Rust & Starlight
Chapter 47 : A Proposal Without a Ring
Mason had been planning the perfect proposal for weeks.
He’d researched rings online, looking for something simple but elegant, something that would suit Wren’s hands — hands that fixed fences and planted orchards and held his face when she kissed him. He’d found a jeweler in Hays who specialized in antique settings, and he’d commissioned a ring with a small diamond and a band of yellow gold.
The ring was supposed to arrive on a Thursday. But the shipment was delayed, and by Friday, Mason was pacing the farmhouse like a caged animal.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Wren said, not looking up from her book.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.
Mason had also planned the setting. The orchard, of course, when the blossoms were at their peak. He’d imagined a picnic, a bottle of non-alcoholic cider, a speech he’d written and rewritten a dozen times. He’d practiced the words in the barn, alone, while Clarabelle watched with her judgmental eyes.
But the ring wasn’t here. And the blossoms were starting to fall.
On Saturday morning, Mason woke before dawn.
He lay in bed, listening to Wren breathe, watching the light creep through the curtains. The orchard was visible from the window — a sea of pink and white, the petals drifting in the breeze. It was the most beautiful day of the spring, maybe the most beautiful day of the year.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
He slipped out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a flannel shirt, and walked to the orchard. The ground was soft with dew, and the air was sweet with the scent of blossoms. He stood beneath the largest peach tree — the one Luke had planted — and tried to calm his racing heart.
No ring. No speech. No plan.
Just him, and the orchard, and the woman he loved.
He walked back to the house, climbed the stairs, and knelt beside the bed.
“Wren,” he said softly. “Wake up.”
She stirred, blinking. “What time is it?”
“Early. But I need to show you something.”
She sat up, her hair tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is perfect. Come with me.”
She followed him outside in her bare feet, still wearing his flannel shirt over her pajamas. The grass was cold, but she didn’t complain. She just took his hand and let him lead her to the orchard.
They stopped beneath the largest peach tree. The blossoms were falling around them like snow, catching in her hair, settling on her shoulders.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
Mason turned to face her. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding.
“I had a plan,” he said. “A ring, a speech, a picnic. But the ring is stuck in shipping, the speech sounded stupid when I practiced it, and I couldn’t wait another day.”
He took a breath.
“Wren Calloway, I love you. I love this farm and this orchard and this ridiculous, beautiful life we’ve built together. I love the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. I love the way you sing off-key to the sheep. I love the way you held me together when I was falling apart.”
He knelt in the grass, right there, with no ring and no plan.
“Will you marry me?”
Wren stared at him. The blossoms fell. The wind blew. And then she was laughing and crying and pulling him to his feet.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He kissed her — deep, joyful, tasting salt and spring — and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You don’t have a ring,” she said against his lips.
“I’ll get you one.”
“I don’t care about a ring.”
“I do. I want the whole world to know you’re mine.”
She pulled back, looking at him. “I’m not yours. I’m ours. Together.”
He laughed. “That’s fair.”
They stood in the orchard, the blossoms falling around them, the sun rising over the prairie. It wasn’t the proposal he’d planned. It was better.
Later, they called Mabel.
She arrived within twenty minutes, carrying a bottle of champagne (non-alcoholic, for Mason) and a bag of pastries from the co-op.
“I knew it,” she said, hugging Wren. “I knew he was going to propose today.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because he’s been walking around like a lovesick puppy for weeks. It was only a matter of time.”
Mason grinned. “I prefer ‘lovesick wolf.'”
“You prefer a lot of things that aren’t true.” Mabel handed him the bottle. “Now open this. We have celebrating to do.”
They sat on the new couch — the one they’d reupholstered together — and drank sparkling cider from champagne flutes. Mabel told stories about Wren as a girl, embarrassing stories that made Mason laugh and Wren hide her face.
“She used to chase the boys with a dead snake,” Mabel said. “Scared them half to death.”
“I was establishing dominance,” Wren said.
“It worked. None of them dated you until Luke.”
“Luke wasn’t scared of snakes.”
“Luke wasn’t scared of anything. That was his problem.”
The room went quiet. Mabel’s eyes widened, worried she’d said the wrong thing. But Wren just smiled.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Luke would have liked Mason. They would have been friends.”
Mason took her hand. “I would have liked him too.”
They drank to Luke, to the farm, to the future.
That night, after Mabel left, Wren and Mason sat on the porch swing.
The stars were out, the orchard was dark, and the world was quiet. Wren had her feet tucked under her, and Mason’s arm was around her shoulders.
“I can’t believe you proposed without a ring,” she said.
“I can’t believe you said yes.”
“Did you have any doubt?”
He thought about it. “For about a second. Right before you kissed me.”
She laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “When do I get the ring?”
“When it arrives. Hopefully Monday.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll propose again. With the same question, the same answer, and still no ring.”
She kissed his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love.”
“Same thing.”
They sat in silence, watching the stars, the porch swing creaking gently. The future stretched out before them — uncertain, beautiful, full of possibility.