Page 10 of Awaiting the Storm
“Eh, Holland’s not so bad. A tad ambitious, I reckon, but he’s not a monster.”
“He’s not ambitious; he’s greedy, Daddy. And I don’t like greed.”
He watches me for a long moment, then nods. “Maybe you’re right. Just … keep your guard up without reading more into the man’s intention than there is, okay?”
“I won’t. But he has an agenda—I can feel it—and I’m keeping my eyes open.”
And I will. Because something about Caison Galloway showing up here doesn’t sit right with me.
And I don’t care how polite his smile is; I’m not about to let Ironhorse creep any closer to our land.
Not while I’m still breathing.
I’m barely back in my truck when I see her walking her horse into the barn, that long braid swinging behind her as her hips sway. She’s beautiful. Blonde hair, long legs, pouty lips, and soulful eyes the color of the Wyoming sky. A country boy’s dream. But I know better. I know steel when I see it. Maitland Storm might look like she just stepped out of a Western magazine—sweet smile, deep dimple, worn boots, soft curves under her fitted jeans, every move graceful—but there’s a wall behind those sharp eyes. A wall I’ll happily run into head-on.
I won’t even flinch.
I sit for a second with the engine off, my hand resting on the steering wheel. Something about her got under my skin, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. She’s all flint, fire, and scrutiny, and the second she laid eyes on me, she already summed me up and decided I wasn’t worth her time or effort. Especially when she heard I worked for Ironhorse.
I can’t blame her.
Holland Ludlow’s reputation has traveled well beyond county lines, and I’m sure that, being next door, the Storm family has had run-ins with him on more than one occasion. I get it. But I’m not Holland. I’ve known the man all my life, and he lacks the subtlety and finesse needed when handling delicate situations. And Maitland Storm is definitely a delicate situation. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. I’ve come up against the best of the best. And I’m just the man to handle Miss Storm.
I start the truck, roll out slowly, dust trailing in my rearview mirror as I return to Ironhorse Ranch. I need time to think. That meeting didn’t go badly, exactly, but it didn’t go how I’d wanted it to either. Albert Storm seems to be a reasonably hospitable man. And although I didn’t expect them to roll out a red carpet necessarily, I sure as hell didn’t expect his daughter to size me up like I was an enemy before the first wordleft my mouth. If I’m being honest, I’m used to a much different reaction from women.
But she’s not your average female. She clocked me before she even dismounted her mare. However, she doesn’t know me, and I have a sneaky suspicion she has no intention of getting to know me.
But I want to know her.
The drive to the Ironhorse property is nothing short of breathtaking; it’s all pristine pastures and rolling hills, edged by the Rockies. The land is impeccably manicured. Too much so. Too shiny. Holland keeps his ranch like he’s prepping it for a magazine shoot, but there’s no soul in it. No grit. Just gloss. The exact opposite of what I saw at Wildhaven Storm. Their ranch is well cared for, but a little wild and unruly, which is how it should be. You shouldn’t feel like you’re living in a country club neighborhood when you’re out here. You should feel surrounded by the natural state of the land.
I tap the screen on my dashboard, and it connects to my phone’s Contacts list. I scroll until I find the name I’m looking for.Mom.
It rings twice, and then her voice comes over the speakers. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom. I just wanted to touch base. Make sure the landscaping guys came by this morning.”
“They did. Woke me up at five thirty.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll send an email to the company.”
“No need. I gave them both a proper scolding, and then I made them breakfast and a couple of to-go cups of coffee. They promised not to show before seven again.”
I chuckle, and the sound echoes through the cab.
Marcia Galloway knows how to get what she wants. I hired a crew to help when she refused to leave the farm. Dad had bought the property the year they married. He worked the land while she made a home. I was born a year later. Now that he’s gone, the place has become too much for her to handle. I begged her to put aFor Salesign in the yard and come toWildhaven with me. We could both use a fresh start, but she wasn’t open to the idea. She told me she had already lost one anchor in her life and wasn’t ready to lose another, not just yet.
“How are things in Wildhaven? You all settled in?”
“Getting there.”
“Have you been out to the fishing cabin?” she asks.
“Not yet.”
“I know it’s gonna be hard. If you want me to come out there to do it, I will,” she says.
The fishing cabin is a small wooden structure nestled on the side of the Teton Mountains, near Ironhorse. My grandfather built it when Dad was a boy, and he left the place to him.
