The morning of the wedding broke clear and bright over Ashford Hollow, the kind of pure spring day that felt, to Wren, almost suspiciously perfect after everything the mountain weather had put them through over the past year.
She dressed in the trailer room that had become, over the months, genuinely hers, Rachel and Birdie fussing over the final details of her gown while Marlene fretted in the doorway about whether the caterers had arrived with enough time to set up properly.
"You're shaking," Rachel observed, adjusting the last pin in Wren's hair.
"Good shaking," Wren said, laughing despite the nerves fluttering through her chest. "The best kind."
Through the window, she could hear the meadow slowly filling with voices — the low rumble of motorcycles arriving in a procession that had
