Page 38 of Wilder

But... how could I not?

It didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything.

Wilder, just like Laken, knew how much I loved Pelly. He knew how attached I was to that damn horse. Of course, he’d make sure I found out right away. Of course, he’d handle it—because that’s what he did. That was what a good rancher did for the animals in their care.

Him going out of his way to not only pull Laken out of bed to serve as his messenger, but to also get Pelly up and load her into the back of a trailer in order to bring her to the vet was taking care of the rescues the ranch took in.

He wasn’t doing it for me; he was doing it because it was the right call. Because Pelly needed to be seen immediately. Because that was just part of the damn job.

It had nothing to do with me.

I swallowed thickly. “I should probably call him.”

“Good idea. He’s still at the hospital with her so he’ll be able to give you a better update than me.”

“Thank you, Laken. I’ll text you in a bit.”

“Sounds good.”

My hands shook when I pulled my phone away from my face. A deep, slow breath pushed past my lips, but it did little to steady the anxious energy rattling through me.

I hated that I couldn’t do anything. That I was an entire state and a half away while Pelly was in some equine hospital, probably scared and wondering what the hell was happening to her while a bunch of vets poked and prodded at her.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead.

I hoped—God, I hoped—none of this was triggering memories of the place she’d come from. Of the years she’d spent in neglect, too thin, too scared, too broken to trust a single soul.

She had a forever home at the Boone ranch. A cushy life where she’d be spoiled rotten until her dying day.

But did she know that?

Did she know that this wasn’t abandonment?

That she wasn’t being sent back to the hellhole she’d barely survived coming from?

Fuck.

I thumbed through my contacts, scrolling until I found Wilder’s.

Our call log was sparse. Hardly anything exchanged between us—just a handful of short calls, most of them over work-related things. Nothing personal.

Which made sense. We saw each other every damn day.

What reason did we have to text or call when I could just walk up to his house or catch him at the stables?

When I could stand in front of him instead of looking at his name on a screen?

But now, staring at his contact, my thumb hovering over the call button, I felt... hesitant.

Like this was crossing some kind of invisible line.

A work call?

A necessary call?

That wouldn’t be weird. That wouldn’t make my stomach clench the way it was right now.