Chapter 17
WREN
Loretta’s barking orders from the kitchen like we’re running a five-star restaurant, not making dinner for a handful of people who’ve eaten the same meal every fourth Thursday of November since birth.
Mom’s nodding along but not really listening, too busy stirring something in a pot.
And Sage is on her hands and knees in the hallway trying to scrub a muddy footprint out of the rug before Loretta sees it and threatens to “start lighting people on fire for less.”
Meanwhile, I’m elbow-deep in dishwater, rinsing pie crust bowls and pretending to care about the baseball trivia Hudson is spewing off behind me.
“And then Nolan Ryan threw seven no-hitters, which is the most of anybody in Major League history—”
“Mmhmm,” I murmur, handing off a dripping baking sheet to dry on the rack.
“—and I’m this close to figuring out if Randy Johnson really did kill a bird with a fastball or if that’s just a YouTube lie—”
“I think the bird’s dead either way, Hud.”
He blinks at me, then shrugs like I’ve just offered a reasonable counterpoint and wanders off to chase the twins, who are currently running in circles around the kitchen island.
Lark’s trying to wrangle them with one hand while nursing what looks like her third mug of coffee, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s helping or just keeping her upright at the moment.
Jack trips over Lainey and face-plants into the tile. He pops up laughing like it’s a game. Lark just closes her eyes and exhales through her nose.
“Everything okay?” I ask her, flicking water off my hands.
“Oh, just taking bets on whether I cry before or after the stuffing’s done.”
I pass her a towel and a small smile. “Put me down for ‘before.’ I like a sure thing.”
Outside, I can hear the distant hum of Boone and Ridge’s voices near the back barn.
Probably checking heat lamps in the calf shelter or making sure the main water lines didn’t freeze overnight.
It’s been a cold week, and the frost’s been biting at the fences harder than usual.
Ridge mentioned yesterday they’d need to run the mineral blocks out to the winter pasture, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Boone’s found some poor excuse to “fix” a gate that doesn’t need fixing just so he can avoid the house.
He’s been quieter than usual since the wedding news. Not angry—just cold. That’s always been Boone’s way. When he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings, he turns them into hard edges.
Mom’s voice cuts through the clatter of the kitchen, soft and cheerful in that very specific tone she uses on holidays. “Wren, sweetie, did you make your pecan pie this year?”
“Already on the counter. Don’t touch it—it needs to cool.”
“Oh good,” she says, but her eyes are tight at the corners, like she’s holding something in. Probably a hundred somethings. Probably all of them aimed at me.
Loretta claps her hands once. “Alright, team. Time to set the table. This ain’t amateur hour, move your booties.”
The dining room has a long table stretched under the front windows, with mismatched chairs dragged in from every corner of the house.
Mom’s set out her good plates, the ones with the little hand-painted pinecones around the rim that she only uses twice a year.
Ridge calls them “the fragile-ass plates,” and he’s not wrong.
I dry my hands and follow Sage into the dining room, trying not to feel the prickle at the back of my neck. That low-level hum that always shows up during family gatherings—like no matter how hard I try, there’s still a version of me they’re waiting for that hasn’t arrived.
The one who didn’t decide to marry a Hart.
The one who didn’t make a deal with her pride.
The last couple of weeks have gone by in a blur. Not the soft kind, like a dream, but the kind where you forget what day it is and keep waking up to half-drunk coffee cups and a to-do list that never actually gets shorter.
I’m still training Junie every morning, rotating through the others in the program, and then heading out to the Hart ranch in the afternoons to work with Zeus.
He’s come a long way—less flighty, more focused—but still needs me to go slow.
Some days I think we’re both learning the same lesson. Trust is a process.
In the middle of all that, we’ve somehow been planning a wedding. A real one. Or at least, one that looks real enough to convince a town full of sharp-eyed people who live for gossip and meaningful glances over deviled eggs.
Loretta’s been in full event planner mode, building out meal spreadsheets like she’s catering a Hollywood gala.
Mom and Sage tackled the seating chart with the kind of intensity I usually reserve for foaling schedules.
Lark’s handling the reception playlist, the guest list, and the string lights—and doing all of it while parenting three kids, which feels a little bit like watching someone juggle knives while sleep-deprived.
Even Miller’s been looped in, though no one technically invited her. She just showed up with her iced matcha and a legal pad full of passive-aggressive notes about table linens. Which is how I know she somewhat cares about me.
A few days ago, we all made the drive into the city so I could try on dresses—something that still doesn’t feel real, even after the fact. It was one of the weirdest experiences I’ve ever had, and I say that as someone currently fake-marrying a man I barely knew a month ago.
The whole thing felt like playing a part I wasn’t sure I’d earned. Standing on a pedestal in front of those mirrors, the fabric too white, the lighting too bright, and everyone watching me with too much hope in their eyes. I kept expecting to feel something. To know maybe when I found the one.
Instead, I just kept trying things on while Miller trailed behind me like a couture-obsessed ghost, pulling at sleeves and tugging at hems, muttering things like “It’s giving pageant girl” or “We need a higher slit” or “This neckline is only for virgins and liars.”
Sage kept offering quiet encouragement, and Lark teared up every time I stepped out of the dressing room, which was oddly comforting.
Mom just kept saying, “Whatever makes you feel most like yourself,” which felt both supportive and impossible, because I’m still not sure who that is in this context.
But then we found it.
The dress wasn’t loud or flashy. No rhinestones or beading or layers of stiff tulle that made me feel like a frosted cake.
It was off-shoulder with soft, gathered pleats that swept across the bodice and cinched just right at the waist. The fabric draped over my hips and fell into this clean, dramatic train that felt more effortless than ornamental.
There were these sheer sleeves that just floated around my wrists, barely there but still grounding the whole thing in something soft.
And the slit—high, unapologetic—cut right up the side like the dress was daring me to be bold. To take up space.
Miller got real quiet when I walked out in it.
Then she stood, crossed the room without a word, adjusted one corner of the fabric near my hip, and stepped back like she’d just finished a painting.
“Okay,” she said finally, her voice softer than it had been all day. “ This is definitely it. This is the one.”
And it was.
Not because it made me feel like a bride. But because for the first time all day, I hadn’t felt like I was pretending. I just looked like myself. Maybe even the version of myself I’d forgotten I was allowed to be.
Now, back in the dining room, I’m folding the last of the cloth napkins into something vaguely triangle-shaped while Sage lays out silverware. The sun has shifted just enough to hit the pinecone print on the plates, making everything feel a little too golden and nostalgic.
I’m not sentimental about holidays. But there’s something about the mess of it that gets me—the noise, the closeness, the way everyone drifts in and out of rooms like we’re all part of the same slow, wandering tide.
Hudson strolls in from the kitchen, already licking his fingers like he’s been up to something.
“Everything looks so good,” he says, eyes scanning the table like he’s casing it for any weaknesses. Then, without breaking stride, he reaches for one of the brownies on the dessert plate.
I slap his hand before he makes contact. “Touch that and I’ll tell your mom you ate raw stuffing mix.”
He grins. “I did not.”
“Try me,” I say, sliding the plate an inch closer to me.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not seriously claiming all of those.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You don’t even eat gluten.”
“Those are my brownies. Made with my flour, by my mother, for me. ”
He lunges. I block. We’re both laughing now, shoving lightly at each other over the centerpiece like this is some kind of edible custody battle.
“You’ve already got, like, ten,” he says, half-exasperated.
“And I will die with ten,” I say, tucking the plate under one arm and spinning away from him like it’s a football.
God, I love that kid.
There’s just something about Hudson—he’s sharp, but kind.
A little awkward sometimes, but not in a way that makes him try to be anyone he’s not.
He’s always been a good listener. Better than most adults I know.
And underneath the sarcasm, he’s got this big, soft heart he pretends not to have.
It reminds me a little too much of myself, if I’m being honest.
Jack and Lainey burst into the room a second later, shrieking about something unintelligible while clinging to opposite ends of a dish towel.
They’re like a pair of little firecrackers—always sparking and spinning, never landing in the same place twice.
I don’t know how Lark keeps up with them.
I don’t know how anyone does. But I love them. I really do.
Being an aunt is so much better than being a sister. You get all the love and mayhem without any of the crushing responsibility. You can spoil them, rile them up, then hand them back like a loaded Nerf gun and walk away.