Chapter 43
SAWYER
EIGHT WEEKS LATER
Parenting is not for the weak.
I used to think sleep deprivation was just something new parents exaggerated about. Some rite-of-passage badge they wore like a war hero. But it’s real. Bone-deep. An exhaustion that makes you forget if you brushed your teeth or fed the dogs or answered that email from the county vet board.
Right now, Ruthie’s finally asleep in my arms. Her little head is tucked beneath my chin, her breath warm and rhythmic against my chest, and I am not about to do anything stupid like sit my ass down. Sitting somehow triggers the gods of infant unrest.
So I walk. Back and forth across the nursery floor, slow and steady like a damn metronome.
The room is dim except for the soft glow of the nightlight near the changing table.
The walls are still that pale lavender, still covered in the hand-painted butterflies I couldn’t bring myself to paint over.
But it doesn’t feel frozen in time anymore.
Now there’s a basket of clean onesies by the rocker, a half-drunk bottle of formula on the dresser, and the faint scent of lotion and baby wipes in the air.
It’s been eight weeks since she came home. Eight weeks that have stretched me more than I ever thought I could stretch.
Between the clinic, the adoption paperwork, helping Dad and my brothers on the ranch, and trying to keep Hank and Winnie from losing their minds with all the new routines—I’m operating on fumes most days. Wren, too.
She’s stepped away from both training programs for now—just until Ruthie’s a little older.
For the last six weeks, Wren’s world has been diapers and feedings and walks with the stroller and the dogs.
She’s good at it. Better than she thinks.
But we’re both learning that even the best kind of love comes with a new level of tired.
We haven’t seen much of Anna yet. She’s still recovering.
She sends check-ins here and there—quick texts, a photo every so often.
She said she plans to come back to the training program once she’s cleared by her doctor and her class schedule settles.
We don’t push. I figure she’ll come around when she’s ready.
The adoption process has moved along smoother than I expected.
Our home study came back positive—no surprise, but it still felt like a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
We’ve passed all our background checks. Our references came in.
Marisol said we’re in the final leg of it now—waiting for the court date to finalize everything.
Sixty days.
That’s how long it’s been since I watched Wren cup a newborn baby’s face in her hands and call her a ray of sunshine.
That’s how long it’s been since I became a dad in a barn on a cold April morning.
And now, I’m here, barefoot, walking tiny loops through the same nursery I used to avoid. And she’s here—Ruthie Ray Anna Hart. Her fingers curled around the edge of my shirt, her body soft and warm against mine.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhale the faint scent of her hair, and keep walking.
Even though I’m running on three hours of sleep and a shit ton of coffee…
I’m grateful. I didn’t think I’d ever have this.
I didn’t know if it was something I could ever hold again.
Not after losing Violet. Not after living in this house with the same nursery for five years, the door shut tight and my hands empty.
But here she is. Here we are.
And I don’t take a second of it for granted—because I don’t know if we’ll ever get to do it again. I don’t know if Ruthie will be our only baby or our first, but either way, I know I’ll ache when she doesn’t fit against my chest like this anymore.
People don’t warn you about that part of parenting. About how much of it is just learning to say goodbye.
Goodbye to newborn stretches. To milk-drunk smiles. To the tiny, sleepy sighs against your collarbone. You’re constantly ushering in the next phase while quietly mourning the one you’re leaving behind.
And still—there’s joy in all of it.
She’s two months old now. She coos when I sing to her in the mornings. Grips my pinky like it’s the most important thing in the world. Her legs are starting to kick when she’s excited, and she has this little smirk when she’s tired that nearly guts me.
Most mornings I read to her— Goodnight Moon, Corduroy, The Runaway Bunny, The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar —the books that sit in a soft, well-loved stack on the nightstand. She doesn’t care what I’m saying, not yet. But she still watches my mouth, all wide eyes and wonder.
Wren’s the one who always remembers the small things, like the lotion. The soft lavender stuff we rub into Ruthie’s arms and legs after her bath. She hums while she does it, even if she’s exhausted. I don’t think she knows she does it.
That’s what it’s been like, watching her be a mom.
She doesn’t rush anything. She moves slow and soft, even when Ruthie’s screaming.
She talks to her like she’s a person, not a baby—she tells her what they’re doing that day, what she’s wearing, how proud she is of her for burping like a champion.
I catch her sometimes just sitting there watching her sleep, her hand resting gently on Ruthie’s stomach like she’s still not sure it’s real.
And honestly? I get it.
What we have together—it works. We trade off when we can. Give each other breaks. Wren always lets me take over the early mornings on my days off, which is what today is. My favorite kind of day, because I get them both to myself.
Ruthie’s breathing is slower now, her fingers twitching slightly against my chest like she’s dreaming of something small and good.
And this—this right here—it’s everything.
I walk another slow loop around the nursery, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my feet, the window starting to glow with the first light of morning.
My whole life used to fit into what I’d lost. Now, it fits into what I hold.
Ruthie starts snoring—the soft kind she does when she’s down for good.
I hold my breath and try it. Gently, carefully, I lower her into the crib, my hands still cupped beneath her until I’m sure she’s settled. She stirs for half a second, then goes still again, her lips parted, arms flung up like she’s sunbathing.
I turn up the white noise machine—the ocean waves setting—and back out of the room, step by step, inch by inch, until I’m on the other side of the door.
That white noise machine that Crew gave us has been our fucking life saver. I’d marry it if I wasn’t already taken.
I tiptoe back into our room and crawl into bed. The monitor is already glowing on Wren’s side of the nightstand, flickering with grainy footage of Ruthie’s tiny body, curled up on her side.
Wren shifts, her eyes still closed, and slides her arm around my waist, her leg hooking over mine. “How’d she go down?” she mumbles, her voice low and scratchy with sleep.
I brush her hair back off her face. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
I lean in and kiss her, soft at first. “She went down okay,” I whisper against her mouth.
She kisses me back, longer this time, slower. Her fingers slide into my hair and tug gently, just enough to pull me closer.
She exhales into me, and it’s not quite a moan, but it sends a full-body shiver straight through me. I deepen the kiss, my hand drifting beneath the hem of her T-shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin.
Then I realize what I’m not feeling.
No underwear. Nothing between us. Just her.
A low sound rumbles out of me before I can stop it. Her hand tightens in my hair, her mouth parting beneath mine like she’s already letting me in.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting it ground me. This moment. This woman. She always finds a way to feel like home.
“You trying to kill me?” I murmur.
She smiles, a little smug. “Maybe.”
And right there—half tangled in sheets, a baby monitor glowing blue across the room, her breath warm against my mouth—I feel the rush of it all again. Not exhaustion. Not grief. Just love.
Messy. Full. Real.
I look at her, really look at her. Hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep, that little crease between her brows she gets when she’s trying not to smile too big.
“Marry me,” I say.
Her forehead wrinkles. “Last time I checked, we already are.”
I shake my head, brushing her hair back again, letting my fingers linger behind her ear.
“No. I mean for real this time. Not because of some water rights. But because I love you. Because I love our life. Because I want to stand up in front of the people who’ve watched us figure this out and say I’d choose you again, even if none of it was required. ”
She goes still, her eyes locked on mine.
“I want it to be small,” I go on. “Just us and the people who really matter. Something simple. On the ranch. Outside, under those cottonwoods you love so much. No fancy dresses or over-the-top speeches. Just vows and you and cake and Ruthie.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.
I take a breath, my thumb brushing her cheek. “Will you marry me, Wren Margaret Wilding? Really marry me this time?”
Her mouth twitches, then curves—slow and wide and a little stunned.
“You’re asking me to actually change my last name?” she says, her eyes glassy.
I smile. “Only if you want to. But yeah. Thought maybe we could all share one.”
She laughs and her hand slides up the back of my neck and pulls me down until our foreheads touch, her eyes still locked on mine.
She smiles—soft, full of history and hope—and says, “Then yeah. Let’s do this for real.”
And then she kisses me like it’s not even a question. Like it never really was.
She curls into me afterward, her leg tangled over mine, her cheek pressed against my chest. The baby monitor hums quietly beside us, flickering to life now and then when Ruthie shifts in her crib. And still, neither of us moves. We just lie there—married, but somehow brand new again.
I thread my fingers through her hair and think about the version of me that stood in this house five years ago, staring at lavender walls and locking the door, convinced love like this was behind me.
That version of me wouldn’t recognize the life we’ve built.
Wouldn’t believe how full it could feel after so much loss.
But this is what came after. And it’s better than anything I could’ve planned for.
A wife who makes me laugh when I’m too tired to think straight. A daughter who fits in the crook of my arm. A life that’s messy and beautiful in all the right ways.
I hold Wren a little tighter, press a kiss to the top of her head, and whisper, “Thank you for saying yes.”
Even half-asleep, she smiles against my skin. “Always.”