Page 11 of Awaiting the Storm
Every summer, my dad would take me—and sometimes Waylon—there. When school let out for the year, he’d drive me to Wildhaven with fishing poles and supplies loaded in his old Ford. After dropping off my things at Ironhorse, where I’d come back to spend the remainder of the summer, we would saddle up a couple of horses and head up the mountain range.
We’d spend the next week fishing, hiking, swimming, cooking over an open fire, and enjoying quality father-son time together—something we rarely had due to his job at the factory and working on the farm. It was my favorite time of year, and all my best childhood memories were made in that rustic little cabin in the woods.
When he found out he was sick, he told Mom he wanted his ashes scattered on the mountain in the woods where the fishing cabin stood. I carried them here with me. They’re tucked in a pine box in the toolbox in the back of my truck, waiting for me to fulfill his last request and carry him home.
“Case?” Her voice pulls me from my memories.
“You don’t have to come. It’s something I need to do. Guess I’m just waiting for summer to roll back around so we can take one last father-son trip together.”
She sniffles. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Silence fills the cab for several beats.
“Mom, I have to go. I’m pulling up to the ranch. I’ll call you later this week, and we’ll make plans for my nextvisit.”
“Okay. Tell Priscilla and Holland I said hello.”
“I will.”
“And, Case?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I press the screen to end the call as I park near the main barn and head inside to check in with our foreman, Darby. It’s cooler in here, the thick wooden beams soaking up the sun’s heat. A couple of stable hands give me nods, and I return them with a practiced ease I’ve been working hard to cultivate. I’m not trying to come in here, guns blazing, barking orders like a Ludlow lieutenant. I’m trying to build something sustainable and honest—a mutual respect between me and my employees. But respect takes time.
Inside stall five, a mare is nursing her foal, her ears flicking in my direction when I step close.
“Hey there, little mama,” I say, rubbing the white spot above her nose.
She exhales a warm breath over my arm and then returns her attention to feeding like I’m not even there.
Good girl.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a text from Holland.
Holland: How’d the introduction go?
I stare at the screen for a long second before typing back.
Me: Like stepping into an icebox.
It takes him thirty seconds to reply.
Holland: The Storm girl’s a tough cookie, but she’ll come around. Just keep at her.
Keep at her. That’s the thing about Holland: he believes everyone has a price. However, I have a feeling this particular woman isn’t easily bought or manipulated. But he brought me here because he believed in me. Gave me the job. The title. The chance to make a name for myself in Wyoming after leaving Texas and starting anew. So, I’ll do everything in my power to bring his dreams to fruition.
But I don’t owe him my soul. So, I’m going to do things my way.
Darby appears through the doors at the far end of the barn, a hay bale hoisted in the air.
“Hey there, boss man,” he calls as he drops the hay and wipes his gloves on his dirty jeans.
“Hey, Darby. I wondered if you had a minute to review a few things,” I say.
