Chapter 41
WREN
FOUR MONTHS LATER
April in Montana can’t seem to make up its mind.
Some mornings, frost still clings to the windows, and the sky hangs low and gray, like winter’s refusing to loosen its grip.
But today, the sun showed up early, stretching across the horizon.
The sky is that soft, washed-out blue that only happens when the air’s still cold but pretending not to be, while thin clouds drift lazily overhead, not in any hurry to go anywhere.
My breath fogs on the glass, but the snow in the yard is starting to retreat in patchy stretches, revealing dead grass and muddy ruts and, if you look closely, a few stubborn wildflowers trying to nudge their way up.
From the front window, I can see the mountains in the distance—snow still dusting the peaks, soft and powdery up high where the sun hasn’t quite reached.
Closer in, the pastures are slowly shifting from white to brown to yellow to something almost green.
A few of the cows are gathered near the fence, and one of the barn cats is curled on the porch rail.
I wrap my hands around my mug and sink into the couch, my legs tucked under me, still in my sweatpants and Sawyer’s hoodie. I’m so tired my bones ache.
Lately, I’ve been bouncing between both ranches—helping Boone and the hands with the end of calving season over at Wilding Ranch, then heading back here to keep up with training sessions.
Anna’s taken over most of the groundwork on Hart Ranch, and she’s been amazing—steadfast, detail-oriented, naturally good with all of the horses.
I check in and supervise where I need to, but for the most part she’s running it like it’s her own.
This week, Nora’s kindergarten class came for a field trip at Hart Ranch, and it was mayhem in the best way.
Estelle and Emily helped herd the kids toward the barn while Sawyer taught them fun facts about the animals.
I held baby bottles filled with warm milk while twenty sets of tiny hands tried to feed the calves, giggling when their fingers got nibbled.
Nora beamed the whole time, proudly introducing Uncle Sawyer like he was famous.
I glance toward the mantle.
The painting of the sunflowers is still there—bright and full, reminding me of August summers.
But now it hangs beside something new: a painting of a bouquet of violets, delicate and layered, with shadows tucked into the petals just so.
It’s the painting I gave Sawyer for his birthday last month. It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever made.
He framed the note I left with it too. It sits right beneath the canvas now:
I read once that violets mean remembrance and faithfulness.
And I used to think that was too sad for a flower—too heavy.
But now I think it’s beautiful. Because there’s something holy in remembering the ones we’ve loved, and something brave in choosing to keep living after them.
You lost Violet and still found a way to be gentle.
To stay kind. You never stopped showing up, even when it hurt.
And I think that’s what love looks like on you.
The kind that stays. The kind that grows back.
He didn’t say much when he opened it, but his eyes brimmed with tears. He looked at it for a long time, then at me, then wrapped his arms around me and didn’t let go for a while.
And now it’s here. Part of this house. Part of us.
The mountains are bright this morning. Bright in a way that only shows up after a stretch of gray. And maybe that’s where we are, too. Somewhere in the in-between—still cold, still a little raw, but warming. Patching over. Starting to bloom.
I stretch, slowly, feeling the tight pull of muscles that haven’t really rested in weeks. My neck pops. My lower back protests. I set the mug down and push up from the couch with a soft grunt.
“Come on, girl,” I call out, and Winnie’s ears perk instantly from her spot near the back door. She scrambles to her too-big paws like she’s been waiting for this invitation all morning—which, knowing her, she has.
She’s a three-month-old Australian Kelpie with over-sized ears and an attitude far too big for her tiny body.
We’re training her up to be a working dog eventually—herding, boundary watching, the usual—but right now she’s mostly just learning basic commands and how not to chew through the leg of the coffee table.
Sawyer got her right after New Year’s, after I’d mentioned, half-joking, that Hank might like a friend.
I hadn’t meant immediately , but two days later, he came home with her in his coat.
Winnie was sleepy and floppy and smelled like hay and peanut butter, and Sawyer just handed her to me like it was the most normal thing in the world to bring home a new dog.
Hank has tolerated her ever since. Barely.
He sighs dramatically every time she so much as looks at him, like he can’t believe the indignity of having to share his humans with a toddler in dog form.
But he lets her curl up beside him when she’s cold, and once, when she whined in the middle of the night, I caught him trying to nudge her crate door open so she wouldn’t cry.
Sawyer’s out at the far pasture today, checking on a first-time heifer that’s been acting off since last night.
Calving season doesn’t exactly run on a schedule, and she’s been stalling for days now.
He and Crew are out there with one of the hands, keeping an eye in case she needs assistance delivering.
Hank’s with him—loyal and slow-moving. Which means it’s just me and Winnie this morning. And I’m taking full advantage.
I change quickly—jeans, thermals, flannel—and grab Winnie’s leash off the hook by the back door. She bounces at my feet, circling twice before sitting, tail thudding against the floor like a metronome. I clip the leash to her collar, grab my jacket, and step out into the morning.
The air hits cold against my face, but the sun’s high and there’s a softness to it that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.
The snow crunches beneath our boots and paws as we walk across the yard, past the still-frosted fence line, and toward the round pen where I know Anna’s already started morning groundwork with one of the younger geldings.
Winnie trots beside me, her nose to the ground, ears up. She has no idea what she’s doing out here yet, but she’s eager.
She suddenly freezes, her ears snapping to attention. One sharp bark bursts from her, then another—louder this time—and before I can react, she’s lunging toward the barn closest to the round pen.
“Winnie!” I hiss, trying to keep her leash tight. “What is wrong with you?”
She doesn’t answer, obviously—just keeps barking and yanking with all of her determination, her paws slipping across the half-frozen dirt like she’s trying to drag me into battle.
I plant my boots and grip the leash with both hands, but she’s relentless, whining now, twisting her whole body toward the barn. I take one step closer, teeth gritted. “Okay, okay! You win. Just relax!”
And then I hear it.
Screaming. Raw and guttural.
Winnie lets out another bark, high and frantic, and I scoop her up without thinking. “Shhh. I know,” I whisper, even though I don’t. I have no clue.
My boots slip slightly as I take off, moving as fast as I can without eating it on the patchy ice.
The wind slices across my face. My breath clouds in front of me in short, panicked puffs.
The closer I get, the louder it gets. Another scream rips through the quiet morning, followed by a muffled sob.
Oh god.
I reach the barn and shove the heavy doors open with my shoulder. They creak like they always do, groaning against the cold. At first, I don’t see anything—just tack hung neatly on hooks, the smell of hay and horses and something sharp underneath it that my brain doesn’t want to name yet.
Then I see her.
Anna.
She’s halfway down the main aisle, hunched against the wall, one hand braced on a beam and the other cradling her belly. Her head is down, her blonde hair stuck to the sweat on her face, her whole body trembling.
Another scream tears out of her before I can even move.
“Anna?” My voice comes out soft, careful, like I might scare her if I’m too loud.
She turns, barely, eyes wild, her face pale and damp and full of panic. She opens her mouth, but no words come—just another sound, this one higher, tighter, as she bends slightly at the waist, both arms wrapping around her middle.
I look down. Her jeans are soaked through.
No. No, no, no. Not here. Not now.
She’s in labor.
I rush toward her, my heart pounding, my boots echoing against the concrete floor. “Okay, we’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
Anna shakes her head hard, clutching the beam like it’s the only thing holding her upright. “I can’t!” Her hazel eyes are wide, glassy, her whole face pulled tight with pain.
“You can.” I reach for her arm. “We just—come on, we’ll get you in the truck.”
But another scream rips out of her and she doesn’t budge. She pants through it, bent over, her body shaking, her hair clinging to her cheeks. “It’s coming. It’s coming right now. I can feel it. I swear, Wren—it’s happening too fast.”
I blink, my brain stuttering. “Right now? Like now now?”
She doesn’t answer. Just lets out another string of curses that ends in a sob, her knees wobbling beneath her.
Shit.
I quickly scan the barn, heart hammering as I tie Winnie’s leash to the closest post. She lets out a confused whimper but I can’t even turn around.
Phone. I need my phone. I need to call an ambulance. Right? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? What if I don’t have time?
My stomach drops.
My phone. It’s back at the house. On the kitchen counter. Shit.
I can’t leave her here, alone.
Before I can fully spiral, I hear laughter—casual, unaware—floating through the open door behind me. Crew’s voice, light and joking, and someone else with him, one of the ranch hands—Tyler, I think.
Thank God.