Page 206 of Wild Then Wed
But this doesn’t feel performative. It feels like coming up for air.
His cologne clings to the air around me—warm and woodsy and stupidly intoxicating—and there’s a small, irrational part of me that wants to climb into his lap and breathe it in until I forget where I am.
I’m mid-sip of water when a man steps onto the stage at the front of the ballroom, tapping the microphone once. The conversations around us start to fade, chairs shifting, silverware clinking against plates for the last time.
He’s older—mid-fifties, maybe. Tall, with a pressed suit and the kind of presence that quiets a room without asking. He introduces himself as Dr. Malcolm Young, chair of the regional vet association, and explains the mission of the gala: funding rescue, rehabilitation, and sanctuary work across the state.
Then he shifts gears.
“And of course, we can’t talk about animal advocacy without talking about the veterinarians who make it possible,” he says, his voice steady, warm. “In a community like ours, they’re not just healers. They’re economic lifelines. They help ranchers, farmers, and families keep doing what they love. They care when no one else can. And tonight, we’d like to honor one of them.”
He pauses, glancing down at a crystal trophy on a velvet pillow beside him.
Dr. Young continues, “This award is reserved for someone who’s shown exceptional commitment to not only their patients, but the people who depend on them. Someone who’s gone above and beyond in rural veterinary medicine, whose impact is felt in every fence line, every pasture, every small town barn. It’s my honor to present the Northern Plains Veterinary Excellence Award tonight…”
He looks out toward the crowd, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“…to Dr. Sawyer Raymond Hart, owner of the Hart Clinic in Bozeman, Montana.”
The room breaks open with applause, loud and immediate. It starts somewhere near the stage and rolls across the ballroom like thunder, pulling everyone to attention.
I blink, stunned, and look over at Sawyer.
He’s already turning toward me with that crooked, bashful grin—the one he only ever pulls out when he’s caught doing something good and doesn’t want to be acknowledged for it. His hand adjusts the knot of his tie, smooth and sure, and then he leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek like it’s nothing.
Like the entire room isn’t on their feet for him.
I just…stare. My mouth’s a little open. My brain’s still catching up.
Nova nudges my elbow with hers and leans close, eyes wide and delighted. “Holy shit,” she whispers with a grin. “Your man is kind of a big deal, huh?”
I let out a breath of a laugh, but I can’t tear my eyes off him.
This wasn’t a surprise to him. There’s no way. He’s too calm, too steady on his feet. He’s not blinking back shock or stammering his way through it. He knew.
And still—he never said a word. No mention of an award. No heads-up that he’d be recognized tonight. Nothing.
If it had been Ethan, the whole night would’ve been about him. I’d have heard about his award during appetizers, during the salad course, in the car ride home.
But Sawyer? He didn’t even bring it up once, because he didn’t want the night to be about him. He didn’t need the spotlight. Didn’t even reach for it. He just wanted to sit beside me and hold my hand and make sure the food was something I could eat.
He shakes Dr. Young’s hand, his smile polite but not overly polished. Just Sawyer. Gracious and gentle. People are still clapping, and Dr. Young has to lift his hands to get everyone to settle back into their seats.
“I’d like to ask Dr. Hart to say a few words, if he doesn’t mind,” Dr. Young says, stepping aside.
Someone from one of the tables near the front cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “I love you, man!”
Laughter ripples through the room, and Sawyer chuckles as he takes the microphone. “I love you too, brother,” he says, and more laughter follows, easy and warm.
Then he clears his throat and looks out over the crowd, his fingers resting loosely on the edges of the podium.
“I don’t really have a speech prepared,” he says. “But I’ll do my best.”
He shifts his weight slightly, the stage lights catching the broad lines of his shoulders, the sharp slope of his jaw.
“I opened the Hart Clinic eight years ago with a truck, two folding tables, and enough duct tape to make OSHA nervous,” he says, and the room chuckles again. “Back then I wasn’t sure how long we’d last. Rural clinics don’t always get the support they need, and sometimes you’re driving four hours to treat a colicky mare in the snow with no cell service.”
A few heads nod. People who know, who understand.
