Chapter 14
SAWYER
Some days, I feel like I’ve been on my feet for eighteen hours straight.
Today’s one of those days.
My last appointment is with a goat named Todd who apparently gets seasonal depression and prefers to wear a baby blue parka when it drops below forty.
“Don’t laugh,” his owner, Patrice, warns me, pointing a finger as she hoists him onto the table. “He gets snippy when he’s cold. Just like me.”
I nod like this is perfectly normal because, for around here, it is. “Todd looks great. Very fashion-forward.”
Patrice beams. Todd sneezes dramatically and nudges my arm like I’ve insulted his manhood.
“He’s got a good weight on him,” I say, pressing gently along his ribs. “No bloating. No tenderness. Appetite still good?”
“Ravenous,” she says. “He ate half of Sadie’s wedding bouquet last week. The silk one. Had glitter in it.”
I glance down at Todd’s blank, unrepentant stare. “Well. That explains the sparkle in his poop sample.”
She cackles, proud of him like he’s just won the damn Preakness.
When she finally leaves—with Todd prancing out in his coat—I strip off my gloves and toss them in the bin. My spine cracks when I stretch. My right shoulder’s tight, still recovering from a shitty sleep and a twelve-hour shift that started before sunrise.
I’m grateful for the craziness, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t make it any less exhausting.
“Please tell me that was the last one,” I call over my shoulder as I step into the front office.
Jenna doesn’t look up from her desk. “Unless someone shows up with their emotional support iguana or something, you’re free to go.”
“God bless you.”
She side-eyes me. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. That’s what I’m here for—medical scheduling and morale.”
I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and shrug it on. “If I die, tell my mom I went peacefully. And that I want to be buried with Hank.”
“That’s weird, but noted.”
The sun hits me the second I step outside.
It’s one of those rare Montana winter afternoons where the clouds break just long enough to remind you the sky exists.
Still cold—mid-forties, maybe—but at least it doesn’t bite.
Just settles over everything like a reminder that it’s still winter, no matter how bright it looks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I unlock the car.
For a second, I let myself hope it’s Wren.
But it’s just Riley.
He’s sent a picture of Hank riding shotgun in his truck, tongue out, fur blowing in the wind like he’s having the time of his life.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Riley watches him on the days I’m stuck at the clinic from open to close.
He feeds him. Walks him—again—because apparently the four to six miles we knock out on our run before sunrise isn’t enough.
Sometimes he takes him to the park. Other times, they just drive around with country music on like they’re running errands for the mob.
It helps, knowing Hank’s not alone. That someone who gets it—who knows what he means to me—is with him when I can’t be.
I sit in the car and let the heater warm the steering wheel. My brain’s already drifting back to her.
It’s stupid how fast she’s become the first place my brain goes when the noise settles.
I pull out of the parking lot, the tires crunching over patches of salt and half-melted snow, and start the drive toward the highway. The sky’s still clear, sunlight streaking across the windshield in that thin, winter gold that never quite brings heat with it.
It’s been days since we talked. Not a word. Not a text. Not even a sarcastic comment or a shitty emoji.
The one day I wasn’t working this week, I drove out to the round pen, figured maybe I’d catch her again. I made more hot chocolate, brought it in another thermos. But before I could even make it past the fence line, one of the hands stopped me—panicked about a busted pipe near the south pasture.
By the time I finished patching it and radioing it in, she was long gone, the round pen empty. Just a few hoofprints and the faint smell of hay and leather left behind.
She didn’t wait for me. I don’t blame her.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself more than anything. At how I handled things. At how I keep screwing this up before it’s even started. I know I was snippy in those texts. I didn’t mean to be, and she didn’t deserve it. But out of every goddamn flower in the world…violets? Really?
I wasn’t ready for that.
I wasn’t ready to see her name typed out in a text message that had nothing to do with the baby I never got to meet.
One second I’m looking up wedding venues, and the next I’m back in that room with Julia’s ultrasound printout in my hand. Back in the nursery with the unopened boxes. Back in the quiet.
Wren couldn’t have known. But she could tell the shift in the conversation, I know she did. She always can. That’s the thing about her—she notices. Everything. Even the stuff you don’t say. Especially that.
It’s what makes her good with the horses. The way she sees without forcing anything. The way she waits for them to come to her on their own terms. I’ve watched her do it—quiet hands, steady voice, eyes tracking every shift of muscle.
And I know, without a doubt, she felt that shift in me. The pullback. The wall going up. And I haven’t said a word since.
Because I don’t know how to explain it.
Because I’m not sure I want her asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
Because pretending I’m fine has always been easier than being anything else.
But now it’s quiet again, and all I want to do is fix it.
Maybe that’s why—almost an hour later, when I should be heading home—I find myself turning off the main road and onto the gravel drive that leads into the Wilding Ranch.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say, but I figure an apology can’t hurt, in case she took it personally. Or in case she didn’t and I just feel like shit anyway. Either way, it’s just better in person.
The road curves gently past open pasture, old split-rail fencing weathered gray from years of snow and sun.
There’s a quiet out here that feels different than Hart Ranch.
Like the land is holding its breath, just waiting for the season to turn.
I’ve driven past it a hundred times. It neighbors our property and always has.
But I haven’t actually been out here since Boone called me a couple years back about the diner and the mess that came with it.
Now, pulling onto the gravel loop near the main house, it hits me how damn beautiful this place is.
The house sits up on a gentle slope—white farmhouse, black trim, wraparound porch with slanted steps and thick posts.
There’s an old porch swing swaying gently in the breeze and two rocking chairs angled toward each other like they’ve been mid-conversation for years.
Modest, but clean. Comfortable. Like it was built for living in, not impressing people.
There’s a stack of firewood near the porch, half-covered with a blue tarp, and a wooden sign hanging by the front door that says Welcome-ish in cracked paint.
And right there on the porch, small and bright against the wood—two little pairs of snow boots. One blue with dinosaurs. One pink with unicorns and glitter woven into the seams.
They remind me of my niece, Nora. She turned five this summer and hasn’t stopped talking about unicorns and My Little Pony since July. If she saw those boots, she’d lose her mind.
I shut off the engine and step out, gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way to the porch. I don’t see anyone out front, and the barn’s too far to know if anyone’s inside, so the house feels like the safest bet. Maybe someone can point me in the right direction.
I knock twice—firm, but not loud.
While I wait, I glance around. There’s a half-built snowman near the edge of the porch, one carrot nose on the ground, like someone got distracted mid-project. A battered tricycle sits tipped on its side in the front yard. Everything here feels lived in. Worn, but cared for.
It’s a good place. A place you want to come home to.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, suddenly unsure of what I’m even doing here. But then the door handle clicks from the other side, and I square my shoulders. Too late to turn back now.
The door swings open, and I’m greeted by a wide smile and a familiar-looking freckled face that hits me a little harder than expected.
Molly Wilding.
It’s not that I haven’t seen her before—we’ve crossed paths over the years at various county things, charity events, barn raisings, Fourth of July cookouts. But it hits different now.
She looks just like Wren. Same hair—rich auburn with streaks of gold catching in the porch light. Same freckles, dusted across high cheekbones. Even the way her mouth curves into a half-smirk is dead-on.
The only difference is the eyes. Molly’s are warm and brown, easy to read. Wren’s are a sharp blue.
“Well, well,” Molly says, hands on her hips. “I’d know a Hart any day.”
I let out a low laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
She grins. “Oh, please. You’re a walking, blonder version of Estelle.”
That’s fair. I’ve heard it before. I’ve got my dad’s frame, but my mom’s everything else. “Yes, ma’am.”
Molly rolls her eyes like I just cursed in church. “Oh, don’t you start with the ma’am business. Makes me feel ancient. Molly works just fine.”
“Yes, ma—” I catch myself, smirking. “Molly.”
“That’s better,” she says with a wink, then leans a little against the doorframe. “You wanna come in?”
“Actually, I was looking for Wren. Any idea where she’s at?”
She sighs lightly, a soft affection in it. “Hard gal to pin down these days. But I think she might be over in the barn if she hasn’t wandered off somewhere else.”
She gestures past the house toward the structure a little ways up the path. The barn’s big—red with white trim, old but well-kept.
“If she’s not in there,” Molly adds, “you come back and give me a holler. I’ll try to track her down for you.”