Page 80 of Wild Then Wed
Her mouth shuts and her brow lifts. She sticks her hand out, full of fake professionalism. “Well,” she says. “It was nice doing business with you, Mr. Hart.”
I grin and take her hand, shaking it once. “Pleasure doing business with you, too.”
There’s a flicker of something in my chest—sharp, strange, warm. Like I want to keep doing things with her. More than this. Whateverthiseven is.
Christ. I need to get a fucking grip.
I clear my throat, try to shake the thought loose. “I should probably head out. Go check on Hank.”
She smirks. “Give him an extra dog biscuit for me.”
“I won’t.”
“Asshole.”
I laugh as I head for the door, but my chest is still a little too tight and my head’s suddenly full of thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
About her.
About this.
And about whatever comes next.
Chapter 15
WREN
I wake to the steady rhythm of hooves hitting packed dirt, sharp and sure, broken only by the occasional curse when a horse pushes too hard. It’s a sound I’ve always known—constant, grounding. Better than caffeine, and easier to stomach.
Winona’s in the ring already, perched like a damn centaur on top of Creed—a tall, dapple gray warm-blood with more personality than sense and a price tag that could fund an Ivy League college. We’ve been working with him for four months now, prepping him for a high-profile client out of Lexington who wants him fine-tuned for the show-jumping circuit. He’s got the scope, the muscle, the bloodlines. What he doesn’t have is discipline. Which is why he’s here, with me. With us.
Winona circles him through a tight line of cavalettis, keeping her hands soft but firm, posture perfect, heels down like she was born in that saddle. She’s not just riding him—she’s conditioning him, checking his responsiveness, tuning his body like a violin before a concert. That’s what an exercise rider does. They’re not just seat-fillers—they’re translators. Interpreters between horse and handler, shaping raw talent into something polished.
She calls out without turning her head. “He’s a little sticky on the left lead again.”
“I saw,” I say, leaning on the fence. “Push him through his inside leg on the next pass. Make him pick it up without the cue.”
“Copy that.”
God, she’s good. If I had a dozen Winonas, I’d have one of the top barns in the country.
But I don’t. I have one Winona, four other part-time riders, and a rotating cast of over-eager college kids who think working with horses is all heart-to-hearts and braided manes. It’s not. It’s sweat and discipline and a whole lot of eating shit and showing up anyway.
This place—this program—it’s mine. Built with my own two hands and a very stubborn refusal to quit. And mornings like this, watching one of my horses start to get it, to reallyclickinto something—I don’t know. It makes it all feel worth it.
Even if I did agree to marry Sawyer Hart to save it. Which I’m trying really hard not to think about right now.
Creed shifts into his next gait with a little more confidence, and I can tell Winona’s giving him more rein. Just enough to make him think it’s his idea. Smart girl.
We’re not chasing perfection today. That comes later—if it comes at all. What we’re after right now is progress. A little more give through the poll. A response that doesn’t come with tension. Balance in the transitions. Rhythm that feels natural, not forced. That small, almost imperceptible moment when his body stops bracing and starts to listen.
And maybe more than anything—we’re looking for trust.
That’s the part people miss when they watch from the sidelines. They think it’s about control. About someone sitting tall on a horse and making it do exactly what they want, like it’s just muscle and reins. But it’s never that simple.
It’s not about power. It’s about communication.
It’s about asking, and then waiting for the answer. About reading the shift of weight, the flick of an ear, the breath thatcomes slower than the one before. It’s knowing when to push—and when to let go.
