Page 81 of Wild Then Wed
That’s where the real work is.
Winona shortens her reins by just a fraction, her hands steady, patient. She asks for the canter, and—true to form—Creed pushes back. His head snaps up, his hips swing too far inside, but she doesn’t react. She holds the outside rein, nudges with her leg, calm and consistent until he softens.
When he finally gives, it’s slight but certain. His frame gathers in, stride shortening just enough to show he’s listening. Still forward. Still moving with her, not against her.
That’s what we’re after.
Not obedience. Not stillness.
Energy with direction. Impulsion without the fight.
I nod to myself, crossing my arms. “That’s it,” I call to her. “Right there. Sit deep and hold it.”
She does, and Creed carries it like he was born to do this. Maybe he was.
“Damn,” I murmur under my breath. “He’s getting there.”
Winona flashes a quick grin without looking down. “Feels good today.”
“He looks good.”
This is the part I love most. The translation of it. The slow unwinding of the mess into something that makes sense.
You take a horse like Creed—bold, reactive, too sure of himself in all the wrong ways—and you work. You show up, again and again, until all that raw talent starts to settle. Until it stops exploding and starts shaping itself into something useful.
It isn’t luck. It’s hours in the saddle. It’s bruises you don’t bother icing anymore. It’s the kind of quiet faith that comes from doing the same thing a hundred times, hoping that maybe the hundred-and-first will be the one that lands.
I lean into the rail and rest my chin on my hands, letting the winter sun hit my back.
This—this is the part no one sees. The part that no one claps for.
But it’s mine. And it’s enough.
We spend the rest of the session drilling lateral work—haunches-in, shoulder-fore, anything to get Creed bending through his ribcage without turning it into a tantrum. Winona cools him out in long loops around the arena, his neck stretched low and ears flicking, and I jot down a few notes in my phone while she leads him out.
She’ll take him back to the north stable—the section I keep reserved for the horses in my program. Right now I’ve got five in training. Six if you count the skittish little mare I took in as a favor to a friend. I try not to take more than that per season. Any more and the work stops being intentional and starts being routine, and I never want this place to run like a factory.
Most of the horses I take on are performance prospects—eventers, jumpers, high-end ranch horses from clients who want them polished and ready for show or sale. And not just Montana clients anymore, either. A couple years back, a well-known bloodstock agent from Texas called me “the quiet trainer with the freakishly consistent results,” and it kind of stuck. I’ve had people fly in from Arizona, Colorado, even California.
It still feels weird sometimes—that people actually seek me out. That they trust me with their horses, their livelihoods, their reputations. But they do, and I don’t take that lightly.
I’m gathering the rest of my things—my half-empty water bottle, clipboard, and protein bar—when I hear it.
Tires on dirt.
I wince, already knowing.
The crunch of fresh gravel in that rhythm, that weight. It’s too smooth to be any of our trucks. Too clean to be one of the ranch hands.
I glance toward the main house and there it is. Sawyer’s black SUV, windows gleaming. The sun glints off the chrome as he steps out, and I almost groan out loud.
He’s wearing light jeans—fitted, of course—paired with a gray sweater that looks criminally soft and some kind of light brown jacket that probably costs more than my entire feed order last month. He runs a hand through his hair, which looks freshly trimmed, and his stubble has been cleaned up, too.
I swallow hard.
Nope. I amnotprepared for this.
Why couldn’t I be fake marrying someone unfortunate-looking? Like a middle-aged man with a soul patch or a beer gut or a love for sandals with socks?
