Page 74 of Wild Then Wed
By the time I finished patching it and radioing it in, she was long gone, the round pen empty. Just a few hoofprints and the faint smell of hay and leather left behind.
She didn’t wait for me. I don’t blame her.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself more than anything. At how I handled things. At how I keep screwing this up before it’s even started. I know I was snippy in those texts. I didn’t mean to be, and she didn’t deserve it. But out of every goddamn flower in the world…violets? Really?
I wasn’t ready for that.
I wasn’t ready to see her name typed out in a text message that had nothing to do with the baby I never got to meet.
One second I’m looking up wedding venues, and the next I’m back in that room with Julia’s ultrasound printout in my hand. Back in the nursery with the unopened boxes. Back in the quiet.
Wren couldn’t have known. But she could tell the shift in the conversation, I know she did. She always can. That’s the thing about her—she notices. Everything. Even the stuff you don’t say. Especially that.
It’s what makes her good with the horses. The way she sees without forcing anything. The way she waits for them to come to her on their own terms. I’ve watched her do it—quiet hands, steady voice, eyes tracking every shift of muscle.
And I know, without a doubt, she felt that shift in me. The pullback. The wall going up. And I haven’t said a word since.
Because I don’t know how to explain it.
Because I’m not sure I want her asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
Because pretending I’m fine has always been easier than being anything else.
But now it’s quiet again, and all I want to do is fix it.
Maybe that’s why—almost an hour later, when I should be heading home—I find myself turning off the main road and onto the gravel drive that leads into the Wilding Ranch.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say, but I figure an apology can’t hurt, in case she took it personally. Or in case she didn’t and I just feel like shit anyway. Either way, it’s just better in person.
The road curves gently past open pasture, old split-rail fencing weathered gray from years of snow and sun. There’s a quiet out here that feels different than Hart Ranch. Like the land is holding its breath, just waiting for the season to turn.I’ve driven past it a hundred times. It neighbors our property and always has. But I haven’t actually been out here since Boone called me a couple years back about the diner and the mess that came with it.
Now, pulling onto the gravel loop near the main house, it hits me how damn beautiful this place is.
The house sits up on a gentle slope—white farmhouse, black trim, wraparound porch with slanted steps and thick posts. There’s an old porch swing swaying gently in the breeze and two rocking chairs angled toward each other like they’ve been mid-conversation for years. Modest, but clean. Comfortable. Like it was built for living in, not impressing people.
There’s a stack of firewood near the porch, half-covered with a blue tarp, and a wooden sign hanging by the front door that saysWelcome-ishin cracked paint.
And right there on the porch, small and bright against the wood—two little pairs of snow boots. One blue with dinosaurs. One pink with unicorns and glitter woven into the seams.
They remind me of my niece, Nora. She turned five this summer and hasn’t stopped talking about unicorns andMy Little Ponysince July. If she saw those boots, she’d lose her mind.
I shut off the engine and step out, gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way to the porch. I don’t see anyone out front, and the barn’s too far to know if anyone’s inside, so the house feels like the safest bet. Maybe someone can point me in the right direction.
I knock twice—firm, but not loud.
While I wait, I glance around. There’s a half-built snowman near the edge of the porch, one carrot nose on the ground, like someone got distracted mid-project. A battered tricycle sits tipped on its side in the front yard. Everything here feels lived in. Worn, but cared for.
It’s a good place. A place you want to come home to.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, suddenly unsure of what I’m even doing here. But then the door handle clicks from the other side, and I square my shoulders. Too late to turn back now.
The door swings open, and I’m greeted by a wide smile and a familiar-looking freckled face that hits me a little harder than expected.
Molly Wilding.
It’s not that I haven’t seen her before—we’ve crossed paths over the years at various county things, charity events, barn raisings, Fourth of July cookouts. But it hits different now.
She looks just like Wren. Same hair—rich auburn with streaks of gold catching in the porch light. Same freckles, dusted across high cheekbones. Even the way her mouth curves into a half-smirk is dead-on.
