Page 19 of Wild Then Wed
I didn’t know Lane Wilding. I’d seen him around growing up. He didn’t talk much, but you knew when he was in a room. He didn’t carry himself like he needed the attention, but he got it anyway. He had a presence that settled over everything. A stillness that wasn’t showy. Just solid. Like he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, because he already knew exactly who he was.
He and my dad were never what you’d call friendly. Years of working the same land in different ways turned every conversation into a quiet standoff. Neither one ever gave ground. But even when it got tense—and it usually did—there was something in the way my dad listened when Lane spoke, even when he didn’t like what he was hearing.
And that was something. Around here, respect didn’t always look polite.
People had opinions about Lane Wilding, and I’d heard them all growing up in a town as small as this one. But underneath all the talk, everyone knew where he stood. They knew his reputation. And more than that—they knew better than to pretend he hadn’t earned it.
His name carried weight well beyond this valley. It turned heads in auction barns halfway down the coast. Lane builtthat. A name that people respect, even when they don’t want to. He wasn’t warm, not particularly approachable, but he was consistent. People around here counted on him to be the same man every time they saw him, and that was enough.
And now she’s standing there—his daughter—in a pen full of nerves and wreckage, and I recognize the same presence. The same fire.
But it’s not Lane’s. It’s all her own.
When I glance back, Dad’s already watching me, mouth tugged into the smirk I’ve seen too many times to count.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs again, then reaches over and smacks the side of my arm. “Jesus. You’ve been lifting barns and shit?”
I grunt out a laugh. “You offering to spot me?”
“Hell no. I like my joints intact.”
“Then maybe don’t smack the guy who could fold you in half.”
He huffs. “You’re not that strong.”
“Try me.”
He eyes me for a second, then shakes his head. “You know, I keep telling myself I’ll start working out, getting to the gym.”
I look at him flatly. “You say that every year.”
“This time I mean it.”
“You’d make it five minutes.”
“Please,” he says, indignant. “Ten, at least.”
“Right. Before you start wheezing and blaming it on ‘the altitude.’”
He lets out a laugh and holds up both hands. “Fine. You win. You’re a damn tank. Happy?”
“Nowthat’sa compliment I’ll accept.”
He rolls his eyes, still smiling. “Alright, I’ve got shit to do. Pipes to check before they decide to burst on me.”
“Try not to pull anything.”
He waves me off and heads toward the barn, muttering something under his breath that I’m pretty sure includes the wordscocky little shit.
I glance back at the pen just as the Wilding girl finishes up with the horse.
She’s crouched beside one of the gates, notebook balanced on her knee, explaining something to Dottie—the only trainer here with half a brain, apparently. Whatever she’s showing Dottie clearly makes sense because the woman nods like she’s just been handed a blueprint for salvation.
