Chapter 63 Hunter
Hunter
The sun’s sitting high and lazy above the hills, bleeding gold over the tops of the pines as I kneel next to Atticus near the edge of the barn.
A soft breeze carries the smell of damp earth and warm hay, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk cries out over the fields like it’s got something important to say.
Kid’s got a bent nail in one hand and a hammer in the other, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth with that level of concentration only five-year-olds can manage.
We’re fixing a busted slat in the chicken coop—the one a rogue raccoon decided to test last week.
Easy work, but good hands-on experience for someone who’s been asking me all week how everything works around here.
Last night at dinner, Wren mentioned something about getting chickens.
I figured this would be a nice surprise for her to come home to after she and Reese are done painting the town red this afternoon.
“Like this?” he asks, squinting one eye shut as he raises the hammer.
“Move your fingers first,” I say, and he does—right before the hammer comes down and misses by an inch.
He huffs. “This is hard.”
I nod. “Most things worth doing are.”
Wren and Reese left an hour ago, buzzing about town and errands and lunch. Reese practically shoved Wren out the door, said something about needing girl time and good wine and probably a pedicure. I didn’t ask. Just told her to go and have fun, and I’d hang back with Atticus.
I don’t have much experience with kids, but for some reason, every time I see that woman, I get the urge to do whatever it takes to make her smile.
Also, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having fun.
Didn’t expect to like hanging out with him as much as I do.
The kid’s funny. Smart. Curious as hell.
And polite, too, which tells me Wren’s doing a damn fine job raising him.
But more than that, he’s easy to be around.
Doesn’t whine. Doesn’t expect to be entertained every minute.
Just asks questions like he’s trying to figure out the world, and maybe I see something of myself in that.
“I think I bent it,” he says, showing me the nail.
“Try again,” I say, instilling confidence in him the same way my father did with me when I was a kid. McCraes learn by doing, not by watching. We’re not afraid to get our hands dirty. Ever.
Atticus nods and holds out his hand. I fish a new nail from the box. He grips it tighter this time, more assured.
I crouch back on my heels, watching him line it up, and my chest gets tight in that way it does when life gives you something you didn’t even know you were missing.
Never had a son. Never seemed like it’d be in the cards for me.
But if I could’ve picked one?
It’d be this kid.
I’d be proud to call him mine.
It hits me then—like it has a few times lately but never this hard—how much I love his mother. How easy it was. How natural. Like breathing. Like gravity.
She just showed up and rearranged everything I thought I knew about myself. Wren with her messy hair and determined spirit and that fierce little boy who looks at the world with fresh eyes and reminds everyone around him that it’s okay to take life a little less seriously sometimes.
I fell in love with Wren all at once. Like my heart took one look at her and decided That’s it. We’re doing this.
It didn’t take long for me to realize there’s no one else out there for me . . . because it’s her.
It was always supposed to be her.
It took a long time to find our way to one another, but my god was she worth the wait.
I love the way she talks to Atticus—like he’s the most important person in the world.
And I envision the three of us together.
Wren leaving her hair half up the way she always does, maybe forgetting her coffee cup on the porch railing because she’s distracted by the sunrise.
I picture her scribbling book notes when she gets a wild idea she doesn’t want to lose, lips moving silently while she thinks.
I imagine the clink of Atticus’s cereal bowl in the sink every morning before he slips on his boots to join me in the shop for the day.
I want it, I want them, and I want it all.
“Hunter?” Atticus says, pulling me back to the moment.
“Yeah, kid?”
“Do you think I could live here forever?”
The question punches me in the chest. He doesn’t look up, just drives the nail in with another light tap, tongue out again.
“I really, really like it here,” he says. “And my mom is so happy. She smiles a lot more than she used to.”
I clear my throat. “I think that sounds like a pretty great idea.”
He grins, proud of his work, and I reach over to straighten the board before he hammers another nail.
“She said this barn used to be red,” he tells me. “But she wants to paint it white now, to match the house.”
I chuckle. This woman could say she wants this barn to be electric yellow, and I’d show up with a five-gallon bucket of paint tomorrow.
“Do you think it’d be weird if I called you my stepdad someday?” Atticus’s next question catches me off guard.
I look at him then—really look—and he’s not asking for reassurance.
He’s just curious, like all kids are. But I see the hope in his eyes, too, even if he doesn’t know it’s there.
I think about Nick and the heartbreak this kid’s gone through before.
Wren would kill me if I filled his head with false hope, but telling him no might break his heart too.
“You can call me whatever you want as long as your mom’s okay with it,” I say, voice thick. “But I’d be proud if you did.”
He nods, like that makes sense, like my answer satisfies his curiosity. “Cool.”
We fall quiet for a bit, hammering in a few more nails, letting the warm afternoon settle around us.
“You hungry yet?” I ask.
He shrugs. “A little.”
“Your mom said there’s some string cheese in the fridge. And chocolate milk.”
His eyes go wide. “She never buys chocolate milk.”
I laugh. Atticus mentioned that day in the tractor a while back that he loved chocolate milk, that it was his favorite thing about day care. I brought a jug with me today just in case. Thought it might make the day that much more special.
We clean up the tools and wash our hands with the hose before heading inside. He kicks off his muddy Converse sneakers by the door without me asking and leaves them neatly by the mat.
In the kitchen, I hand him the cheese and chocolate milk, and he climbs onto one of the barstools at the island and props his cheeks on his hands while he stares at me with the big blue eyes that match his mother’s fleck for fleck.
For a split second, though, I see Ben sitting here, staring up at me with his big blue eyes, looking at me this very same way—perfectly content to follow me around like my personal shadow.
I realize for the first time since Ben died and the light dimmed for a long, long time—my life is finally becoming full again.
Because love doesn’t always knock politely.
Sometimes it barrels down your road driving a black Audi, carrying a sunflower notebook, and pushing every last button you have in all the right ways.