Page 1 of Awaiting the Storm
The sun is sinking low behind the western ridge of the Teton mountain range, casting long golden shadows across the pastures of Wildhaven Storm Ranch. Luna’s hooves thud a steady rhythm beneath me, her gait familiar and sure, even after a grueling day’s work. Her shiny black coat glistens in the sunlight, and her breath puffs in quiet bursts of mist in the cool evening air. She’s tired—and so am I. It’s a good tired. The kind that settles in your bones after a long, hard day.
I shift in the saddle and stretch my spine, wincing at the ache that settles between my shoulders. It’s been one of those days—a fence breach, a surprise colt escape, and a water pump that decided to quit just as the tanks were running low. Just a typical Tuesday.
The ranch house rises up ahead, warm light glowing from the windows guiding me home. My grandmother, Evelyn Storm, has supper on the table every night at seven o’clock sharp—no exceptions. Not even if the barns are on fire. She swears that meals hold families together, and I expect she’s right.
I guide Luna through the gate and into the yard. She tosses her head as we approach the barn. She knows her routine as well as I do, and she knows that a good brush-down and a meal of grass-alfalfa hay awaits.
“Good girl,” I murmur, patting her neck. “We’re almost done for the day.”
The familiar creak of leather and the soft jangle of tack keep me grounded, rooted to this land. Everything I know and love is here on this ranch. This dirt, these fences, this sky.
Wildhaven Storm isn’t just a name; it’s a legacy. My great-great-grandfather settled in Wildhaven, Wyoming—a town just outside of Jackson Hole—over a hundred and twenty years ago. He was drawn to the beauty of the Rocky Mountains. What started as a small livestock ranch hasexpanded over generations into the twelve-thousand-acre horse ranch that Wildhaven Storm is today. Horses are our main source of income while a small cattle herd provides some additional support, but mostly, we raise them to help feed our family. We also have chickens and large vegetable gardens that my grandfather, Earl Storm, plants and maintains each season. We even keep our own dairy cows.
I swing down from the saddle and lead Luna to the barn, walking slowly. The air inside is warm and heavy with the scents of hay, manure, and horses—a comforting aroma. I gently unsaddle her, brush her down with practiced hands, and give her an extra scoop of oats before turning her out into the paddock.
“You earned it. Good job today, girl,” I whisper.
For twelve years, she’s been my constant companion. Luna was my mother’s horse—strong, stubborn, and loyal. Just like Mom. I was only fifteen when it happened—when an aneurysm took Miriam Storm in the middle of a spring ride. One second, she had been laughing, and the next, she was slumped over Luna’s neck, reins slipping through her fingers.
She was here, alive and vibrant, one minute and then gone.
Luna brought her home.
I shake off the memory, but it clings like mud to my boots. Some days, it still doesn’t feel real. Other days, the pain is so real that it strikes me like a knife to the heart.
As I close the barn door behind me and step into the dusk, the porch light flickers on, catching my eye. Grandma’s silhouette stands behind the screen door, arms crossed, her apron covered with flour, as usual.
I grin despite myself.
“I see you, Matty Storm,” she calls. “You have exactly five minutes to get your behind in a chair at my table before I feed your supper to the dogs.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I call back, stomping my boots on the porch steps before heading inside after her.
The warmth of the house wraps around me the second I cross the threshold. It smells like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and cornbread—heaven. I drop my hat on the hook by the door, wash my hands at the mudroom sink, and glance down the hallway. The familiar sounds of laughter and clinking dishes drift from thekitchen.
Home.
“Don’t you track mud through this house, Matty,” Grandma warns as she steps to the stove and loads a plate with a thigh and a breast. “I just mopped.”
“I won’t,” I promise as I kick my boots off.
“Mmhmm.” She eyes me like only a grandmother can, then nods toward the table as she hands me my plate. “Go. Sit. Eat.”
I obey, taking my usual seat at the large wooden table, which has seen countless family meetings, birthday celebrations, and Sunday prayers. Daddy sits at the head of the table. He’s a giant in our eyes and serves as the quiet backbone of the ranch. He nods at me in greeting. His face is lined with exhaustion, but his eyes are always clear and attentive.
“You get the south fence checked?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the cornbread. “Two posts are rotted through. I marked ’em. We’ll need to dig ’em out tomorrow.”
He grunts. That’s Albert Storm speak forgood job.
My sisters, Charli and Shelby, are seated across from me, prattling on about something. Those two are thick as thieves. Always have been.
“Can you pass the potatoes?” I ask, interrupting them.
Charli hands the bowl over. “Shelby finished all the gravy.”
“First come, first served,” Shelby says. “I can’t help that Matty is always late to supper.”
