Swiftcurrent Creek preacher's daughter

Now Wren was not a stupid wolf. Awkward and flighty, and maybe some things went over her head on occasion; but she could read others. And maybe she could read too much of them. 
He doesn't respond to the heat of her loins, but damn near dismisses it. He looks at her with a creased brow and a clenched jaw, and at that, Wren's head quirks in a tilt. He's displeased about something. She feels stupid, small beneath the pale gold of his irises. What was so wrong about travelling, waiting out her season's end? Why does everyone automatically assume she wants children? Or is it that they hope she doesn't? 
She's quiet for a long while, studying him the same way he does to her with a downturned squint. A cold feeling prickles at the back of her neck. Defensiveness is her natural reflex, the urge to shout at him bubbling up in her throat, but instead, she says coolly: You think I'm gonna go find Colt, don't you?