Page 36 of Wild Then Wed
She stops next to Dottie, eyes bright, a little breathless. “Sorry I’m late. The roads were just a mess, no plows through yet.”
Dottie waves her off with a smile. “No worries, hon. We were just getting started.” Then she turns to me. “Wren, this is Anna Hawthorne. She’s been interning here for a few months, doing coursework through MSU’s equine science program. Vaughn wants her shadowing your sessions from now on.”
I blink. “Shadowing?”
Dottie nods. “Just to observe. Learn from how you do things.”
My brows pull together before I can smooth them out. I glance toward the stall where the gelding is waiting, ears already flicking at the sound of voices. “Two people might be a bit much for him right now.”
Anna steps forward quickly. “I don’t have to go in with you. I can stay out here and take notes. Afterwards, maybe you could just walk me through what you did? Why you made certain choices?”
Her voice is soft, but not timid. There’s a steadiness in the way she says it, as if she’s used to people questioning her and already knows how to stay one step ahead.
I nod slowly. “Alright.”
She smiles. It’s too early for smiles that wide.
I tug my gloves tighter. She seems nice enough. Bright. Eager. Someone who probably always raised her hand first in class and color-coded her notebooks. And that’s fine, just as long as she doesn’t get in my way.
I glance over at Dottie, jerking my chin toward the stall. “He got a name?”
She shrugs, brushing some stray hay off her vest. “Don’t think so.”
I raise a brow.
“You should name him,” she adds, like it’s no big deal. “Vaughn doesn’t give a damn what they’re called. It’s more for the hands—makes it easier to keep track.”
I nod once, a short jerk of my chin. Alright then.
Anna’s already made herself comfortable on the bench near the wall, her notebook open and pen at the ready. She crosses one leg over the other, all polished posture and lip gloss, like this is a fashion internship and not a round pen full of horse shit.
The gelding starts whinnying before I even reach the stall. It’s high-pitched, panicked.
“Hey,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as I unclip the stall gate. He backs up immediately, eyes wide, muscles tense like he’s already mapped out five different escape routes.
I move slow. No halter yet. Just presence. Just breath.
The thing about horses—especially the ones who’ve been hurt—is they don’t just react to what’s in front of them. They react toeverything. The sound of your voice. The way you breathe when you think no one’s paying attention. Whether your steps land with intention or hesitation.
They’re prey animals, built to survive. Which means they spend their lives scanning for danger in things we don’t even realize we’re doing. A hand raised too fast. A sideways glance.The shift in your weight when you walk into the stall. They notice it all.
And if they’ve been mistreated—even once—they learn fast that safety isn’t a given. That people can mean well and still be too loud. Too much.
So if you want one to trust you, you don’t push. You stay quiet. You keep your voice low, your movements soft, your energy calm. You let them come to you, when they’re ready.
And they will. If you show up enough times without asking for anything, they start to believe you’re not a threat. That you mean it when you say you’re not going to hurt them.
Maybe that’s what I’ve always loved most about them.
They don’t lie to themselves. Or to you. They know what fear feels like, and they know when it’s gone.
I tilt my body slightly, keeping my shoulders turned, my eyes low. Less threatening. Less direct.
He still panics when I try to lead him toward the pen.
We barely make it five steps out of the stall before he plants his feet and jerks back, eyes rolling white. His chest is heaving, and I can see the sheen of sweat breaking along his neck. I stop instantly. Pressure off.
It’s not about overpowering. It’s never about that.
