Rust & Starlight
Chapter 41 : Wren at the Gate
Spring arrived on a Tuesday, with rain.
Not the harsh, battering rain of the storm that had brought them together — this was gentle, almost tender, falling in soft curtains across the prairie. The orchard responded overnight, the buds swelling, the first hints of pink appearing on the tips of the branches.
Wren stood at the kitchen window, a cup of coffee in her hands, watching the rain. Mason had been gone for two weeks — a short promotional tour for the album’s anniversary re-release. He’d called every night, his voice tired but happy, and each time he’d said the same thing: “I can’t wait to come home.”
Today was the day.
He’d texted at dawn: “Leaving Nashville now. ETA 6 p.m. Don’t wait up.”
She’d texted back: “I’ll be at the gate.”
He’d sent a heart emoji. She’d sent a gif of a dancing cow. He’d responded with a string of laughing-crying faces.
Now, at 4 p.m., she was already watching.
The gate was at the end of the driveway, a simple metal structure that had been there since her grandfather’s time. It had a latch that stuck and a hinge that squeaked, and it had never looked so beautiful as it did today, framed by the rain and the emerging green of the fields.
Wren had changed clothes three times.
First, her coveralls — too practical. Then, the blue dress — too fancy. Finally, she’d settled on jeans and the blue flannel shirt she’d stolen from Mason, the one that smelled like him even after a dozen washes.
Her hair was loose. She’d put on a touch of lipstick. Her hands were shaking.
It’s just Mason, she told herself. The man who burns toast and milks cows and writes songs about you.
But it wasn’t just Mason. It was the man she loved. The man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. The man who had asked her to think about forever, and who she’d asked to wait until spring.
Spring had arrived.
At 5:15, Mabel called.
“You’re pacing,” Mabel said, without preamble.
“How do you know?”
“I can hear it in your voice. You’re wearing a path in the floor.”
“I’m not pacing. I’m standing.”
“You’re vibrating. Same thing.” A pause. “He’s going to be there soon.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready?”
Wren looked out the window. The rain had stopped, and the sun was breaking through the clouds, painting the wet fields in shades of gold.
“I think so,” she said.
“You’re not going to say yes just because you’re nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m nervous,” Wren admitted. “But not about him. About me. About whether I deserve this.”
Mabel’s voice softened. “You deserve every good thing that comes to you, Wren Calloway. You’ve earned it. Now go wait at the gate like the love-struck fool you are.”
Wren laughed. “I love you, Mabel.”
“I love you too. Now hang up and go.”
She walked to the gate at 5:45.
The driveway stretched before her, a ribbon of gravel leading to the county road. The fields on either side were waking up — green shoots pushing through the brown earth, the promise of summer. The orchard was visible from the gate, a cloud of pink and white against the sky.
She leaned against the gatepost, her arms crossed, and waited.
The minutes passed slowly. A tractor rumbled in the distance. A hawk circled overhead. The sun sank lower, painting the clouds in shades of orange and purple.
What if he’s late? she thought. What if there’s traffic? What if he changed his mind?
She pushed the thoughts away. He hadn’t changed his mind. He was coming. He’d promised.
At 6:10, she saw the headlights.
A truck — not his, she realized with a lurch. A pickup, slowing as it approached the gate. The window rolled down, and Old Man Pritchard leaned out.
“You waiting for that singer fella?” he asked.
“I am.”
“He’s about ten minutes behind me. Saw him at the gas station in Hays, filling up.” Pritchard nodded. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.”
He drove on, leaving her alone with the fading light and the pounding of her heart.
At 6:22, she saw the truck.
It was unmistakable — the same powder-blue Ford F-250 he’d crashed into her fence, now repaired and gleaming in the sunset. It turned onto the county road, slowed at the gate, and stopped.
Mason got out.
He looked tired — the kind of tired that came from too many hotel beds and too many miles. His hair was longer than when he’d left, curling at the collar. His jeans were worn, his flannel shirt untucked. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in two days.
He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.”
He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. His hands were behind his back.
“You’re at the gate,” he said.
“I said I would be.”
“I know. I just… I didn’t expect you to actually wait.”
“I always keep my promises.”
He smiled — that slow, crooked smile that made her knees weak.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“What is it?”
He brought his hands around. In one hand, a single peach blossom, freshly picked. In the other, a small velvet box.
Wren’s heart stopped.
“Mason—”
“I know I said I’d wait until spring. But spring is here. The orchard is blooming. And I’ve been carrying this ring for six months, waiting for the right moment.”
He opened the box. The ring was simple — a diamond solitaire, not too large, set in a band of yellow gold that matched the sunset.
“I love you, Wren Calloway,” he said. “I love your farm and your sheep and your judgmental cow. I love the way you sing off-key when you think no one’s listening. I love the way you held me together when I was falling apart.”
He took a breath.
“I want to spend the rest of my life fixing fences with you. I want to watch the orchard bloom every spring. I want to grow old on this farm, and die in this house, and be buried beneath that peach tree.”
He knelt.
“Will you marry me?”
Wren stared at him. At the ring. At the blossom. At the man who had crashed into her life and refused to leave.
Tears streamed down her face.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”
He stood, slipped the ring onto her finger, and pulled her into his arms. She kissed him — hard, desperate, joyful — and he kissed her back, the peach blossom crushed between them.
“I love you,” she said against his lips.
“I love you too.”
They stood at the gate, wrapped in each other, as the sun set over the prairie. The orchard glowed pink and white in the fading light. The sheep bleated. Clarabelle lowed.
And somewhere in the distance, Mabel honked her truck horn in celebration.
Later, they walked through the orchard.
The blossoms were everywhere, covering the ground like snow, filling the air with sweetness. Wren held Mason’s hand, the ring warm on her finger.
“We need to tell Mabel,” she said.
“She already knows. She helped me pick out the ring.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. She said, and I quote, ‘If you hurt her, I’ll bury you in the chicken coop.'”
Wren laughed. “She would, too.”
“I know. That’s why I’m never going to hurt you.”
They stopped beneath the largest peach tree, the one Luke had planted. Wren placed her hand on the trunk.
“I hope you’re happy for me,” she said softly. “I hope you know that loving him doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”
The wind rustled the branches, and a single blossom fell, landing on her shoulder.
“I think he’s happy,” Mason said.
“I think so too.”
He kissed her, and the blossoms rained down around them, and the world felt full of possibility.