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 really click into 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 that comes slower than the one before. It’s knowing when to push—and when to let go.
That’s where the real work is.
Winona shortens her reins by just a fraction, her hands steady, patient. She asks for the canter, and—true to form—Creed pushes back. His head snaps up, his hips swing too far inside, but she doesn’t react. She holds the outside rein, nudges with her leg, calm and consistent until he softens.
When he finally gives, it’s slight but certain. His frame gathers in, stride shortening just enough to show he’s listening. Still forward. Still moving with her, not against her.
That’s what we’re after.
Not obedience. Not stillness.
Energy with direction. Impulsion without the fight.
I nod to myself, crossing my arms. “That’s it,” I call to her. “Right there. Sit deep and hold it.”
She does, and Creed carries it like he was born to do this. Maybe he was.
“Damn,” I murmur under my breath. “He’s getting there.”
Winona flashes a quick grin without looking down. “Feels good today.”
“He looks good.”
This is the part I love most. The translation of it. The slow unwinding of the mess into something that makes sense.
You take a horse like Creed—bold, reactive, too sure of himself in all the wrong ways—and you work. You show up, again and again, until all that raw talent starts to settle. Until it stops exploding and starts shaping itself into something useful.
It isn’t luck. It’s hours in the saddle. It’s bruises you don’t bother icing anymore. It’s the kind of quiet faith that comes from doing the same thing a hundred times, hoping that maybe the hundred-and-first will be the one that lands.
I lean into the rail and rest my chin on my hands, letting the winter sun hit my back.
This—this is the part no one sees. The part that no one claps for.
But it’s mine. And it’s enough.
We spend the rest of the session drilling lateral work—haunches-in, shoulder-fore, anything to get Creed bending through his ribcage without turning it into a tantrum.
Winona cools him out in long loops around the arena, his neck stretched low and ears flicking, and I jot down a few notes in my phone while she leads him out.
She’ll take him back to the north stable—the section I keep reserved for the horses in my program.
Right now I’ve got five in training. Six if you count the skittish little mare I took in as a favor to a friend.
I try not to take more than that per season.
Any more and the work stops being intentional and starts being routine, and I never want this place to run like a factory.
Most of the horses I take on are performance prospects—eventers, jumpers, high-end ranch horses from clients who want them polished and ready for show or sale.
And not just Montana clients anymore, either.
A couple years back, a well-known bloodstock agent from Texas called me “the quiet trainer with the freakishly consistent results,” and it kind of stuck.
I’ve had people fly in from Arizona, Colorado, even California.
It still feels weird sometimes—that people actually seek me out. That they trust me with their horses, their livelihoods, their reputations. But they do, and I don’t take that lightly.
I’m gathering the rest of my things—my half-empty water bottle, clipboard, and protein bar—when I hear it.
Tires on dirt.
I wince, already knowing.
The crunch of fresh gravel in that rhythm, that weight. It’s too smooth to be any of our trucks. Too clean to be one of the ranch hands.
I glance toward the main house and there it is. Sawyer’s black SUV, windows gleaming. The sun glints off the chrome as he steps out, and I almost groan out loud.
He’s wearing light jeans—fitted, of course—paired with a gray sweater that looks criminally soft and some kind of light brown jacket that probably costs more than my entire feed order last month. He runs a hand through his hair, which looks freshly trimmed, and his stubble has been cleaned up, too.
I swallow hard.
Nope. I am not prepared for this.
Why couldn’t I be fake marrying someone unfortunate-looking? Like a middle-aged man with a soul patch or a beer gut or a love for sandals with socks?
Why did it have to be him?
Why did it have to be a walking marble statue probably carved by Michaelangelo himself with the emotional availability of a rock and a jawline that could cut through steel?
I turn away fast, pretending to be very interested in the mud on my boots.
He’s here.
Which means…it’s time.
Time to tell my family we’re getting married.
Fake married. Totally fake.
For the water. For the ranch. For survival.
God help me.
Winona comes striding back from the stable, her jet black hair pulled into one of those messy braids that somehow still looks cute on her despite being covered in horse sweat. She’s wiping her hands on her breeches when she slows beside me, her gaze catching on something just over my shoulder.
She leans in slightly. “Who is that? ”
I don’t have to ask who she means. Her voice has that breathless edge to it, the one girls get when they see someone so objectively attractive it short-circuits their common sense.
I glance back, just briefly. Sawyer’s standing by his SUV, scanning the property like he’s looking for me. Or maybe just buying himself a second before walking into the fire.
“Don’t know,” I say, turning back to her and shrugging like my heartbeat isn’t thudding in my ears. “Sales rep or something.”
Winona narrows her eyes. “Wren.”
I keep my face straight, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. Just a little twitch.
“Wren!” he calls, lifting a hand.
Shit.
I turn again, lift a hand in return, then shoot Winona a look. She’s already smirking.
“A sales rep, huh?”
“Get to work,” I grumble, trying not to smile.
Winona just grins wider and starts walking backwards toward the tack room. “Copy that, boss.”
I watch her go, shaking my head. She’s younger than me by a handful of years, but she’s got this confidence about her I didn’t have at twenty-five.
Quick with a joke. Not afraid to fire back when a horse—or a person—is giving her shit.
And even though she technically works for me, she’s become a friend.
One of the few who’s stuck around. And yeah, sometimes she plays a little fast and loose with boundaries, but she also shows up on time, takes care of the horses like they’re hers, and sends me dumb memes when she can tell I’ve had a rough day.
I like that about her.
I rub my palms on my thighs and look back toward Sawyer. He’s making his way toward me now, easy and steady, the way he always moves. Like nothing ever really gets to him.
Must be nice.