Page 33 of Wild As Her

“Well, you’ve already pissed her off buying her ranch. Better just add a saddle to it,” he chuckles.

He’s not wrong, but I don’t want her to be pissed at me. I just want her. Period.

The shop is quiet, and the bell above the door jingles low and slow when I push inside. The place smells like leather and liniment and is full of old stories.

There’s one old guy behind the counter, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all day, which judging by the pace here, he probably does.

“Help you?” he asks, not looking up.

“I’m here for a saddle,” I say, adjusting my hat. “One that came in on consignment a while ago. From the Wilder estate.”

That gets his attention.

“Ah,” he says, setting his catalog down. “That fancy old one with the tooled leather and the silver horn?”

I nod. “That’s the one.”

“She’s a beauty.” He tilts his head. “You a collector?”

“No,” I say. “It belonged to someone I care about.”

He squints, studies me like he’s trying to figure me out. I must pass his inspection, because he jerks a thumb toward the front window. “It’s still here.”

The saddle sits on a low rack in the front window on top of a faded Pendleton blanket. The second I see it, something twists in my chest. The leather’s aged, cracked in places, scuffed along the cantle, but it’s still beautiful. Still solid. Stillhis.

Still hers. It belongs to her. Not here.

I walk up slow and run my hand over the seat, fingers tracing the tooled pattern, worn smooth in the center from years of riding. My throat tightens at the memories.

I remember being twelve, maybe thirteen, standing in the Wilder barn while Cami’s granddad, Buck Wilder, taught me how to oil a saddle properly. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, you listened.

“You treat your tools right, they’ll never let you down,” he’d said, passing me a rag and an old tin of oil. “Same goes for women and horses. Show up. Be consistent. Be kind.”

He didn’t mean it to be profound, but I carried that line around like armor. Especially when I’d go home and find my old man three drinks in, barking orders and breaking things. I realized early on who had the wisdom and who didn’t.

Buck Wilder never yelled. He never raised a hand. Just worked hard, laughed soft, and always made sure I got a piece of pie after supper if I was hanging around.

The first time my dad saw me hanging out at the Wilder Ranch, he nearly lost it. Called me names. Said I didn’t need to be playing around on someone else’s land like a damn charity case.

But Buck had just patted my shoulder and said, “The boy is welcome here anytime, Jessop.”

That didn’t go well. But I never forgot it.

“You want it or not?” the man asks, cutting into my memory.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”

He rattles off a price. It’s too high, and he knows it. I know it, too. But I don’t care. I count out the bills and hand over the cash. He writes up a receipt.

When I lift the saddle, it’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe I’m heavier with everything it carries. My fingers curl around the horn, and I swear I can still feel the ghosts of childhood rides and slow, sleepy trail rides at sunrise.

My sunrise rides didn’t start with Cami. They started with her granddad. He was so damn special to me and meant so much. He believed in me and saw something that no one elsesaw. I still don’t know what, but I know I’ll work my ass off to live up to the man he thought I could be.

I walk it out to the truck, trying not to get too damn emotional about a piece of leather, but it’s not just a saddle.

It’s the saddle of a man who treated me good and reminded me that there was still good in the world.

It’s the first time he let me ride with her, a few years after my mom died. I was twelve and broken and trying not to show it. He had just called me over and said,“Come on. You can go.”

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