Page 4 of Wild Then Wed
And then I buried the woman who was supposed to stand over it, humming lullabies I’d never hear.
I never got to lay my daughter in it. Instead, it became a room waiting for a life that never came home.
And I’ve been trying to survive the silence ever since.
Chapter 1
WREN
There’s not enough coffee in Montana to get me through a meeting full of ranchers in jeans and belt buckles three decades past their prime.
“Smile, Wren,” Sage murmurs beside me, nudging my elbow. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
“If someone breathes too loud near me, I might.” I shift in the cold plastic chair and glance toward the front of the crowded community center. “Why does this place always smell like mothballs?”
“It’s the carpet,” Boone mutters from my other side. “Pretty sure it’s been here since rotary phones were a thing.”
“You hush,” our mom says, smacking Boone lightly in the chest with the back of her hand. “We’re here to listen, not start something.”
“Tell that to the entire Redwood County Cattlemen’s Association,” I say, nodding toward a knot of men in boots and Stetsons who look like they’ve been arguing since birth. One of them is already red in the face and hasn’t even been handed a microphone yet.
Mom sighs, straightening the collar of her shearling coat like we’re in church instead of sitting in metal chairs underfluorescent lights that make everyone look vaguely ill. “This is important, Wren.”
I know she’s right. I do. But sitting still has never been my strong suit—especially when I’m about to be told what I can and can’t do on land that’s been in our family for generations.
Sage leans over again. “I’ll bet you five bucks someone gets thrown out.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Ten says it’s Ed Withers.”
“You’re on.”
Boone groans. “You two really shouldn’t be allowed in public.”
We’re interrupted by the screech of an old mic being adjusted. Everyone shifts, the low murmurs dying down as a tall man in a charcoal vest steps to the front of the room and clears his throat.
Grant Cassidy, the head of the county commission—or, more accurately, the guy who thinks the ranchers and landowners of Summit Springs are a herd of toddlers he has to corral—adjusts his glasses and grips the sides of the podium.
“Thanks for being here tonight, folks. I know the weather’s not great, and the winter keeps most of us running ragged just trying to keep things from freezing. I’ll get right to it.”
He’s not wrong. It’s November in Montana, which means everything is either frozen, about to freeze, or already broken because it froze two weeks ago. On the ranch, that translates to constant water tank checks, feeding livestock in the pitch dark, and hauling hay while praying the tractor doesn’t die mid-field. Winter out here isn’t just beautiful postcard scenery—it’s a threat.
Cassidy clears his throat again. That’s the first thing that makes me sit up a little straighter. The second? His fingers—tapping the side of the podium like he’s stalling.
He doesn’t usually stall.
“I know some of you have heard whispers about upcoming changes to aquifer regulation across county lines,” he says, voice tight. “This evening, we’re here to confirm that, effective January first, any household drawing from the Southridge Aquifer must be registered as a shared residence. Meaning, only households with a legal cohabitation status—married couples, domestic partnerships, or multi-generational families—will be eligible to maintain their current water access permits.”
The words drop like a boulder into a still lake. For half a second, no one moves. No one breathes.
Then the room explodes.
There’s a collective gasp, followed by a wave of murmuring—confused, angry, rising by the second. Chairs scrape. People start twisting in their seats, looking around like someone else might make this make sense.
Boone stiffens, the muscle in his jaw flexing. Sage lets out a whispered“What the hell?”while Mom mutters something that sounds like a prayer.
I already feel the wildfire of panic lighting somewhere behind my ribs.
This isn’t just a bureaucratic reshuffling. This is a calculated hit—designed to choke out independent landowners who don’t check the county’s preferred boxes. It’s leverage. It’s control. And it’s going to destroy people if it goes through.
