Page 33 of Wild Then Wed
“I don’t care what it fucking looked like to you,” she snaps, making another grab for the bag.
But I’m taller, stronger, and—okay, maybe enjoying this a little too much. I shift just out of reach, and her fingers close on empty air. She huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face in frustration.
I chuckle. “Relax. I don’t mind helping.”
Her eyes flick between the two fifty-pound bags balanced on my shoulders, lingering for a second too long on the way my arms strain against the weight. Then she mutters, “Of course you can carry both like it’s nothing.”
I grin. “Was that a compliment?”
She tips her chin up. “No. I would never.”
My grin widens.
She exhales sharply, like she’s debating whether to kick me in the shins or just walk away. Before she can decide, I ask, “You been able to find any leeway with that new water ordinance?”
Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her. She rubs her temples, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “No. I’ve been up all night the last few nights trying to figure something out, but the county just told me we don’t qualify for an exemption.”
I watch the way her fingers press into her forehead, the shadows under her eyes that even her stubbornness can’t hide. She’s running herself ragged over this.
And it doesn’t make sense. Wilding Ranch is one of the biggest operations in the county—shit, in the state—and her mom being a widow should’ve qualified them forsomekind of consideration. My brows pull together as we start moving toward checkout.
“Did they say why?” I ask, shifting the feed bags to one shoulder so I can grab a mineral block from the endcap display.
Wren’s mouth twists like she’s tasted something sour. “Apparently the exemption only applies to primary residences drawing under five thousand gallons a day.” She kicks at a stray piece of straw on the concrete floor. “Since we’ve got the breeding operation and irrigation for the hayfields, we’re classified as ‘commercial agricultural’ now. Doesn’t matter that we live there.”
A low whistle escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s brutal.”
She shrugs, but the motion is too stiff to be casual. “Water rights have always been political around here.”
At the register, Wren pulls out a worn leather wallet while I set the bags down with a thud. The cashier, Betty, who’s worked here since I was in diapers—gives me an approving nod as she rings us up.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “my cousin’s on the planning commission. Might be worth—”
“I’ve got it handled,” Wren cuts in, handing Betty a credit card with the Wilding Ranch logo embossed on it.
Betty’s eyes dart between us like she’s watching a tennis match. I can practically see the gossip brewing behind her bifocals.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Just saying. Sometimes it helps to—”
“What? Have a man make the call?” Wren’s voice is all honey-coated steel. “Because that always works out so well for us littleladies, doesn’t it?”
The older woman at the next register coughs into her hand, hiding a laugh. Betty suddenly becomes very interested in her receipt printer.
“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”
Wren’s shoulders drop half an inch. “I know.” She rubs at the back of her neck. “I’m just…tired, okay? I’m sick of jumping through hoops.”
The raw honesty in her voice catches me off guard. For the first time since I met her, Wren Wilding doesn’t look like the sharp-edged, nothing-gets-to-me woman she plays so well. She just looks…worn out. Like someone who’s been carrying more than anyone ever realized, and maybe doesn’t know how to set it down.
I settle the bags back on my shoulders. “Well, if you need an extra set of hands—”
“I don’t.”
“—or someone to argue with the county board—”
“I can handle it.”
“—or just someone to haul your feed to your car while you plot world domination—”
