36. Wren
WREN
The cabin has turned into a command post.
That’s the phrase I keep circling back to as I sit at the dining table with my laptop open, two hard drives plugged in, three federal evidence forms spread out beside me, and a man with a rifle crossing past the window every ten minutes.
I’ve condensed all the work I’ve done since I arrived in the mountains into a case package with maps, coordinates, photographs, videos, and timestamps, then I overlaid Cade’s reconnaissance data, with the goal of giving a judge enough evidence to prove that Harlan Turner is using protected wilderness as a trafficking corridor.
When I attach the video from the night I watched the armed men transfer wrapped bricks into the cache, I can still hear the branch snapping and remember what it felt like to run.
Boone appears by my side, and he sets a reassuring hand on the back of my neck. “You don’t have to watch it again.”
“I have to verify the timestamp.”
His thumb strokes my skin, slow and grounding. “I’ll be here while you do.”
He stands behind me while I confirm the metadata, attach the statement, and upload the file to the secure server. When the progress bar fills and disappears, I sit back and let out a long breath, and Boone rubs my shoulders like it’s a mini celebration.
But the work isn’t over. My supervisor calls, and I walk him through the final updates on a secure line.
“This is excellent work, Wren. The Wilders’ surveillance is important, but it’s your credentials that give this the chain of custody it needs.”
Less than a minute after that call’s over, Rhett steps out of the hallway with a phone in hand. “Novak has it,” he says. “He said it gives them what they need.”
Boone comes out of the pantry with a dish towel over his shoulder. “In that case, I’m making chicken and dumplings.”
I blink at him. “That’s your response?”
“That is my tactical response,” he says. “The federal government can have your terrifying little evidence package. I get dinner.”
Rhett nearly smiles, and I huff out a laugh that hardly feels like my own.
The next couple of days are the strangest I’ve ever lived. Everything feels heightened, and it also seems like all we’re doing is waiting.
Novak calls twice a day, sometimes more.
Rhett usually takes the calls in another room, but his voice carries through the wall anyway.
There’s talk of logistics, warrants, timing, shipment windows, weather, routes, and civilian risk.
Soon, men with badges and rifles will move through the wilderness, and I can’t decide if I’m eager or dreading it.
Cade spends most of the days outside with his rifle, his eyes moving over trees and shadows. He only comes in for meals when Boone forces him, eats standing up, then disappears again, usually before his plate is empty.
But every evening, when Rhett takes up watch, Cade returns to me for a while. He strips off his outer layers, washes his hands, checks his rifle, and sets it within easy reach. Then he sits beside me on the couch and puts his hand on my knee.
The first time he does it, I look down at his hand and feel my throat tighten.
“You all right?” he asks.
When I nod, his fingers flex once.
Boone watches from across the room, but doesn’t say a thing.
During the day, Boone kisses me in the pantry while Rhett argues with Novak.
When Rhett’s reviewing maps, he likes to pull me onto his lap and hold me while he and Cade talk about terrain visibility and review distances.
All day long, all three brothers show me I’m theirs, and every moment seems to count more than the last. Every touch, every laugh, and every ordinary minute feel precious.
Outside, Turner’s waiting, and the operation comes closer with every hour that passes.
With nothing else to mark, certify, or upload, I’m restless, and Boone notices.
“Come here, Hollis.” He’s in the kitchen, wiping the counter.
“Why?”
“Because you’re pacing holes in my floor, and I require assistance.”
Boone’s made dinner an event this week, like he’s using food to wage a war against dread, even though the men don’t all sit down to eat at the same time.
One night, he made venison stew with red wine and mushrooms, and the cabin smelled incredible.
Another night, we had trout with lemon butter and perfectly crisp potatoes.
He made biscuits that were so buttery and flaky that Cade ate five, and he might have eaten more if Rhett hadn’t told him, dryly, to save some for the rest of us.
I step into the kitchen, where Boone’s laid out various vegetables, herbs, and enough garlic to repel an army of vampires.
“Need help with dinner? What are we making?”
“Something elaborate enough to keep your brain busy and simple enough that I can still kiss you while we cook.”
Rhett, who’s writing notes at the table, pauses and looks over.
Boone’s grin widens. “Problem, brother?”
Rhett makes eye contact with Boone and some sort of silent triplet communication passes between them before Rhett says, “Don’t burn dinner,” and returns to his notepad.
Boone leans in, his voice dropping into a wicked tone as he speaks close to my ear. “You heard him. We’ll start with carrots.” He sets the bunch of them in front of me, along with a peeler, then gives me a quick kiss before he goes to the sink to wash potatoes.
Rather than wash the whole pile of potatoes at once, he brings them over to the island one or two at a time, kissing me with each delivery. On his third trip, he comes up behind me, wraps his arms around me, and nuzzles my neck.
When I squirm and say his name, he licks my ear, and I squeal.
“Boone!”
He hugs me from behind. “Sorry, Wren. I’m trying to be good.”
Rhett clears his throat. “Seems like it’s difficult for you.”
“Excruciating,” Boone says with a straight face.
I laugh, and think how wonderful it is that in the middle of all the fear and maps and armed men in the woods, the Wilder brothers still make room for lightness.
Boone watches me laugh, and the teasing look on his face changes into something more raw and naked.
Rhett loudly caps his pen and rustles his papers into a stack. “Going out for a perimeter check,” he tells us as he stands. “Back in twenty.” Then he pulls on a jacket and heads out the front door.
“Do you think we annoyed him?” I ask.
Boone slides his arms around me again, his hands dipping lower than before. “I think he was being generous.”