Page 212 of Wild Then Wed
Wren runs with me every morning. The first time, I wasn’t sure how far she’d go. I figured she might peel off early, especially with how bitter the wind was that day, but she kept pace beside me like it was nothing. Didn’t even look winded. I hadn’t expected to watch her move like that—focused and graceful, like she was built for it. And she’s been doing it every day since.
We don’t always talk. Sometimes it’s just the sound of our feet hitting snow-packed gravel and Hank’s tags clinking together as he runs ahead. But I like that. I like the quiet with her. I like the way she doesn’t fill space just to fill it. When we get back, we’re both red-cheeked and sweating through our layers. She makes toast, I make coffee. Then I head to the clinic, and she heads to the barn.
She still splits her time between Wilding Ranch and ours. Technically, it’s because we haven’t found a replacement horse trainer yet, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think my dad’s in any rush to hire anyone else. He’s grown to like her, and that says a lot—my dad doesn’t hand out approval freely. It took him years to warm up to Crew’s ex, and even then, he never really liked her.
My sister likes Wren, too. Wren’s been giving her lessons when she has time, showing her how to ride more confidently, how to read the horses better. Emily listens to her in a way shedoesn’t with anyone else. I think it’s because she’s starting to see her as a sister, in a way. I don’t even think Wren realizes she’s mentoring her, that Emily looks up to her.
Usually I’m the one who gets home from work first. Unless I’m stuck on a late call—colic, a calving emergency, a last-minute house visit for a limping dog whose owner swears it’s a broken leg. If I’m home, I make dinner.
I’ve been learning more and more recipes lately. Ones Wren can actually eat. It’s taken plenty of trial and error—some real screw-ups early on—but I’ve got a list now. Dishes that don’t make her stomach hurt or leave her reading labels for twenty minutes. I know which spices she likes, what brands of pasta she trusts, which ingredients to sub out without making the food taste like cardboard. It’s become a quiet kind of challenge I look forward to. Some nights, we cook together. Most nights, I try to have it ready by the time she walks in the door.
But my favorite part of the day?
Going to bed with her.
That’s what gets me through half the long shifts and frozen mornings—knowing I’ll get to lay down beside her at the end of it. Just the two of us, in the dark, her body curled toward mine, her voice spilling out softly as she tells me about her day. She’ll rest her head on my chest, fingers brushing against my stomach, and talk about Zeus’s progress or how one of her students rode without stirrups for the first time.
And I just…listen.
I never thought I’d love that as much as I do. The simple act of listening to her talk. Her voice is one of those things I didn’t know I’d memorized until I was alone in the truck one day and caught myself missing it.
She always asks about my day too—how the animals are, if any of the regulars came in. She’ll ask about Jenna, my secretary,because she genuinely cares about how Jenna’s holding up with her mom in hospice. She remembers stuff like that.
And in the mornings, when I open my eyes and she’s still tucked into my side—her bare shoulder peeking out from the quilt, her hair spread across my pillow like a wildfire—there’s this second where I don’t move. I just take her in. Her smell is in my sheets now. On me. That faint floral shampoo, the lotion she uses that smells a little like vanilla. It’s woven into everything now.
I love showering with her. Not for the reasons people assume—though, yeah, that’s not bad either. But I love getting to take care of her. Washing her skin after she’s had a long day in the barn or the studio. Running my hands through her hair, rinsing paint out of it, rubbing her back when she’s tired and doesn’t ask for help but leans into me anyway.
It’s all of it. The ordinary things. The quiet, everyday moments that don’t look like much from the outside but mean everything to me.
And then, just like that, I’m back in it—back to real life, back behind the wheel, watching the town come into view through the windshield. Summit Springs looks like a snow globe that someone gave a good shake to this time of year.
Snow blankets everything like powdered sugar—rooftops, fence posts, the tops of mailboxes half buried in drifts. The plows came through this morning, but the roads are already dusted over again, a fresh layer glittering under the early evening sky. Every shop window downtown is lit up with Christmas lights and fake snow spray. Wreaths hang from every lamppost, and the church on Main Street has a nativity scene out front that someone’s kid keeps rearranging—today the baby Jesus is riding the camel like a cowboy.
Kids in jackets and snow boots are waddling down the sidewalk, their hats sliding sideways over their ears while theirparents try to steer them into the bakery or the general store. There’s a German Shepherd tied up outside the diner, watching the door. He lifts his head as I drive by.
I’ve never minded winter. I don’t love the cold, but I like the rhythm of it—the work it demands. What I’ve never been able to stomach is the way the holidays sneak up on you. Everyone gets louder, brighter, happier. And for a while, I tried to go along with it. Pretend I didn’t flinch every time I heard “Silent Night” on the radio or walk a little faster past the baby section at the store.
Julia died right before Christmas and every year since, it’s like my body remembers before my mind does. I feel the ache in my chest before I’ve even flipped the calendar. There’s a weight that presses down harder on me this time of year. Some years I’ve welcomed it. Let it pin me to the floor so I didn’t have to fake being okay.
This year’s different. I’ve still got the weight, but it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing me.
Wren’s got a lot to do with that.
By the time I turn onto the long drive up to the ranch, the sun’s starting to dip low, throwing pink and gold across the snowbanks. The porch light is already on, glowing soft and amber against the white. Today must’ve been Wren’s day off. There’s something taped to the front door—bright yellow, crooked, and flapping in the wind.
I park, step out, and squint at it as I walk up to the porch.
Okay. Please don’t be mad at what you’re about to see. If you think you’ll be mad, turn around and come back later. - W
Wren’s loopy handwriting stares back at me like it’s holding its breath.
I bark out a laugh and my breath fogs up in the cold. How the hell could I be mad now?
But the second I step inside, I stop cold.
My house—my quiet, neutral, usually spotless house—looks like Christmas crashed through the front door and made itself right at home.
There’s garland everywhere. Draped over the banister, woven into the mantle, wrapped around the curtain rods. Twinkle lights blink from nearly every corner—warm white ones, not the obnoxious multicolored ones, but still. They’re everywhere. The smell hits me next—cinnamon, nutmeg, a hint of vanilla, and something rich and chocolatey coming from the kitchen.
