Chapter 4
Nate
Four AM and I'm standing in my shower, definitely not holding Harper's favorite vanilla mint bodywash that I absolutely don't still buy every month like some pathetic lovesick teenager. Duke judges me from the bathroom doorway as I pop the cap and inhale.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "It's for the smell memory. Science."
Duke's tail wag suggests he doesn't buy it either.
I towel off and grab my phone, typing out a text to Harper:
Pick you up at 6:30. No pencil skirts this time.
Her response is immediate, which means she's been awake too:
I learned my lesson at Morrison's.
I can't help myself:
Did you though?
I grin at my phone like an idiot at her last text. Professional as always, Ms. Lane. Two middle-finger emojis. We're making progress.
By 5:45, I'm in my truck with two coffees from the twenty-four-hour gas station—the only place open at this ungodly hour.
Harper's order hasn't changed: vanilla latte with an extra shot, oat milk, and what she calls "a diabetic amount" of caramel syrup.
Mine's black because I'm trying to maintain some dignity here, even if I did just spend ten minutes smelling her bodywash.
The drive to Harper's takes twelve minutes. I've timed it. Multiple times. Not creepy at all.
I pull into her driveway at 6:29, because showing up exactly on time seems less desperate than early. Her porch light flicks on before I can text, and she emerges dragging an overnight bag that looks like she's packed for a month.
"It's one night," I call through the window.
"It's overnight with you," she shoots back. "I need options."
Options. Like she's planning escape routes.
She throws her bag in the truck bed with unnecessary force and climbs into the passenger seat. The cab immediately fills with her scent—something floral and inherently Harper that short-circuits my brain for a second.
"Is that coffee?" She zeroes in on the cup in the holder.
"Vanilla latte, extra shot, oat milk, cardiac arrest levels of caramel."
She pauses with the cup halfway to her lips. "You remembered."
"I remember everything about you, Harper."
The words hang between us, too heavy for 6:30 AM. She takes a sip instead of responding, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands.
"Ready for this?" I ask, backing out of her driveway.
"Ready to watch a horse give birth while being filmed by strangers? Living the dream."
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"Could be the twelfth Bessie."
She snorts into her coffee. "God, Morrison really needs a baby name book."
And just like that, the tension eases. We're still us under all the hurt. That has to count for something.
Even if she did pack like she's planning to flee the country at the first opportunity.
The Wilson farm is forty minutes away, which means forty minutes of Harper in my passenger seat wearing yoga pants that should be illegal and—Jesus Christ, that's my college sweatshirt.
"Is that my—"
"No idea what you're talking about." She pulls the sleeves down over her hands, not meeting my eyes.
It's definitely mine. State Veterinary program, class of 2018, with the hole in the left cuff from when Duke was a puppy. The same one she claimed she'd thrown away when I left.
"That's my sweatshirt, Harper."
"Prove it."
"There's a bleach stain on the back from when you tried to do laundry drunk junior year."
She shifts in the seat, tucking her legs up under her—a move that makes the yoga pants stretch in ways that have me gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. "Lots of sweatshirts have bleach stains."
"You kept it."
"It's comfortable."
"For six years?"
"Fabric softener does wonders."
We reach for the radio at the same time, our fingers brushing on the dial. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. She jerks back like she's been burned.
"Sorry, I—"
"No, you can—"
We speak over each other, awkward as teenagers. Which is ridiculous because I've seen this woman naked. I know the spot behind her ear that makes her gasp, the way she sighs my name when—
"Eyes on the road," Harper says, and when I glance over, her cheeks are flushed.
"I am watching the road."
"You're watching my legs."
"Your legs are in my peripheral vision. That's different."
"Is it though?"
"Would you prefer I don't look at you at all? Because that'll make the documentary filming awkward."
She shifts again, and the movement sends another wave of her perfume through the cab. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like..." She waves a hand vaguely.
"Like what, Harper?"
"Like you're remembering what's under this sweatshirt."
The directness of it makes me swerve slightly. "I'm not—"
"You are."
"Well, you're wearing my clothes. That does things to a man."
"What kind of things?"
This feels like a trap, but I'm walking into it anyway. "Possessive things. Complicated things. Things that involve pulling this truck over and—"
"Nate."
"You asked."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "Just drive."
But I catch her reflection in the window, and she's smiling. Just a little, but it's there. And her hand is resting on the console between us, close enough that if I shifted slightly, our fingers would touch.
I don't shift.
Not yet.
But knowing she kept my sweatshirt, wore it here, is wearing it now?
That's enough.
For now.
Wilson Farm looks different with a documentary crew taking over the yard. There's a van with equipment, lighting rigs being set up near the barn, and in the middle of it all, a woman with perfectly blown-out auburn hair directing traffic like she's conducting an orchestra.
"That must be the director," Harper says, and I hear something in her voice—a slight edge.
Sarah Brennan turns as we pull up, and I understand Harper's tone immediately. She's the kind of pretty that looks effortless but probably takes two hours to achieve. Artfully distressed jeans, a flannel that's never seen actual farm work, and boots that cost more than most people's rent.
"You must be Dr. Wilder!" She approaches my door before I'm fully out of the truck, her smile camera-ready. "I'm Sarah Brennan. I've heard so much about you both."
The way she says it makes my spine straighten. There's something knowing in her tone, like she's in on a secret we don't know about.
Harper appears at my elbow, her hand finding my arm—possessive, claiming. It's probably for show, but my traitorous body responds like it's real.
"Ms. Lane," Sarah extends her hand to Harper, that smile never wavering. "Your preliminary articles about Dr. Wilder's work have been... illuminating."
"Have they?" Harper's voice could frost windows.
"Oh yes. The subtext is fascinating." Sarah's eyes dance between us. "The chemistry practically leaps off the page."
"That's called good journalism," Harper says, her fingers tightening on my bicep.
"Is that what we're calling it?" Sarah's grin suggests she knows exactly what we're calling it and finds it amusing. "Well, that chemistry is exactly what our viewers want to see. Raw, authentic partnership."
"We're not partners," Harper says quickly.
"We're professionals," I add.
Sarah laughs like wind chimes. "Of course you are. That's why Ms. Lane is wearing your college sweatshirt, Dr. Wilder."
Harper drops her hand from my arm like she's been electrocuted.
"It's laundry day," she says.
"At 6 AM?"
"I plan ahead."
"Clearly." Sarah's attention shifts to me. "My cousin Rebecca mentioned you two had quite the history."
The blood drains from my face. "Rebecca's your cousin?"
"Small world, isn't it?" Sarah's smile turns predatory. "She had some interesting stories about California. About someone calling out the wrong name at... intimate moments?"
Harper goes rigid beside me.
"That's not—" I start.
"Relevant to the documentary," Sarah finishes smoothly. "Of course not. We're here for the agricultural story. Though human interest angles do boost ratings." She winks. "Shall we get you both mic'd up? The mare won't wait for our drama."
She saunters toward the equipment van, leaving Harper and me standing there like we've been hit by a semi.
"Rebecca's cousin," Harper says flatly.
"I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't." She starts walking toward the barn. "This just keeps getting better."
And I have the sinking feeling she's right, but not in a good way.
***
It’s late afternoon and the barn is too warm. Harper's stripped down to the tank top under my sweatshirt, and I'm trying very hard to focus on the laboring mare and not the way sweat is starting to glisten on Harper's collarbone.
"She's been at it for two hours," Wilson says, wringing his hands. "Something's wrong."
I'm elbow-deep in examination when I feel it. "Breech. The first twin's turned wrong."
"Is that bad?" Sarah asks, camera crew hovering behind her.
"It's not ideal," I say, which is veterinarian speak for 'this could go sideways fast.'
Harper's already moving, gathering towels and supplies without being asked. Six years apart and she still knows the drill. "What do you need?"
"I need to turn it. Harper, I need you to—"
"Hold her head, I know." She's already in position, murmuring to the mare in that soft voice that used to destroy me. Still does, if I'm honest.
"This is perfect," Sarah whispers to her cameraman. "Get the angle where you can see them both."
I want to tell her to shut up, but I need to focus. The foal's stuck, and if I can't turn it soon, we could lose both twins and possibly the mare.
Harper moves to assist, straddling a hay bale for better leverage, and my brain short-circuits for a dangerous second. The position, the way her muscles flex as she helps steady the mare, the determined set of her jaw—
"Focus!" Harper snaps, catching my momentary lapse.
"I am focused."
"On the mare, Nate."
"That's what I'm doing."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
"You're in my line of sight. Occupational hazard."
Wilson clears his throat. "Um, the mare?"
Right. Medical emergency. Not the time to notice how Harper's tank top is riding up, exposing a strip of skin I desperately want to touch.
Twenty minutes of repositioning, Harper and I working in tandem, our bodies brushing with every movement. She anticipates what I need before I ask, hands steady and sure despite the camera crew breathing down our necks.
Finally, finally, the foal shifts into position.
"Got it," I breathe, and Harper lets out a whoop of relief that makes my chest tight.
The first twin slides out in a rush of fluid, tiny and perfect. Harper's immediately there with towels, cleaning its airways, her face soft with wonder.
"Look at you," she coos to the foal. "Such a fighter."
And I'm not looking at the foal. I'm looking at her—covered in birth fluids and hay, hair plastered to her neck with sweat. She's breathtaking.
"One down," she says, grinning up at me. "Ready for round two?"
No. I'm not ready for any of this. But I nod anyway.
***
It's approaching eleven PM and we're still waiting for the second twin. The mare's been resting between contractions for hours now, exhausted from delivering the first. Harper and I are sitting in the hay, passing my flask of whiskey back and forth.
The camera crew finally took a break an hour ago, though Sarah left one camera running "for overnight footage." At least they're not hovering anymore.
"Remember when we used to do this?" Harper asks, taking a sip and wincing at the burn. "Sit in barns all night, waiting for babies?"
"You named every single one before they were born."
"They needed names!" She passes the flask back. "You can't just call them 'foal' or 'calf.'"
"You named a bull Ferdinand."
"He looked like a Ferdinand."
"He was three minutes old."
"And dignified." She's smiling now, the exhaustion and whiskey making her loose. "Remember what we planned to name our kids?"
The question catches me off guard, whiskey burning the wrong way down my throat. "Harper—"
"Four of them," she continues, like she hasn't just exploded a grenade between us. "Two boys, two girls. Very organized of us."
"We were young."
"You wanted to name one Buttercup."
"That was the cow's name! I wanted to name our daughter after the cow who taught me to deliver calves."
"Romance is dead." But she's laughing, and God, I've missed that sound. "The boys were going to be James and Luke."
"After our fathers," I say quietly.
The laughter dies. We sit in the heavy silence, both remembering plans made when we thought forever was guaranteed.
"Did you ever..." She stops, takes another drink. "With Rebecca. Did you ever talk about kids?"
"No."
"Never?"
"Never got that far." I take the flask back. "Never wanted to."
She's quiet for a moment. "I used to see kids in DC and wonder if they looked like ours would have."
The confession sits between us, raw and dangerous.
"Harper—"
The mare groans, starting to push again, and we both scramble up. The moment breaks, but the words hang in the air. We had dreams. Real, specific dreams. And I threw them away.
She doesn't look at me as we position ourselves for the second delivery, but her hand brushes mine as she passes me towels, and I wonder if she's thinking what I'm thinking.
That maybe those dreams don't have to stay buried forever.
But this twin isn't coming as easily. The mare's been pushing for twenty minutes, and something's wrong. Her breathing is labored, too fast, and when I check the foal's position, my blood runs cold.
"It's stuck. And turned." Worse than the first one.
Harper's hands find mine inside the mare, both of us trying to reposition the foal. The camera's red light blinks in my peripheral vision, recording everything.
"Come on, sweetheart," Harper murmurs to the mare. "You can do this."
But the mare's heartbeat under my hand is getting weaker, erratic.
"Nate?" Harper's voice is tight with worry.
"I know."
"The foal—"
"I know."
We work in desperate synchronization, but the foal won't budge. The mare's legs are starting to shake. If we don't get this twin out soon, we'll lose them both.
"Don't you dare let them die on camera," Harper whispers fiercely, her hands covered in blood, working alongside mine.
"Not planning on it, Harps."
The nickname slips out, automatic in crisis, and she doesn't correct me. Her fingers lace through mine around the foal again, and together we pull, reposition, pull again.
The mare's heart rate drops. The monitor Wilson hooked up starts beeping frantically.
"We're losing her!" Harper's voice cracks.
The first twin, hours old, whinnies for its mother.
And the second twin still won't come.