Page 7 of Wild Then Wed
“Sage,” I snap. “As of right now, we’re fucked, okay? None of us know what we’re going to do, or how to get around it. So asking questions that no one has the answers to isn’t exactly helpful at the moment.”
She flinches, her lips pressed together and the guilt hits me hot and fast. Boone shoots me a look over Sage’s head—a silent reprimand—and I know I deserve it. I’m not trying to be a bitch. I just don’t see the point in freaking out about something we can’t fix yet.
Panic is loud and messy and circular. It makes people feel like they’re doing something when really they’re just wasting time. And time’s not something we get a lot of out here.
I’m not built for spiraling and never have been. I compartmentalize. I plan. I get shit done. I keep things movingbecause if I don’t, who will? Falling apart isn’t on my to-do list. Feeling everything all at once is how you drown, and I’ve got too much riding on this land—on this family, on my training program—to go under now.
Mom links her arm through Sage’s and presses a kiss to the side of her head. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll figure it out. We always do, don’t we?”
It’s the kind of thing you say when you love someone. Not when you actually have a plan.
Sage leans into her. Boone’s already halfway to the truck, his head down against the wind.
Dad wouldn’t have let this happen.
He’d have walked into that room, listened for less than five minutes, and shut it down before Grant Cassidy even got through his opening remarks.
People respected Lane Wilding—even when they didn’t like him. Which, to be fair, was often. He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t diplomatic. But he didn’t need to be—he had a presence, a way of making you think twice without raising his voice. He didn’t posture. He didn’t bluff. He just showed up and made it very clear he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.
He’d have handled this already. Known exactly who to talk to, what strings to pull, what quiet threat to drop into the right conversation.
But Dad’s not here.
He had a stroke almost four years ago, and just like that, he was gone.
And now it’s just us, standing out in the cold, trying to figure out how to protect what’s his, what’s ours. And what feels like is slipping, inch by inch, through our fingers.
Boone unlocks the truck, and we pile in without a word. The heater kicks on with a low hum. Mom’s in the back with Sage, her hand resting on Sage’s knee. I sit up front, staring out thewindshield like the answer to this giant clusterfuck might show up somewhere in the falling snow. It doesn’t.
No one talks. No one needs to.
And somehow, the quiet feels heavier than anything that was said inside that building.
Chapter 2
SAWYER
Mrs. Patterson’s cat is dying. Again.
This makes it the seventh time in two years. Which is impressive, considering the cat is currently sprawled across my exam table, purring like she owns the place.
“Her breathing sounded different this morning,” Mrs. Patterson says, wringing her hands as she paces a slow loop behind me. “Sort of raspy. I thought it might be fluid. Do cats get fluid in their lungs?”
“They can,” I say, slipping my stethoscope into my ears. “But that’s not what this is.”
I press the diaphragm gently to the cat’s chest—Bubbles, a twelve-year-old short-haired tabby who’s been in my clinic more often than some of my staff. Her heart rate is steady. Lungs are clear. Eyes are bright. No wheezing. No resistance when I palpate her belly, no tenderness in the joints. I lift her lips to check her gums—pink, healthy. Nails are a little long, but that’s not new.
She’s fine. Again.
I keep my tone even. “Her heart sounds strong, and her lungs are clear. I don’t see anything concerning.”
“You’re sure?” Mrs. Patterson says, clutching her purse. “Because she was acting…distant.”
“She’s a cat,” I remind her gently. “That’s kind of their thing.”
She gasps. “But she didn’t sleep on my bed last night. Not even for five minutes. That’s never happened before.”
Bubbles blinks at me slowly, then lays her head back down.
