Page 14 of Wild Then Wed
Montana in winter is both beautiful and brutal. Wide open fields stretch out in all directions, blanketed in white. The bare trees line the edge of the road like sentries. Every so often, I pass a fenceline half buried in snow, a few black cows huddled together. The sky is the color of steel, low and heavy, like it’s pressing down on everything.
I turn onto the road that leads to the Hart property and grip the wheel a little tighter.
The Hart property is exactly what you’d expect from a family with old money and too many mouths to feed—polished, expansive, annoyingly nice. The barns are big, clean-lined, and the fences are all straight. No sagging rails. No duct tape fixes. Even their hay bales are stacked like they’ve been measured.
And then there’s the main house.
It’s massive. Like, actualmansionmassive. Stone façade. Wraparound porch. Enough windows to make you wonder how long it takes to clean them all. But, if you’ve got a thousand children, you need the space, I guess.
I slow down as I pass the main drive, scanning for anything that resembles a round pen. Nothing. I keep going, easing down the gravel path that winds behind the barns. After a minute, I finally spot it—a good-sized round pen near the treeline, tucked far enough back from the house that whatever is inside clearly isn’t meant to be heard by dinner guests.
I pull up and kill the engine. The horse makes itself known before I even step out—sharp, frantic whinnies, the ones that carry from the gut.
There’s a girl standing outside the pen, arms folded against the cold, long dark hair pulled into a low braid. She looks about Sage’s age—maybe twenty-two. Pretty. But more than that, she’s got that same scrappy, steel-spined energy Sage walks around with when she’s had enough of the world’s bullshit.
She glances over as I slam my car door shut.
“You Wren?” she calls out.
I nod, tugging my gloves on tighter as I approach. “Yeah. And you are?”
She sticks out a hand. “Emily Hart.”
Right. One of the infamous thousand.
I shake her hand because it’s instinct and I’m not a total monster, but I pull away fast.
Physical contact’s never been my thing. Not with people, anyway. Hugs, shoulder pats, all that casual closeness—it always felt like something I was supposed to tolerate, not something I wanted. It’s like letting someone into my space just because they expected to be there. It’s unpredictable. Messy. And I don’t like messy. I like boundaries. Knowing where I end and someone else begins.
Animals get that.
People, not so much.
“What’s going on?” I ask, nodding toward the pen, where another burst of kicking and snorting echoes from inside.
Before she can answer, the gate swings open and Vaughn walks out. Big. Built. Still broad across the chest and shoulders in a way that says he hasn’t stopped working. Dark hair, streaked at the temples. Blue eyes that look like they’ve seen a lot and forgotten none of it.
“You the Wilding girl?”
“Wren,” I correct, stopping a few feet from him.
He grins like that amused him and offers his hand. “Nice to meet you,Wren.”
I shake it—firmer this time—and nod toward the pen. “I was told there’s a…situation.”
“There is,” he says, stepping back. “Horse came in a few days ago. Good breeding. Should’ve been a working horse, maybe even competition-level eventually, but…”
“But?”
“But it’s got some baggage.” He glances toward the pen. “Came from a rough setup down south. Neglect. Poor training. Some abuse, by the looks of it. Doesn’t take to people. Won’t let anyone near him.”
“How bad?” I ask, already adjusting my stance to get a better angle.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You wanna go in and see for yourself?”
I nod once.
Vaughn swings the gate open and leads me inside. The second we step in, I’m hit with a rush of frantic energy.
