Page 18 of Wild Then Wed
Her skin had that late-August sort of glow. Tanned and freckled, the way skin gets when it’s lived outside for months—on the backs of horses, in pastures, under suns that don’t set until after dinner. She was tall, all long lines and sharp corners, like she’d been drawn with confidence. There was nothing soft or sweet about her face. It was too striking for that—cheekbones you could cut your fingers on, a mouth that looked like it probably said too much, even when it shouldn’t.
And her eyes—God, those eyes. I couldn’t decide what color they were. Green, maybe. Or blue. They looked like both, depending on the light. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was how they looked at you—like they saw everything. Like they already knew the parts of you you hadn’t figured out yet.
She was—God. She was beautiful.
I wasn’t ready for that. Not here. Not now. Not from a Wilding.
Dad was already losing it, shouting, firing the trainers on the spot. And her? She didn’t even blink. Just stood there, calm and still, like the whole place could burn to ash around her and she wouldn’t move until the horse said she could. Like she trusted it to give her permission before anything else did.
I don’t know what it is about her exactly. Maybe it’s how she didn’t wait to be told. How she didn’t hesitate when the rest of us were too careful or too scared to step in. Or maybe it’s how she didn’t seem afraid of making a scene—like she’d already made a thousand and wasn’t embarrassed by a single one.
Whatever it was, I admired it. That part I’m sure of.
Which is exactly why I shoved the thought out of my head as fast as it showed up.
I don’t get to admire someone like her. Not anymore.
Not when the last person I looked at like that isn’t here to notice.
Not when her wedding band is still sitting on the dresser beside mine. When her handwriting’s still on notes I won’t throw out. When her coat’s still by the door like she might come back for it.
Not when there’s a lavender nursery at the end of the hall I can’t even open the door to.
I’m not someone who gets to notice freckles and red hair and eyes I can’t quite figure out the color of.
I should have been focused on the horse. On his body language, the line of his shoulders, the way his hooves shifted every few seconds like he hadn’t decided if he wanted to stay or run. I knew how to read that. I knew how to stay detached. But my attention kept drifting—to her. To the way she breathed, even and steady, like she wasn’t just managing the moment but giving the animal something of herself without saying a word.
For a second—a fraction of one—I noticed her. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that made sense. But in the way you registersomeone in your periphery and feel it somewhere in your chest before your brain catches up.
And the second it happened, it felt like betrayal.
Because Julia used to be the person I noticed. Even when she was just reading beside me or moving through a room or folding laundry on the counter. I knew her rhythms, the pace of her, the way she could slow me down without trying.
And now she’s gone. And noticing someone else—even accidentally, even harmlessly—feels like setting fire to something I promised I’d never let go of.
So I shut it down.
That flicker of curiosity—of warmth—I bury it. Just like I’ve buried everything else that doesn’t fit inside the life I’m still trying to hold together. I shove it beneath the hours I’ve poured into the clinic. Beneath the routines that used to feel temporary and now feel permanent. Beneath the silence I’ve taught myself to live in. I bury it under the weight of missing Julia in ways that don’t fade, no matter how much time passes.
And I focus on the horse.
He’s still guarded—ears twitching, muscles tight—but his eyes have shifted. There’s less panic in them now. He’s still watching her, but it’s different. He’s not looking for a way out anymore. He’s listening.
He’s starting to trust her. Not because she asked him to. Because she didn’t ask for anything. She just waited. She stayed where she was and let him decide.
The gate creaks beside me and I feel the familiar weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t speak right away, and neither do I. We just stand there, both of us watching.
“That’s Lane’s girl,” he says eventually, voice low, like he’s been holding the thought for a while and only now decided to say it out loud.
I glance at him. “Yeah?”
He lets out a short laugh, not amused, just certain. “Oh yeah. Tough as hell. But soft when she needs to be. Not a lot of people get that right.”
He nods toward the pen. The horse is standing still now. His ears are forward, not pinned. His chest rising and falling like he’s finally breathing on his own. His stance is looser, and it means something. It means she got through.
“She runs the top training program in the state, from what I hear,” he said. “I didn’t buy into the hype. Guess I do now.”
I didn’t respond. Just kept watching her. He was right. She was good. Calm, measured, and completely locked in.
