Page 13 of Wild Then Wed
I sigh. “Awesome. Just let me guess—is something broken, dead, or about to cost us a shit ton of money?”
He snorts. “No.”
I squint at him. “Then are you gonna be a little more specific, or are we playing ranch charades now?”
Boone sighs and scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I just got off the phone with Vaughn Hart. Their horse trainer bailed a month ago, and they’ve been trying to make do with the others, but none of them are cutting it. Vaughn wants to know if you’d be willing to help out. Just until they find someone else.”
I scrunch my nose. “The Harts? Seriously?”
Boone shrugs like he knew this part was coming. “They’ll pay well.”
“That’s not the part I’m struggling with.”
“They helped with the Bluebell,” he says, tone soft but pointed. “You remember that.”
Unfortunately, I do. A couple years ago, when Boone’s wife, Lark, was about to lose her diner, the Harts stepped in. They made some calls, pulled some strings. Didn’t ask for any credit. They just helped.
Boone sees the hesitation on my face and pounces. “So I figured we could be neighborly. Return the favor. All that shit.”
I let out a slow sigh, already calculating how much this is going to screw with my day. “When?”
“That’s the thing,” Boone says, hooking a thumb toward the barn. “They kind of want you over there now.”
“Now? Likeright nownow?”
He nods, completely unapologetic. “They just brought in a new one, apparently. The horse is in bad shape. Won’t calm down for anyone.”
I stare at him for a beat. “What the actual hell, Boone?”
He lifts his hands, all innocent. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
I mutter a curse under my breath and glance back toward Juniper, still standing quiet with Jess.
So much for an easy morning.
“Tell them I’ll be over soon,” I grunt, already turning toward the exit.
Boone nods like he knew I’d cave. Smug bastard.
I call out to Jess, who’s just starting to work Juniper through a few slow circles. “You’re on your own. They need me at the Harts.”
Jess’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—what?”
“Long story,” I say, already waving her off. “Keep her moving and don’t let her get away with anything.”
She gives me a confused thumbs up, and I make a mental note to bring her a coffee tomorrow.
I don’t really have a reason to dislike the Harts. Not a personal one, anyway. It’s more of a legacy grudge, passed down from parents who couldn’t agree on where a fence line ended or who owed who a quarter bale of hay back in the eighties.
Honestly, they’ve never been anything but polite to me. But that doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to be pulled away from my own program to fix whatever mess they’ve got going on. This horse better be going apeshit over there to make it worth my while.
I swing into the tack room, grabbing a few essentials—training halter, lunge line, soft lead rope I’ve had for years that’s broken in just right. I throw on an extra crewneck and zip up my thickest jacket, the one with the soft lining and the pockets deep enough to fit snacks and a small grudge.
Outside, the wind cuts sharp as a blade. I yank open the door to my car—my bright yellow VW bug—and slide behind the wheel.
I bought this car when I was seventeen, after saving every penny from summer jobs and weekend chores. Everyone told me I’d regret it, especially my dad. Too small, too impractical, not good for a Montana winter. At thirty years old, it’s still running like a dream. And it hasn’t left me stranded once.
The tires crunch over fresh snow as I pull out of the drive. It’s coming down harder now—lazy flakes swirling in every direction, sticking to the windshield wipers. The roads haven’t been plowed yet, but that’s nothing new.
