Chapter 4
SAWYER
I’ve seen my fair share of reckless shit around here—enough to know when something’s about to go sideways. But watching a Wilding girl sprint full tilt into a round pen, no hesitation, straight toward a panicked horse and two dickheads with a whip? That was new.
I didn’t catch her name. Just heard my dad mutter something about “one of the Wilding girls,” like that explained everything. And maybe it did. Around here, their name had a reputation that came with its own shorthand.
Still. I didn’t expect her. Not that kind of fire. Not that kind of mouth.
She tore into the trainer like she’d been waiting for someone to test her all damn day.
Sharp and unbothered, like this wasn’t the first time she’d had to clean up someone else’s mess.
And then—God—she dropped Ray Hunt into the argument, and I actually laughed.
Like, laughed . Out loud. The sound startled me.
I couldn’t remember the last time something had caught me that off guard. Months? A year?
At first, she looked a little absurd, if I’m honest. Charging in with all that hair flying behind her, boots hitting the ground like a warning shot. But then she stopped. Right there—dead center in the chaos, between a thousand-pound animal and the two men who should’ve known better.
And something shifted.
She moved like someone who’d been in that exact place before.
Not just physically, but mentally—like she’d been close to something terrified and angry before and still found a way to stay steady.
Everything about her became focused. Intentional.
She wasn’t flinching or over-correcting.
Just standing there, soft and grounded, like she was trying to show the horse it had options.
That not everyone out here was a threat.
She wasn’t scared of the wild in him. She understood it.
And okay—maybe I noticed her. I tried not to, I really did.
But she was the kind of girl you couldn’t not notice.
Everything about her pulled focus. That hair—long and red, not the muted kind, but wild and bright, like it had been kissed too many times by the sun.
It never stayed in place. Always catching the wind, always doing its own thing.
Her skin had that late-August sort of glow.
Tanned and freckled, the way skin gets when it’s lived outside for months—on the backs of horses, in pastures, under suns that don’t set until after dinner.
She was tall, all long lines and sharp corners, like she’d been drawn with confidence.
There was nothing soft or sweet about her face.
It was too striking for that—cheekbones you could cut your fingers on, a mouth that looked like it probably said too much, even when it shouldn’t.
And her eyes—God, those eyes. I couldn’t decide what color they were. Green, maybe. Or blue. They looked like both, depending on the light. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was how they looked at you—like they saw everything. Like they already knew the parts of you you hadn’t figured out yet.
She was—God. She was beautiful.
I wasn’t ready for that. Not here. Not now. Not from a Wilding.
Dad was already losing it, shouting, firing the trainers on the spot.
And her? She didn’t even blink. Just stood there, calm and still, like the whole place could burn to ash around her and she wouldn’t move until the horse said she could.
Like she trusted it to give her permission before anything else did.
I don’t know what it is about her exactly.
Maybe it’s how she didn’t wait to be told.
How she didn’t hesitate when the rest of us were too careful or too scared to step in.
Or maybe it’s how she didn’t seem afraid of making a scene—like she’d already made a thousand and wasn’t embarrassed by a single one.
Whatever it was, I admired it. That part I’m sure of.
Which is exactly why I shoved the thought out of my head as fast as it showed up.
I don’t get to admire someone like her. Not anymore.
Not when the last person I looked at like that isn’t here to notice.
Not when her wedding band is still sitting on the dresser beside mine. When her handwriting’s still on notes I won’t throw out. When her coat’s still by the door like she might come back for it.
Not when there’s a lavender nursery at the end of the hall I can’t even open the door to.
I’m not someone who gets to notice freckles and red hair and eyes I can’t quite figure out the color of.
I should have been focused on the horse.
On his body language, the line of his shoulders, the way his hooves shifted every few seconds like he hadn’t decided if he wanted to stay or run.
I knew how to read that. I knew how to stay detached.
But my attention kept drifting—to her. To the way she breathed, even and steady, like she wasn’t just managing the moment but giving the animal something of herself without saying a word.
For a second—a fraction of one—I noticed her. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that made sense. But in the way you register someone in your periphery and feel it somewhere in your chest before your brain catches up.
And the second it happened, it felt like betrayal.
Because Julia used to be the person I noticed. Even when she was just reading beside me or moving through a room or folding laundry on the counter. I knew her rhythms, the pace of her, the way she could slow me down without trying.
And now she’s gone. And noticing someone else—even accidentally, even harmlessly—feels like setting fire to something I promised I’d never let go of.
So I shut it down.
That flicker of curiosity—of warmth—I bury it.
Just like I’ve buried everything else that doesn’t fit inside the life I’m still trying to hold together.
I shove it beneath the hours I’ve poured into the clinic.
Beneath the routines that used to feel temporary and now feel permanent.
Beneath the silence I’ve taught myself to live in.
I bury it under the weight of missing Julia in ways that don’t fade, no matter how much time passes.
And I focus on the horse.
He’s still guarded—ears twitching, muscles tight—but his eyes have shifted. There’s less panic in them now. He’s still watching her, but it’s different. He’s not looking for a way out anymore. He’s listening.
He’s starting to trust her. Not because she asked him to. Because she didn’t ask for anything. She just waited. She stayed where she was and let him decide.
The gate creaks beside me and I feel the familiar weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t speak right away, and neither do I. We just stand there, both of us watching.
“That’s Lane’s girl,” he says eventually, voice low, like he’s been holding the thought for a while and only now decided to say it out loud.
I glance at him. “Yeah?”
He lets out a short laugh, not amused, just certain. “Oh yeah. Tough as hell. But soft when she needs to be. Not a lot of people get that right.”
He nods toward the pen. The horse is standing still now. His ears are forward, not pinned. His chest rising and falling like he’s finally breathing on his own. His stance is looser, and it means something. It means she got through.
“She runs the top training program in the state, from what I hear,” he said. “I didn’t buy into the hype. Guess I do now.”
I didn’t respond. Just kept watching her. He was right. She was good. Calm, measured, and completely locked in.
I didn’t know Lane Wilding. I’d seen him around growing up.
He didn’t talk much, but you knew when he was in a room.
He didn’t carry himself like he needed the attention, but he got it anyway.
He had a presence that settled over everything.
A stillness that wasn’t showy. Just solid.
Like he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, because he already knew exactly who he was.
He and my dad were never what you’d call friendly.
Years of working the same land in different ways turned every conversation into a quiet standoff.
Neither one ever gave ground. But even when it got tense—and it usually did—there was something in the way my dad listened when Lane spoke, even when he didn’t like what he was hearing.
And that was something. Around here, respect didn’t always look polite.
People had opinions about Lane Wilding, and I’d heard them all growing up in a town as small as this one. But underneath all the talk, everyone knew where he stood. They knew his reputation. And more than that—they knew better than to pretend he hadn’t earned it.
His name carried weight well beyond this valley.
It turned heads in auction barns halfway down the coast. Lane built that.
A name that people respect, even when they don’t want to.
He wasn’t warm, not particularly approachable, but he was consistent.
People around here counted on him to be the same man every time they saw him, and that was enough.
And now she’s standing there—his daughter—in a pen full of nerves and wreckage, and I recognize the same presence. The same fire.
But it’s not Lane’s. It’s all her own.
When I glance back, Dad’s already watching me, mouth tugged into the smirk I’ve seen too many times to count.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs again, then reaches over and smacks the side of my arm. “Jesus. You’ve been lifting barns and shit?”
I grunt out a laugh. “You offering to spot me?”
“Hell no. I like my joints intact.”
“Then maybe don’t smack the guy who could fold you in half.”
He huffs. “You’re not that strong.”
“Try me.”
He eyes me for a second, then shakes his head. “You know, I keep telling myself I’ll start working out, getting to the gym.”
I look at him flatly. “You say that every year.”
“This time I mean it.”
“You’d make it five minutes.”
“Please,” he says, indignant. “Ten, at least.”