Page 140 of Wild Then Wed
She steps in close, and it hits me how small she is compared to me. She’s close enough now that I can feel the lean, coiled strength in her body, all that power from years in the saddle, from a life built on muscle memory and grit. My hand settlesagainst the small of her back, just above where the fabric dips. Her skin is warm there, even in the cold, and I’m half convinced I could keep my palm there forever without needing anything else.
She smells like spring. Not flowers, not perfume—something cleaner than that. Like fresh laundry and honeysuckle and earth after rain. Like someone bottled the feeling of windows open in April and somehow made it her.
She doesn’t look up at me. Just rests her hand lightly against my chest.
“You’re thinking,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t respond.
I press a little closer. “Tell me something good.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean tell me something,” I say. “Anything. Something that’s still good. That you still think about.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her lips press together like she’s sorting through a filing cabinet of old memories and isn’t sure what’s still worth pulling out. We move slowly—barely dancing, more swaying, like the night itself has taken on a rhythm.
And then, softly, “Watermelon in the summers. With my dad. He’d slice it into big triangles and dump it into a bowl,” she says. “Always sprinkled salt on top. Said it brought the sweetness out.” Her voice is quieter now, like she’s not sure she means to be sharing this out loud. “We’d sit on the porch, our legs kicked up on the railing. He’d eat like it was a sport. Wouldn’t let me spit the seeds—said a real Wilding swallows ‘em. He was so ridiculous sometimes.”
She laughs a little at that, then shakes her head.
“We’d play Rummy. He’d pretend not to keep score, but he always did. And if I won, it was mostly because he let me.”
I don’t say anything.
To me, Lane Wilding was all grit and leather. A man who made other men feel like boys. Respected. Feared. A cowboy in the oldest, truest sense of the word. And yet here she is, remembering the man who salted watermelon and let her win at cards.
I press my hand a little more firmly against her lower back, letting my fingers rest just at the edge of the zipper. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t stiffen. If anything, she eases into it—like some part of her was waiting for it. Like maybe she needs the contact more than she wants to admit.
“Watching storms on the front porch,” she says quietly, like it just showed up in her mind and settled in without asking.
I glance down at her, but she’s not looking at me. Her head is tilted slightly, eyes somewhere past my shoulder. “Me and my dad used to sit out there. Always when the clouds were rolling in. He said a little thunder never hurt anybody. That lightning only comes for the ones who deserve it.”
I let out a soft breath through my nose, and she keeps going.
“I loved it. The smell of rain. That thick, earthy smell right before it starts—like the whole world’s about to break open.” She pauses. “I still love it. I think I always will.”
I nod, slow. My hand shifts slightly on her back, my fingers brushing skin where the dress dips.
“What’d you two talk about?” I ask, voice low. It feels too quiet out here to say anything any louder.
She shrugs gently, her cheek brushing the edge of my suit jacket. “Everything. Animals, mostly. He knew all the signs. How to track a mule deer. How to listen for coyotes in the distance. Said rabbits were smarter than people thought, and cows remember who’s good to them. Said animals don’t forget someone’s kindness. That stuck with me.”
I hum in response, and she leans in a little. Her hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her fingers brushing the edge of my hair.
“And sometimes,” she says, softer now, “we’d dance in the kitchen if there was music on the radio.”
I smile—can’t help it. “Let me guess.Molly and the Sunshiners?”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, brow lifted. “You know my mom’s band?”
“It’s hard not to. She was pretty famous. My mom used to blast her on the radio while cleaning the house when I was younger. Had the records. Posters. Whole thing.”
Wren laughs—really laughs—and something about it breaks my chest wide open.
“That was his favorite music,” she says. “Didn’t matter how rough of a day it was—if my mom’s band was playing on the radio, he’d grab my hand and spin me around like we were at a honky-tonk. We used to dance across the tile until I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. He always did this ridiculous two-step, tried to teach it to me every time. I never got it right.”
She’s not smiling wide, but her mouth is soft and open like the memory still lives close to the surface. Her arms are fully around my neck now, and I don’t remember when that happened. Her body is pressed against mine in a way that’s less casual now—less accidental. Her hips are close enough that I could press her back against the railing if I wanted to.
