Page 17 of Wild Then Wed
I move a few steps, then stop. Turn my body just slightly away. Give him the option.
He doesn’t take it yet—but he sees me. His ear flicks toward me, even if the rest of him stays locked up tight.
Good. That’s something.
I start cataloging what I’ll need. Small round pen, softer footing. Maybe some panels to close off the wider field for when we’re ready to transition. Halter can wait. Right now, it’s all about body language.
No words. No pressure.
I’ll come back later with groundwork tools—flag, stick, maybe a tarp. Something to let him see, hear, feel without panic. But for now, this is about re-establishing choice. Letting him take up space and not be punished for it.
Letting him breathe.
Letting himunlearn.
He circles once more, then slows. Only a little. Just enough to tell me he’s watching.
I don’t move.
I let him decide what comes next.
Some horses need halters and lead ropes and firm boundaries. Others just need you to stay, long enough for them to realize you’re not going to hurt them. Long enough for them to stop preparing for pain.
That’s what this one needs. Not fixing. Not forcing.
Just someone who won’t leave the second things get hard.
I can do that.
So I stay.
And I let him circle. Let him breathe.
And I wait—for the moment he finally decides I’m not the enemy.
Because when he does, we’ll start from there.
Chapter 4
SAWYER
I’ve seen my fair share of reckless shit around here—enough to know when something’s about to go sideways. But watching a Wilding girl sprint full tilt into a round pen, no hesitation, straight toward a panicked horse and two dickheads with a whip? That was new.
I didn’t catch her name. Just heard my dad mutter something about “one of the Wilding girls,” like that explained everything. And maybe it did. Around here, their name had a reputation that came with its own shorthand.
Still. I didn’t expect her. Not that kind of fire. Not that kind of mouth.
She tore into the trainer like she’d been waiting for someone to test her all damn day. Sharp and unbothered, like this wasn’t the first time she’d had to clean up someone else’s mess. And then—God—she dropped Ray Hunt into the argument, and I actually laughed. Like,laughed. Out loud. The sound startled me. I couldn’t remember the last time something had caught me that off guard. Months? A year?
At first, she looked a little absurd, if I’m honest. Charging in with all that hair flying behind her, boots hitting the ground like a warning shot. But then she stopped. Right there—dead centerin the chaos, between a thousand-pound animal and the two men who should’ve known better.
And something shifted.
She moved like someone who’d been in that exact place before. Not just physically, but mentally—like she’d been close to something terrified and angry before and still found a way to stay steady. Everything about her became focused. Intentional. She wasn’t flinching or over-correcting. Just standing there, soft and grounded, like she was trying to show the horse it had options. That not everyone out here was a threat.
She wasn’t scared of the wild in him. She understood it.
And okay—maybe I noticed her. I tried not to, I really did. But she was the kind of girl you couldn’t not notice. Everything about her pulled focus. That hair—long and red, not the muted kind, but wild and bright, like it had been kissed too many times by the sun. It never stayed in place. Always catching the wind, always doing its own thing.
