Page 31 of Wild Then Wed
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit on some couch and unpack the worst day of my life. I don’t want to hear someone tell me it wasn’t my fault, or that grief comes in waves, or whatever the hell you’re supposed to say to someone who watched their whole future get wiped out in one second.
I was there. I saw it. I live with the movie reel in my head already. I don’t need to hit replay for someone else’s benefit.
So, no. Therapy’s not for me.
I’d rather sweat it out. Run it off. Bury it under work and routine and enough hours at the clinic to forget what month it is.
It’s not healthy. I know that. But it keeps the wheels turning. Dom gets that. Which is why he doesn’t say anything else.
We keep going, rounding out the last twenty minutes with abs and a burnout round on the bag. My shoulders ache, mylungs burn and there’s a fine layer of salt on my skin by the time we call it.
We head for the door, both of us still catching our breath. Dom grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. “You working today?”
I shake my head, reaching for the door. “Just gotta hit the feed store. You?”
“Got a call with my manager. Wants to go over press stuff for the fight. You’d think after nearly a decade, he’d know I’m not gonna give a shit about lighting or camera angles.”
I push the door open for both of us. “You should. Your good side’s slipping up.”
He steps through with a laugh. “Piss off.”
“See you Friday.”
“Early,” he calls. “No excuses.”
I throw him a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the air hits my skin like a slap—cold and sharp and clean. I head to the far end of the lot where my car’s parked. Black Audi SUV. Leather seats. Heated steering wheel. Handles like a dream in the snow.
It’s not subtle. But I’ve never cared much about subtle. I make good money at the clinic. I work too damn much not to. So yeah—I splurge sometimes. On cars. On boots. On espresso machines. There’s something about having nice things that makes everything else feel…manageable.
The feed store’s ten minutes down the highway, tucked behind a line of tall pines and a gas station that still has one working pump and a flickering sign that hasn’t lit up right in years. You can smell the diesel before you even turn off the road.
It’s always looked the same. Low roof, long front porch sagging just slightly in the middle, and a warped wooden sign that just says FEED in faded red letters, the paint worn thin byyears of wind and grit. The lot is half-packed snow, half gravel, and the crunch under my tires disappears into the stillness.
Summit Springs stretches wide out here—long fences, bare fields, and a sky that makes everything feel farther apart than it is. Most of the town sits in the valley between two ridges, where the sun lingers a little longer at the end of the day. You’ve got your basics: a cafe that changes owners every few years but never its menu, a post office where half the town picks up their mail in person, and a hardware store.
But the feed store’s where you go when you need something—even if you’re not sure what. Bales of hay, sure, but also fencing wire, work gloves, buckets, cheap coffee, fishing lures, firewood in the winter, Fourth of July flags in the summer. They’ve got baby chicks in the spring and feed tubs stacked high year-round, but what I remember most is the back wall—where the dusty paperbacks lived, next to the comic book rack.
When we were kids, me and Crew and Riley would beg to come along just to dig through it. Crew always went for the westerns, but Riley and I would end up with a dog-eared Marvel issue or two and we’d read them to each other on the drive back home.
I only need senior pellets for the older horses, a couple bags of alfalfa cubes, and grain for the colts. Nothing fancy—just enough to get through the next week or two.
Inside, the place smells like molasses, hay, and old wood. The floors are dusty, and someone’s always playing country music from a crackly old speaker nailed to the wall. It’s warm, though. Feels like somewhere time doesn’t matter much.
I’m halfway to the grain aisle when I hear, “Sawyer Hart, is that you?”
I turn to see Dean Colson, one of the ranchers south of Summit Springs. Big guy. Barrel chest. Wears the same stained Carhartt every day like it’s a badge of honor.
“Morning, Dean,” I say, clapping his hand when he offers it. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in this.”
He snorts. “If I waited for clear skies, I’d never leave the damn house. You hear about the aquifer restrictions?”
“Hard not to,” I say, grabbing a bag of cubes and tossing it over my shoulder. “It’s gonna hit all of us. Whether they mean for it to or not.”
Dean nods, face grim. “It’s a mess. And it’s only November. Hell knows what January’s gonna look like.”
“Yeah,” I say, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. “Gonna be a hell of a winter.”
