Chapter 6 #2
But the feed store’s where you go when you need something—even if you’re not sure what.
Bales of hay, sure, but also fencing wire, work gloves, buckets, cheap coffee, fishing lures, firewood in the winter, Fourth of July flags in the summer.
They’ve got baby chicks in the spring and feed tubs stacked high year-round, but what I remember most is the back wall—where the dusty paperbacks lived, next to the comic book rack.
When we were kids, me and Crew and Riley would beg to come along just to dig through it. Crew always went for the westerns, but Riley and I would end up with a dog-eared Marvel issue or two and we’d read them to each other on the drive back home.
I only need senior pellets for the older horses, a couple bags of alfalfa cubes, and grain for the colts. Nothing fancy—just enough to get through the next week or two.
Inside, the place smells like molasses, hay, and old wood. The floors are dusty, and someone’s always playing country music from a crackly old speaker nailed to the wall. It’s warm, though. Feels like somewhere time doesn’t matter much.
I’m halfway to the grain aisle when I hear, “Sawyer Hart, is that you?”
I turn to see Dean Colson, one of the ranchers south of Summit Springs. Big guy. Barrel chest. Wears the same stained Carhartt every day like it’s a badge of honor.
“Morning, Dean,” I say, clapping his hand when he offers it. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in this.”
He snorts. “If I waited for clear skies, I’d never leave the damn house. You hear about the aquifer restrictions?”
“Hard not to,” I say, grabbing a bag of cubes and tossing it over my shoulder. “It’s gonna hit all of us. Whether they mean for it to or not.”
Dean nods, face grim. “It’s a mess. And it’s only November. Hell knows what January’s gonna look like.”
“Yeah,” I say, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. “Gonna be a hell of a winter.”
Dean keeps talking, something about the county commission and how he’d like to “string Cassidy up by his suspenders,” but my focus drifts.
Just past his shoulder, a flash of shiny red hair catches my eye.
It’s instinctual, really. There aren’t many redheads around here—especially not ones that stop me in my tracks like she does. I shift my weight and lean just slightly to the left.
Wren Wilding. She’s in leggings, sneakers that don’t look made for snow, and a jacket three sizes too big, one you wear when comfort wins over everything else.
She’s standing on her tiptoes, fingers brushing the edge of a feed bag just out of reach, cursing under her breath.
Her ponytail swings with every frustrated tug, and the way her brow knits together makes me want to laugh.
Or maybe just watch her struggle a little longer.
I glance back at Dean, who’s still going on about well permits and bureaucratic bullshit.
Damn. I’m torn. Wren doesn’t seem like the type who likes being rescued. She’s got that stubborn streak to her. But still—she’s going to pull something if she keeps stretching like that.
“Dean, it was good talking to you,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence with a polite nod. “Sorry, man—gotta take care of something.”
Before he can respond, I’m already stepping around him and heading her way.
I step up behind her, close enough that my shadow spills over her. “Need a hand?”
She whirls, spinning around so fast her ponytail hits her cheek. “Holy fuck—”
Her sneaker catches on a pallet, and she lurches forward. I catch her elbow before she can hit the ground.
For a heartbeat, she’s frozen, her free hand braced against my chest. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed, pink either from the cold or the fact that she nearly ate concrete.
Maybe both. There’s a smudge of gloss on her lips—pink, shiny, a little bit sticky-looking. It smells like strawberries.
I shouldn’t notice that, but I do. I notice a lot of things about Wren Wilding these days that I probably shouldn’t.
She jerks her hand back like I burned her.
“ You ,” she hisses, shooting me a glare, “are an actual menace. What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me. “Just trying to be helpful.”
Wren straightens her jacket with sharp, irritated tugs. “I’m fine,” she grumbles, turning back to the shelf with renewed determination.
I set down my own fifty-pound bag of cubes and lean against the rack, crossing my arms. The way she stretches on her toes, her fingers barely grazing the bottom of the feed bag, would be comical if she wasn’t so damn stubborn.
“You don’t have something better to do?” she asks without turning around.
“Not really,” I say, scratching at my stubble. “This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.”
Her glare could melt my skin off. “How pathetic for you.”
“Tragic,” I agree, pushing off the rack. “Wren, let me just—”
Before she can protest, I reach up and snag the bag one-handed, holding it between us. The muscle in her jaw ticks as she crosses her arms.
“Fine.”
I wink. “You’re welcome.”
“I would’ve gotten it eventually,” she insists, chin jutting out.
“Yeah. Around closing time. Maybe.”
Wren snatches the feed bag from me, but the weight immediately tips her forward again. I catch it before it can drag her to the ground, hefting both bags onto my shoulders with ease.
She glares up at me again. “I said I’ve got it!”
I adjust my grip, unfazed. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”
“I don’t care what it fucking looked like to you,” she snaps, making another grab for the bag.
But I’m taller, stronger, and—okay, maybe enjoying this a little too much. I shift just out of reach, and her fingers close on empty air. She huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face in frustration.
I chuckle. “Relax. I don’t mind helping.”
Her eyes flick between the two fifty-pound bags balanced on my shoulders, lingering for a second too long on the way my arms strain against the weight. Then she mutters, “Of course you can carry both like it’s nothing.”
I grin. “Was that a compliment?”
She tips her chin up. “No. I would never.”
My grin widens.
She exhales sharply, like she’s debating whether to kick me in the shins or just walk away. Before she can decide, I ask, “You been able to find any leeway with that new water ordinance?”
Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her. She rubs her temples, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “No. I’ve been up all night the last few nights trying to figure something out, but the county just told me we don’t qualify for an exemption.”
I watch the way her fingers press into her forehead, the shadows under her eyes that even her stubbornness can’t hide. She’s running herself ragged over this.
And it doesn’t make sense. Wilding Ranch is one of the biggest operations in the county—shit, in the state—and her mom being a widow should’ve qualified them for some kind of consideration. My brows pull together as we start moving toward checkout.
“Did they say why?” I ask, shifting the feed bags to one shoulder so I can grab a mineral block from the endcap display.
Wren’s mouth twists like she’s tasted something sour.
“Apparently the exemption only applies to primary residences drawing under five thousand gallons a day.” She kicks at a stray piece of straw on the concrete floor.
“Since we’ve got the breeding operation and irrigation for the hayfields, we’re classified as ‘commercial agricultural’ now. Doesn’t matter that we live there.”
A low whistle escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s brutal.”
She shrugs, but the motion is too stiff to be casual. “Water rights have always been political around here.”
At the register, Wren pulls out a worn leather wallet while I set the bags down with a thud. The cashier, Betty, who’s worked here since I was in diapers—gives me an approving nod as she rings us up.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “my cousin’s on the planning commission. Might be worth—”
“I’ve got it handled,” Wren cuts in, handing Betty a credit card with the Wilding Ranch logo embossed on it.
Betty’s eyes dart between us like she’s watching a tennis match. I can practically see the gossip brewing behind her bifocals.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Just saying. Sometimes it helps to—”
“What? Have a man make the call?” Wren’s voice is all honey-coated steel. “Because that always works out so well for us little ladies , doesn’t it?”
The older woman at the next register coughs into her hand, hiding a laugh. Betty suddenly becomes very interested in her receipt printer.
“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”
Wren’s shoulders drop half an inch. “I know.” She rubs at the back of her neck. “I’m just…tired, okay? I’m sick of jumping through hoops.”
The raw honesty in her voice catches me off guard.
For the first time since I met her, Wren Wilding doesn’t look like the sharp-edged, nothing-gets-to-me woman she plays so well.
She just looks…worn out. Like someone who’s been carrying more than anyone ever realized, and maybe doesn’t know how to set it down.
I settle the bags back on my shoulders. “Well, if you need an extra set of hands—”
“I don’t.”
“—or someone to argue with the county board—”
“I can handle it.”
“—or just someone to haul your feed to your car while you plot world domination—”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile.
“Fine,” she says, gesturing toward the exit. “Since you’re already holding the damn things. Let’s go.”
I follow her, hiding my own smirk.
Because yeah, she’s stubborn as fuck. Yeah, she’d rather chew on barbed wire than ask for my help. But she hasn’t told me to leave yet.
And that? That feels like progress.
It occurs to me then, as I stand there holding these feed bags between us, that this is the longest conversation I’ve had with a woman in four years that wasn’t my family.