Page 37 of Wild Then Wed
People assume training is about control. But real training—the kind that actually works—is about partnership. I’m not here to break him. I’m here to convince him that I’m safe.
So I wait.
My hand stays loose on the lead rope, my body angled away. I don’t move until his ears flick forward, until he exhales—just a little. That’s all I need. One sign that he’s listening again.
We try again.
Ten steps this time before he spooks at the metal gate and starts dancing sideways. I murmur to him again, step back, give him room. He doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t rear. That’s something.
Eventually, he lets me lead him into the pen. Barely.
I shut the gate behind us and unclip the rope. He moves immediately—wide, cautious circles, his breath huffing out through his nose. His tail flicks once. Ears still pinned, body still tense. But he doesn’t bolt.
He’s watching me, and that’s enough for now.
Because if he’s watching, he’s thinking. And if he’s thinking, then he’s still here—with me—instead of spiraling into the place where fear takes over and nothing gets through.
Sometimes that’s all you can ask for. A little eye contact. A second of stillness. A moment that doesn’t end in panic.
It’s not trust. Not yet.
But it’s a start.
I spend a lot of the morning matching his energy, mirroring his movements, keeping my posture soft. Non-threatening.
Eventually, I shift to pressure and release. Moving into his space, then stepping back the second he acknowledges me. He remembers this dance, even if it’s been years. Even if the music stopped for him a long time ago. Every time he gives me something—a softening in his stance, a blink, a lowered head—I let him know it matters. Thathematters.
After a while, I start the process of initiating contact. I lower my head slightly, keep my shoulders square but loose, and slowly raise my hand—palm down, fingers soft.
I don’t move toward him. I wait for him to come to me.
And he does.
Slow. Unsure. As if he’s testing whether the world is still a kind enough place to reward such vulnerability.
His velvety nose brushes the tips of my fingers and lingers there. Just for a second. Just long enough to say,Okay. I see you.
He’s skittish, but he’s smart. He watches everything. I’ve noticed he doesn’t spook at noise very often—only people.Sudden movement. Fast hands. Probably a history of being mishandled, not mistreated. There’s a big difference.
He’s going to be a project, but there’s a good horse in there. One that wants to connect. One that’s trying.
The sound of the door creaking open cuts through the quiet.
I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. The air changes when Sawyer walks into a room—it gets heavier, hotter, like a storm rolling in.
I turn anyway.
His blondish-brownish hair is dusted with snow. He’s in a heavy alpine green jacket zipped halfway up and a taupe hoodie underneath it stretches tight across his strong chest and broad shoulders. His dark jeans do an unnaturally good job of showing off his muscular thighs, and his boots somehow look both expensive and worn in.
He doesn’t say anything. He just leans against the wall, his arms crossed, watching me.
And smirking. I narrow my eyes.
Why the hell is he here anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be elbows-deep in cow intestines or something?
God. Men are the worst.
His grin only deepens when I scowl—like his dick gets hard the meaner I am to him or something. It’s got to be exhausting, being that smug all the time.
