Chapter 3 #2
I turn onto the road that leads to the Hart property and grip the wheel a little tighter.
The Hart property is exactly what you’d expect from a family with old money and too many mouths to feed—polished, expansive, annoyingly nice.
The barns are big, clean-lined, and the fences are all straight.
No sagging rails. No duct tape fixes. Even their hay bales are stacked like they’ve been measured.
And then there’s the main house.
It’s massive. Like, actual mansion massive. Stone facade. Wraparound porch. Enough windows to make you wonder how long it takes to clean them all. But, if you’ve got a thousand children, you need the space, I guess.
I slow down as I pass the main drive, scanning for anything that resembles a round pen.
Nothing. I keep going, easing down the gravel path that winds behind the barns.
After a minute, I finally spot it—a good-sized round pen near the treeline, tucked far enough back from the house that whatever is inside clearly isn’t meant to be heard by dinner guests.
I pull up and kill the engine. The horse makes itself known before I even step out—sharp, frantic whinnies, the ones that carry from the gut.
There’s a girl standing outside the pen, arms folded against the cold, long dark hair pulled into a low braid.
She looks about Sage’s age—maybe twenty-two.
Pretty. But more than that, she’s got that same scrappy, steel-spined energy Sage walks around with when she’s had enough of the world’s bullshit.
She glances over as I slam my car door shut.
“You Wren?” she calls out.
I nod, tugging my gloves on tighter as I approach. “Yeah. And you are?”
She sticks out a hand. “Emily Hart.”
Right. One of the infamous thousand.
I shake her hand because it’s instinct and I’m not a total monster, but I pull away fast.
Physical contact’s never been my thing. Not with people, anyway.
Hugs, shoulder pats, all that casual closeness—it always felt like something I was supposed to tolerate, not something I wanted.
It’s like letting someone into my space just because they expected to be there.
It’s unpredictable. Messy. And I don’t like messy.
I like boundaries. Knowing where I end and someone else begins.
Animals get that.
People, not so much.
“What’s going on?” I ask, nodding toward the pen, where another burst of kicking and snorting echoes from inside.
Before she can answer, the gate swings open and Vaughn walks out. Big. Built. Still broad across the chest and shoulders in a way that says he hasn’t stopped working. Dark hair, streaked at the temples. Blue eyes that look like they’ve seen a lot and forgotten none of it.
“You the Wilding girl?”
“Wren,” I correct, stopping a few feet from him.
He grins like that amused him and offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Wren. ”
I shake it—firmer this time—and nod toward the pen. “I was told there’s a…situation.”
“There is,” he says, stepping back. “Horse came in a few days ago. Good breeding. Should’ve been a working horse, maybe even competition-level eventually, but…”
“But?”
“But it’s got some baggage.” He glances toward the pen. “Came from a rough setup down south. Neglect. Poor training. Some abuse, by the looks of it. Doesn’t take to people. Won’t let anyone near him.”
“How bad?” I ask, already adjusting my stance to get a better angle.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You wanna go in and see for yourself?”
I nod once.
Vaughn swings the gate open and leads me inside. The second we step in, I’m hit with a rush of frantic energy.
The horse is massive—tall, all lean muscle.
His bay coat is dark brown and glossy beneath the sweat, streaked with foam where it gathers along his flanks and neck.
His mane is tangled, half-matted to his neck from panic and sweat, and his eyes are wild, the whites flashing with every frenzied pass.
There’s a jagged scar across one shoulder, old but angry-looking, and one of his back legs flicks out every few strides like he’s trying to shake off a ghost.
His ribs are visible—not from lack of food, but from the way his body’s locked in survival mode. Every inch of him is tight and coiled, like he’s seconds away from launching himself into a wall just to get away.
Two trainers are in the middle, arms up, ropes out, trying to corner him, which is clearly only making it worse.
The horse’s eyes are wide and white, foam flecking at the corners of his mouth. His chest heaves like he just ran three miles straight uphill. And these fuckers are trying to lunge him?
What the actual hell kind of trainers do they have over here?
I drop my bag near the fence and take a few steps forward, just out of the way but close enough to get a better look. My eyes stay locked on the horse, tracking the frantic rhythm of his hooves, the way he cuts the corners sharp.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a horse this far gone.
And it hits me, low and hard in the stomach. I know this look. The wild-eyed fear. The frantic movement that’s more reaction than intention. He’s not here. He’s somewhere else—somewhere worse—and everything in him is just trying not to break.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and keep my hands at my sides. No sudden moves. Just breathe.
“You’re not helping, idiots,” I mutter under my breath, shooting a glare at the trainers still flapping around like they’re herding cattle.
One of them actually whistles. Whistles.
Jesus Christ.
I shift my weight and catch movement to my left. I glance over.
And—okay. Wow.
There’s a guy standing near the gate. Just…
standing there. And he’s fucking huge. At least a foot taller than me and he’s jacked .
His arms are crossed tight across a broad chest, his sharp jaw locked, muscles in his neck pulled taut.
The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up, his forearms all veiny and tense—like he’s been out there wrestling livestock just for the hell of it.
He’s built like a Norse god. His hair’s cut short—somewhere between blond and brown, clean and neat.
He’s not hot, obviously.
I mean—technically, yes . He’s extremely attractive. Perfectly symmetrical face, square jaw, biceps bigger than my actual head. But he knows it. Guys like that always do.
Which makes them not hot.
It makes them annoying. And, most of the time, assholes.
Annoying assholes.
Still, I look for half a second too long before snapping my gaze back to the horse. My eyes track the movement automatically—one of the trainers peeling off from the circle and disappearing behind the barn.
Good. Maybe he’s finally getting a clue and tapping the hell out.
Except he comes back holding a whip. My stomach drops.
A fucking whip?
I shoot a look at Vaughn. He sees it too, and his face hardens.
“Tell them to stop,” I snap.
He raises his voice, calling out their names. But they’re too far and the horse is too loud—ears ringing with hooves pounding and adrenaline spiking. They don’t hear him.
I don’t think. I just move.
I shove the gate open and sprint into the round pen.
Is it smart? No. Is it safe? Also no. But if that jackass gets one hit in with that whip, this horse is never coming back from it.
I duck under the rail, boots hitting the dirt, and I’m vaguely aware that Norse God Guy’s head whips toward me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I don’t care. Let him stare. I’m not letting some overpaid cowboy wannabe traumatize this horse because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.
“HEY!” I scream, dodging the bay’s frantic path and heading straight for the idiot with the whip. “Drop it!”
The horse lets out a panicked snort, legs skidding, eyes wild.
“Who the hell are you?” one of them yells.
“Who the fuck are you? ” I shoot back, my hands shaking. “Because unless you’re Ray Hunt re-incarnated, you sure as hell don’t belong in this pen with a whip!”
The one holding the whip hesitates, glancing toward Vaughn—who is now storming through the gate behind me.
“Get out,” Vaughn growls. “Now.”
“But we were just trying to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vaughn snaps. “You were trying to make a bad situation worse. You’re done here. Get the fuck out.”
The two of them freeze and look at each other like maybe they didn’t think this job actually came with consequences.
Vaughn doesn’t blink. “Leave the pen. Then get the hell off my ranch. You’re not welcome back.”
Silence. Then, slowly, the whip hits the ground with a soft thud.
I take a breath that doesn’t do a damn thing to calm me down. The horse is still spinning in the corner, but at least now no one’s trying to “train” him into a breakdown.
Vaughn steps closer to me. “You good?”
I nod, eyes still on the horse. “Yeah. Just pissed.”
He nods once. “Same.”
“I don’t use whips,” I say quietly, still watching the horse circle. “Ever.”
“Good,” Vaughn says. “Neither do I. Didn’t even know those fuckers brought them on the property. That’s on me.”
I nod, my jaw still tight. He sounds like he means it.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds, glancing over, “you’ve got some balls on you. Running in here like that.”
That earns the barest flicker of a smile from me. He lets me have that and backs off, leaving me in the pen.
The horse is still pacing the far side, ribs rising fast, eyes rimmed in white. His whole body’s screaming don’t touch me , even though no one’s within ten feet.
I stay still. Don’t move. Just let him circle.
He’s not ready for anything else yet.
This isn’t about control—it’s about trust. About making myself small and steady and safe.
So I start with what I know.
I shift just enough to move my feet, just enough to let him clock it. I keep my shoulders low, my energy soft. No sharp movements. No eye contact. Just my presence in the space and the slow, deliberate beat of my breath.
Pressure, then release.
Let him feel me.
Let him decide if I’m a threat.
I move a few steps, then stop. Turn my body just slightly away. Give him the option.
He doesn’t take it yet—but he sees me. His ear flicks toward me, even if the rest of him stays locked up tight.
Good. That’s something.
I start cataloging what I’ll need. Small round pen, softer footing. Maybe some panels to close off the wider field for when we’re ready to transition. Halter can wait. Right now, it’s all about body language.
No words. No pressure.
I’ll come back later with groundwork tools—flag, stick, maybe a tarp. Something to let him see, hear, feel without panic. But for now, this is about re-establishing choice. Letting him take up space and not be punished for it.
Letting him breathe.
Letting him unlearn.
He circles once more, then slows. Only a little. Just enough to tell me he’s watching.
I don’t move.
I let him decide what comes next.
Some horses need halters and lead ropes and firm boundaries. Others just need you to stay, long enough for them to realize you’re not going to hurt them. Long enough for them to stop preparing for pain.
That’s what this one needs. Not fixing. Not forcing.
Just someone who won’t leave the second things get hard.
I can do that.
So I stay.
And I let him circle. Let him breathe.
And I wait—for the moment he finally decides I’m not the enemy.
Because when he does, we’ll start from there.