Page 211 of Wild Then Wed
“You feel like comfort, and fire, and peace all at once. And if I ever make anything good out of the mess I’ve lived through, it’ll be because of you. Because you make me better.”
I swallow, my breathing shallow.
“I don’t just love you, Wren. I love who I am when I’m with you. I want to keep showing up for you. I want to keep choosing you. I want to keep being chosen by you.”
She lets out this tiny sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and presses her hand to my chest.
I cover it with mine. “You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know. This—what I feel for you—it’s not going anywhere.”
Wren wipes under her eyes with the back of her hand, then laughs—quiet and watery—like she’s trying to get her shit together and not quite succeeding.
“I don’t really like many people.” Her eyes flicking up to mine and then away. “I think most of them are exhausting, or careless, or a little too loud in all the wrong ways. But I love you. I love that you talk to your dog. I love that you keep your promises. I love that you’re kind, and that you believe that everyone is deserving of that kindness that you carry around so easily.”
She smiles gently, her hand brushing mine.
“I love you in a way that makes me want to stay,” she says. “And that scares the hell out of me—because I don’t know what it means to keep someone. I’ve never wanted to before. But I think I might want to keep you forever.”
I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel your heart break and heal in the same second, but that’s what it feels like. Something shattering open and rebuilding all at once.
I lean in and press my forehead against hers. “Then I hope you figure it out. Because I’d let you keep me, Wren. For as long as you want.”
And I think maybe that’s the moment she starts to believe me. Really believe me.
Because she closes the distance between us. Not just with her lips—but with everything else, too.
Chapter 37
SAWYER
Some things about winter in Montana stay the same, year after year. The cold hits hard and early. The sky goes gray and doesn’t lighten again until May. And the work? It doesn’t stop. It never slows down.
A couple weeks have passed since the gala, but life picked up the second we got home. Wren went back to her horses, I went back to my clinic, and every spare minute in between has been spent on the ranch, helping Dad and the boys keep everything standing through another brutal season.
For most people, winter is slow. Quiet. Still. But not for us.
Every morning starts the same: cold air so sharp it makes your teeth ache, boots crunching over snow drifts on the way to the barn, my breath hitting the cold and turning visible, rising in front of my face as I pull my coat tighter. We’ve got hundreds of heads to care for, and cows don’t give a damn that the windchill is fifteen below.
The water troughs freeze solid every night—thick layers of ice that don’t care how early it is or how cold your fingers get. We take hammers or steel rods to them, breaking through again and again until the cows can drink. If they can’t get to water, they won’t eat. And if they don’t eat, they start losing weightalmost immediately. In this business, weight loss means weaker immune systems, lower pregnancy rates, and less profit when it comes time to sell. It’s a straight line from frozen water to sick cattle—and none of us are willing to risk that.
Then there’s the feed. Every morning we hook up the flatbed and drop hay across the pastures. Out here, most of the herd stays outside even through the winter. They’re built for it—thick hides, layers of fat, instincts that keep them moving. But that doesn’t mean they’re invincible. We give them access to windbreaks, shelter-belts, and bedded areas to stay dry and out of the worst of the wind. Still, they’ve got to eat to keep warm, and they burn through calories faster this time of year just trying to maintain their body heat. So we ration hay carefully—enough to keep their energy up without blowing through our winter supply too fast.
The bales are heavy, even with the truck. We’re hauling them through snow banks and wind with gloves that never seem warm enough. We rotate where we feed so the ground doesn’t get too torn up in one spot, and we keep an eye out for cows that lag behind. One that stops eating is usually the first to go down, so you learn to notice the small things. How long she stands. How fast she walks. Whether she’s chewing or just pretending to.
We check on the bred cows constantly this time of year. Calving starts in February, but we don’t wait until then to get ready. Trouble doesn’t care about the calendar. One bad step on a frozen slope, one infection we don’t catch in time, and we could lose both the cow and the calf. So we keep our eyes on them. Every day. We monitor for swelling, discharge, appetite changes—anything that might hint at a complication starting to brew.
We prep the calving barn early. Clean out old straw. Lay down fresh bedding. Double-check the heat lamps, fencing, tools. I help with ultrasounds if something looks off, run blood work when needed, keep track of weight and mineral intake. Weadjust feed, sort by due date, and plan for isolation stalls just in case any of the heifers need extra attention. Every calf counts—especially when one lost birth can set a ranch back thousands of dollars. So we do the work before it’s urgent, because out here, a few hours too late can cost us everything.
But it’s not just the barn we worry about. We bed down the open areas too—especially near the windbreaks and along the feed lines. When it’s this cold, the ground itself becomes a threat. Cattle can get frostbite on their teats, scrotums, even their ears if we’re not careful. And if a cow drops early out in the open, that calf’s only got minutes before hypothermia sets in. So we haul in straw by the truckload, spreading thick layers where the herd likes to bed. It’s not glamorous work—your jeans get wet to the knee, and your back screams by the end of it—but it’s necessary. Bedding down gives them a dry place to rest, keeps body heat from draining straight into the frozen dirt, and lowers the risk of sickness when the temperature swings.
And the fences—we’re always mending the damn fences. Fences are the bane of my existence. Wind knocks them over, snow warps the wire, and the animals test their luck daily. If a section gives, we could lose half a herd to frostbite or predators. It’s never-ending, but it’s what we signed up for.
Dad, Crew, Riley, Nate, and Mason are out here just as much as I am. Emily and Mom help mainly with the horses. The ranch hands cover what we can’t. We split up the work where we can, but there’s not a soul on this ranch who isn’t dead on their feet by nightfall.
And in the middle of all that, there’s still the clinic. Emergency calls don’t take a snow day. I had a goat with pneumonia last Tuesday, and a senior dog with a tumor removal the day after. I’m stitching up split hooves in the mornings and driving out to check on horses with colic in the afternoons.
The only thing that’s kept me sane through it all is Wren. I’d forgotten how quickly a routine with someone could start to feel like home.
She’s moved all her stuff into my room on the other side of the house. Half the dresser drawers are full of her jeans and over-sized sleep shirts, and her boots are lined up next to mine by the door. She wakes up with me now—before the sun’s up, before the rest of the house stirs. Hank stretches out with a groan, his tail thumping against the mattress, and the three of us head out into the cold.
