Rust & Starlight
Chapter 48 : The Wedding
They decided to get married on the farm, beneath the largest peach tree.
The date was set for the first Saturday after the spring bloom, when the blossoms were still on the branches but beginning to fall. Wren wanted the petals to rain down on them like confetti. Mason wanted an excuse to stand under the tree with her for the rest of his life.
The guest list was small: Mabel, Old Man Pritchard, a few neighbors from the co-op. Wren’s mother flew in from Florida, clutching a handkerchief and apologizing for every year she’d missed. Even Julian Voss made the trip from Nashville, carrying a gift basket of fancy olive oil and a note that said “For when you need to cook something other than soup.”
There was no wedding planner. No caterer. No band. Wren made the food herself — pulled pork, potato salad, her grandmother’s recipe for baked beans. Mason built an arch out of cedar branches and strung it with twinkling lights. Mabel brought a sheet cake from the co-op bakery, the words “Finally” written in blue icing.
The sheep were the flower girls.
This was Wren’s idea, and Mason had laughed until he cried when she first suggested it. But on the morning of the wedding, she walked out to the pasture with a basket of flower petals and scattered them in the sheep’s path. The sheep, confused but agreeable, followed her to the orchard, trailing petals in their wool.
Clarabelle was the ring bearer.
Mason had tied a small pillow to her halter, and the rings — simple gold bands — were secured with a ribbon. Clarabelle walked down the aisle with the dignity of a queen, pausing only once to glare at a guest who got too close.
“She’s judging us,” Mason whispered.
“She’s always judging us,” Wren whispered back.
Wren wore a simple white dress — not a gown, not a train, just cotton and lace, the kind of dress that could be worn again. Her hair was loose, with blossoms tucked behind her ears. She carried a bouquet of wildflowers, picked that morning from the edges of the orchard.
Mason wore his best flannel — the blue one, the same one he’d worn the first time she kissed him. His jeans were clean, his boots were polished, and he’d actually shaved.
They met beneath the peach tree, the blossoms falling around them, the sun warm on their faces.
The officiant was a retired judge from Hays, a friend of Mabel’s who had married half the county. He smiled at them, opened his book, and said, “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Wren Calloway and Mason Cross.”
Wren looked at Mason. Mason looked at Wren. The rest of the world faded away.
They had written their own vows.
Wren went first.
“Mason, when you crashed into my fence, I thought you were the biggest inconvenience of my life. I was wrong. You were the beginning.”
She took his hands.
“You taught me that fixing something broken doesn’t mean making it new. It means loving it as it is — the scratches, the dents, the scars. You taught me that fences can be mended, and so can hearts. You taught me that it’s okay to be happy.”
She squeezed his hands.
“I promise to wake up every morning and choose you. To feed the sheep and milk the cow and fix the fence beside you. To burn the toast and laugh about it. To hold you when you’re scared, and let you hold me when I am.”
She smiled.
“I promise to love you until the orchard stops blooming. And since that’s never going to happen, I guess I’m stuck with you.”
Mason’s eyes were wet.
“Wren,” he said, his voice rough, “I don’t have a speech. I’ve written a hundred songs about you, but I never found the right words for this.”
He looked down at their joined hands.
“When I crashed into your fence, I was dying. Not quickly — slowly. Drink by drink. Day by day. I didn’t want to be saved. But you saved me anyway. Not because I deserved it. Because you’re the kind of person who saves people.”
He looked up.
“You gave me a place to sleep and a job to do and a reason to wake up in the morning. You gave me a family — this farm, these animals, this town. You gave me a life I never thought I’d have.”
He swallowed.
“I promise to fix every fence that breaks. To milk Clarabelle when your back hurts. To burn the toast on purpose, just to make you smile. I promise to stay sober, stay present, stay with you. For as long as you’ll have me.”
He took a breath.
“I promise to love you until the stars burn out. And since that’s never going to happen either, I guess I’m stuck with you too.”
The judge pronounced them married.
They kissed — soft, sweet, the blossoms falling around them — and the sheep bleated in approval. Clarabelle lowed. Mabel cried. Old Man Pritchard actually smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Cross.”
Wren looked at Mason. “Mrs. Cross?”
“We can hyphenate if you want.”
“Calloway-Cross?”
“Has a nice ring to it.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
The reception was in the barn.
Mabel had strung fairy lights from the rafters and set up a table with the sheet cake and mason jars of sweet tea. Julian had brought a portable speaker, and someone had made a playlist of Mason’s songs — including “Kansas Rain,” which played while Wren and Mason had their first dance.
They danced in the middle of the barn, surrounded by hay bales and string lights and the people who loved them. Mason held her close, his cheek against her hair.
“I can’t believe we did it,” he said.
“I can.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve believed in us since the day you finished the fence.”
He pulled back to look at her. “That was three weeks after you met me.”
“I’m a quick judge of character.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe. But I’m your liar now.”
He kissed her, and the barn erupted in applause.
The night ended on the porch.
The guests had gone home, the sheep were asleep, and Clarabelle was in her stall, dreaming of hay. Wren and Mason sat on the porch swing, still in their wedding clothes, looking up at the stars.
“Mrs. Calloway-Cross,” Mason said.
“That’s a mouthful.”
“We’ll work on it.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m happy.”
“I’m happy too.”
“Like, really happy. Not the kind of happy that comes with fine print.”
He kissed the top of her head. “No fine print. Just us.”
The stars shone. The orchard whispered. And somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.
Wren closed her eyes.
“Take me to bed,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t apologize for everything.”
“I’m not Canadian.”
She laughed, and he carried her across the threshold.