Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~5 min read
Chapter 21: Harder
Quinn
Being a mother is harder than any legal case Quinn’s ever handled.
Emily Hartford is six months old, sleeps erratically, has strong opinions about everything, and is simultaneously the best and most exhausting thing that’s ever happened to Quinn.
“She hates me,” Quinn says, bouncing Emily who’s been crying for an hour straight. “She definitely hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Cole says, taking the baby. “She’s just fussy. Probably teething.”
“I’ve tried everything. Feeding, changing, rocking, singing—which I’m terrible at but desperate times—and she just keeps crying.”
Cole walks with Emily, doing some kind of swaying motion that Quinn swears looks identical to what she was doing, and miraculously the baby quiets.
“What did you do differently?” Quinn demands.
“Nothing. I think she just wore herself out crying at you.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Parenthood rarely is.”
Quinn collapses on the couch in their living room—they bought a house in Cedar Ridge six months ago, small but perfect, close enough to the ranch for Margaret to drop by constantly but far enough to have their own space—and thinks about how her life has changed.
A year ago, she was a Seattle lawyer living alone, working eighty-hour weeks, convinced her career was her entire identity.
Now she’s Quinn Hartford, environmental consultant, mother, wife, Cedar Ridge resident, and she barely recognizes her old life.
“Do you ever miss it?” Quinn asks Cole. “Your pre-baby life when you could sleep and make decisions without considering whether Emily needs to nurse or nap?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I’m too tired to miss anything except sleep.” He finally gets Emily down in her crib. “But I wouldn’t trade this. Even the exhausting parts.”
“Me neither. Even when she screams at me for an hour straight.”
“She was screaming with you, not at you. Important distinction.”
Quinn’s consulting practice has adapted to motherhood—she takes client meetings from home when possible, brings Emily to the office when necessary, has built a reputation as the environmental consultant who sometimes has a baby strapped to her chest during site visits.
It’s unprofessional and perfect and exactly what Quinn needs.
“I have a new client,” Quinn says, pulling out the file. “Developer from Bozeman wants to build a ski resort. Environmental groups are already mobilizing against it.”
“Can it be done sustainably?”
“Maybe. Depends on the site, the design, whether he’s willing to prioritize conservation over maximizing profit.” She reviews the project summary. “I told him I’d assess and provide honest feedback—if it can’t be done right, I won’t help him do it wrong.”
“That’s why clients trust you. You’re not just a consultant who tells them what they want to hear.”
“I’m a consultant who’s developed a reputation for being aggressively honest about environmental impact. It’s somewhat limiting my client pool.”
“But the clients you get are serious about doing it right.”
“True.”
The Hartford Construction and Fitzgerald Environmental partnership has become a model in Montana development circles—Cole builds, Quinn ensures it’s environmentally sound, and together they’re proving that economic growth and environmental protection can coexist.
They’ve completed three projects in the past year, have four more in planning stages, and are being approached by developers across the Mountain West who want to replicate their approach.
“We’re kind of famous,” Cole says one day after a journalist from a national environmental magazine interviews them.
“We’re kind of notorious. There’s a difference.”
“Either way, people are talking about our work. That’s good.”
The article runs two months later—full spread about their partnership, their model, the way they turned from opponents into collaborators into life partners—and Quinn sees herself described as “pioneering a new approach to environmental law that prioritizes solutions over litigation.”
It’s everything she wanted without knowing she wanted it.
Not just winning cases.
Actually changing how development happens.
Building things instead of just fighting against them.
“Your firm must be furious,” Cole says, reading the article over her shoulder.
“My former firm is probably claiming they inspired my approach. Rewriting history to make themselves look good.”
“Do you care?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Emily starts crying again—the familiar sound that means she’s hungry or needs changing or just wants attention—and Quinn goes to her daughter, picks her up, settles into the nursing chair Cole built specifically for this purpose.
“Hi baby girl,” Quinn murmurs. “Did you miss me?”
Emily latches on, and Quinn relaxes into the routine she’s developed—nursing while reviewing case files, multitasking motherhood and career in a way her own mother would find horrifying but which works perfectly for Quinn.
Margaret stops by later with dinner—she does this at least three times a week, claims it’s because Quinn and Cole are too exhausted to cook properly but it’s really because she wants to see her granddaughter—and finds Quinn and Cole both asleep on the couch with Emily between them.
“You’re doing good,” Margaret says softly, not waking them, just tucking a blanket around all three. “Better than good. You’re building exactly what you’re supposed to build.”
And Quinn, half-asleep, thinks that maybe that’s the point.
Not perfection.
Not having it all figured out.
Just building something good with someone who matters, one exhausting beautiful day at a time.
Together.
Always together.
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