’t even know he’d wandered that far until I heard Hunter yelling outside, loud and panicked, echoing through the trees like a warning bell.
I rub a hand across my face and exhale, guilt curling in my stomach. I should’ve kept a better eye on him. I know that. I also didn’t deserve to be barked at or for someone who hardly knows me to assume I’d ever carelessly put my son in danger.
Still . . .
Hunter was the one who pulled Atticus out. He was the one who got there first. The one who noticed.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him either.
The moment was too big. Too charged. Too close to the kind of thing that changes everything in an instant. And I think that scared both of us more than either of us could admit.
I press a kiss to Atticus’s forehead and pull the quilt a little higher, my throat tightening as I whisper, “I love you so much, Atti.”
He doesn’t stir, just breathes slow and even. Peaceful. Whole. Safe.
On my way to the door, I notice his closet light is on. Reaching in to tug the string, I stop when I see some etchings in the wooden doorframe. I crouch closer, reading words carved in childlike handwriting.
Ben Farted Here 9-4-1993
No Girls Allowed
Aliens Took Jimmy
Cows are Dumb
Hunter was here
They make me giggle, but the last one gives me pause.
What are the odds Hunter wanted this property and his name is carved on the inside of what was clearly some little boy’s closet?
And who is Ben? These are questions I realize have a slim chance of ever being answered, so I tug the light string and save them for another day.
Leaving Atticus’s door cracked like always, I head downstairs, flipping on the hobnail milk glass lamp in my office—a vintage piece gifted to me from the same grandmother who sewed a sunflower blanket for her “little sunflower.” The light glows soft and golden through its papery white shade, casting shadows across my desk.
The river’s quiet again, less in a hurry than it was earlier.
Nothing but the croak of frogs and the whisper of breeze through the trees.
Despite the stillness, I replay tonight’s events in my mind on a loop at least a dozen times.
Seeing my small son—my whole world—in Hunter’s strong arms, the seriousness in his bright blue eyes contrasting against the panic chiseled into his face as he rushed Atticus over to me . . .
It was all the things, all at once. The sensations burn at the top of my skin, begging for a release. If I don’t get these words on paper, it’s going to be physically painful.
I settle into my chair and pull out the sunflower notebook. Flipping past the last entry, my fingers are already tingling.
I uncap my pen and take the deepest breath I can muster.
Hunter—
You saved my son today.
I would thank you but I don’t think there are enough thank-yous in the world to show you how much that meant to me nor do I think you’d want to hear that.
You keep doing that. Saving me. Saving us. And the strangest part is I’ve never been someone who needs saving.
Despite writing dozens upon dozens of books that center around the classic fantasy of being rescued .
. . I’ve always worn my hyperindependence like a badge of honor.
Relying on someone felt like a detriment to my soul, an affront to everything I’ve ever built myself up to be.
A terrifying reality I never wanted to know.
But then you show up—mud-covered, stormy-eyed, furious—and now I kind of want to be saved.
I don’t even know from what.
Exhaustion? Uncertainty? Myself?
I hope I never need saving again, but if I do, I kind of hope you’re the one who does it.
—Wren
I cap my pen and set it down, watching the ink dry. It feels good to write again. Not just pretend writing or word counts in a Word doc, but this. Raw. Unfiltered. Personal.
I push the chair back and stand, stretching my lower back side to side.
And then I remember something else.
Something small. Offhand. Something I almost missed.
He said he hadn’t eaten.
He’d been in the tractor fourteen hours, four days in a row. No lunch. No dinner. Nothing but diesel fumes and dirt and whatever’s left of that banged-up body of his. With those long legs, broad shoulders, and a mentally and physically demanding job, he needs to eat something.
I think of him alone up there in that big house on that big hill—and no one to come home to.
No one waiting to greet him with a smile when he walks in at the end of the day in his ripped jeans and dirty boots.
No one to pluck the cap off his head, ruffle the dust out of his hair, and throw their arms around him.
No one to make sure he’s fed.
No one peering up at him through sleepy eyes, waiting to hear about his day.
No one to say you don’t have to do this all by yourself.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance toward the kitchen.
Tomorrow, I’ll cook something—or I’ll try, anyway.
I’ll pack it up and bring it out to the field.
I’ll say thank you with more than words.
He saved my son.
The least I can do is feed the man.