Chapter 7
WREN
But Vaughn Hart paid me more for one session than most people do for a weeks’ worth, so here I am—half-frozen, under-caffeinated, and mildly pissed that I had to rearrange my entire schedule just to get here.
The indoor pen is quiet. I walk the perimeter, checking the footing. It’s packed but not too slick. Good. Less risk of a slip if he bolts again.
Behind me, the side door creaks open and Dottie walks in, shaking snow from her hat like a golden retriever. She’s wearing a smile too big for this early in the day.
“Morning!” she says, like it’s not still basically nighttime.
I nod, polite. “Morning.”
“You ready for today’s session?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She chuckles, coming to lean on the rail. “What’s the plan?”
I shrug off my coat and glance toward the stall where they’ve got him waiting. “Same thing as yesterday. Establish a baseline. Read his body language. See if he remembers anything from last time.”
Dottie nods, thoughtful. “You gonna get hands on today?”
“Not unless he tells me he’s ready.”
That’s the thing about horses like this one. The second you try to rush, you lose. So I’ll wait. I’ll move slow. I’ll earn it, inch by inch.
The door creaks open again, letting in a gust of frigid air and a flash of blonde hair. A girl walks in—young, probably twenty if that. Her scarf is pulled up past her nose, cheeks flushed from the cold, and her hair spills down her back in loose waves that look a little too perfect for ranch work.
She stops next to Dottie, eyes bright, a little breathless. “Sorry I’m late. The roads were just a mess, no plows through yet.”
Dottie waves her off with a smile. “No worries, hon. We were just getting started.” Then she turns to me. “Wren, this is Anna Hawthorne. She’s been interning here for a few months, doing coursework through MSU’s equine science program. Vaughn wants her shadowing your sessions from now on.”
I blink. “Shadowing?”
Dottie nods. “Just to observe. Learn from how you do things.”
My brows pull together before I can smooth them out. I glance toward the stall where the gelding is waiting, ears already flicking at the sound of voices. “Two people might be a bit much for him right now.”
Anna steps forward quickly. “I don’t have to go in with you. I can stay out here and take notes. Afterwards, maybe you could just walk me through what you did? Why you made certain choices?”
Her voice is soft, but not timid. There’s a steadiness in the way she says it, as if she’s used to people questioning her and already knows how to stay one step ahead.
I nod slowly. “Alright.”
She smiles. It’s too early for smiles that wide.
I tug my gloves tighter. She seems nice enough. Bright. Eager. Someone who probably always raised her hand first in class and color-coded her notebooks. And that’s fine, just as long as she doesn’t get in my way.
I glance over at Dottie, jerking my chin toward the stall. “He got a name?”
She shrugs, brushing some stray hay off her vest. “Don’t think so.”
I raise a brow.
“You should name him,” she adds, like it’s no big deal. “Vaughn doesn’t give a damn what they’re called. It’s more for the hands—makes it easier to keep track.”
I nod once, a short jerk of my chin. Alright then.
Anna’s already made herself comfortable on the bench near the wall, her notebook open and pen at the ready. She crosses one leg over the other, all polished posture and lip gloss, like this is a fashion internship and not a round pen full of horse shit.
The gelding starts whinnying before I even reach the stall. It’s high-pitched, panicked.
“Hey,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as I unclip the stall gate. He backs up immediately, eyes wide, muscles tense like he’s already mapped out five different escape routes.
I move slow. No halter yet. Just presence. Just breath.
The thing about horses—especially the ones who’ve been hurt—is they don’t just react to what’s in front of them. They react to everything . The sound of your voice. The way you breathe when you think no one’s paying attention. Whether your steps land with intention or hesitation.
They’re prey animals, built to survive. Which means they spend their lives scanning for danger in things we don’t even realize we’re doing. A hand raised too fast. A sideways glance. The shift in your weight when you walk into the stall. They notice it all.
And if they’ve been mistreated—even once—they learn fast that safety isn’t a given. That people can mean well and still be too loud. Too much.
So if you want one to trust you, you don’t push. You stay quiet. You keep your voice low, your movements soft, your energy calm. You let them come to you, when they’re ready.
And they will. If you show up enough times without asking for anything, they start to believe you’re not a threat. That you mean it when you say you’re not going to hurt them.
Maybe that’s what I’ve always loved most about them.
They don’t lie to themselves. Or to you. They know what fear feels like, and they know when it’s gone.
I tilt my body slightly, keeping my shoulders turned, my eyes low. Less threatening. Less direct.
He still panics when I try to lead him toward the pen.
We barely make it five steps out of the stall before he plants his feet and jerks back, eyes rolling white. His chest is heaving, and I can see the sheen of sweat breaking along his neck. I stop instantly. Pressure off.
It’s not about overpowering. It’s never about that.
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. That he matters.
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.
I hear Anna shift behind me, the sound of her pen pausing mid-scratch. She follows my line of sight, and when she sees Sawyer, her eyes widen a little. Her cheeks pink up in a way that’s both innocent and obvious.
Of course. He probably gets that reaction everywhere he goes.
He’s tall and jacked, with a face that’s always halfway to brooding unless he’s being an ass, which—let’s be honest—is probably most of the time.
I’m sure the women of Bozeman practically toss their panties at him during vet appointments.
He’s not getting that kind of attention from me.
Especially not now. Not when the horse—my horse, at least for today—is finally still. Watching me. Letting me stroke the side of his muzzle with slow, deliberate movements.
There’s a fine layer of sweat dried on his coat, darkening the curve of his neck and the ridge of his spine. His legs aren’t locked. His ribs aren’t heaving like they were an hour ago.