Page 12 of Awaiting the Storm
He removes a rag from his back pocket, wipes sweat from his brow, and then looks over his shoulder toward the door. “I guess I could take a break.”
“If you’re busy, it can wait,” I say.
His eyes come to me, and I can see the indecision behind them.
“One of the grooms called in sick today. I was out with the cattle and didn’t realize it until I returned. I’ve gotta get the horses fed, watered, and turned out,” he says.
I unbutton my shirtsleeves and roll them up as I walk toward him. His eyes widen as he takes me in.
“Come on. I’ll help you.”
“No, sir. I can handle it,” he says.
“I insist,” I say as I stop before him. “Just point me toward a pair of gloves.”
His eyes fall to my feet.
“Oh, right. I’ve got a pair of boots in the back of my truck. I’ll be back in a second.”
I run out, switch my footwear, and return to the barn. The two of us spend the next hour tending to the horses before retiring to his office to discuss next week’s schedule and a few new employee prospects over a cold beverage.
The bell above the front door tinkles as I step into Ryse & Shine Café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm blueberry muffins pulling me in, like it always does. I stomp the dust off my boots on the rubber mat by the door and tug off my ball cap, nudging the tail of my braid over my shoulder. The heat blasts warm relief against the October frost clinging to the back of my neck.
I only meant to run into town quickly—to grab a bag of joint supplements for Charli’s horse, Moonpie, at the vet’s office and maybe pick up a few feed blocks if they weren’t too overpriced. But something about the morning chill pushed me toward comfort, and nothing says comfort like one of Imma Jean’s ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls and a piping hot cup of coffee you could stand a spoon in.
It’s been a rough day, and it’s not even noon yet. This morning, I had to let go of two more ranch hands who had been with us for five years. It was difficult to sit them down and break the news. Ken mentioned that he had seen it coming; the writing had been on the wall for a while. Neither of them was angry, but we were all sad about the situation. I promised them that they would be the first call I made when things turned around.
And they will turn around. They have to.
“Matty Storm,” Imma Jean calls from behind the counter, her voice as thick and warm as honey straight from the comb. “You just missed your sister. Charli was in here not ten minutes ago, wanting one of the new scones I baked with those huckleberries your father brought me from up in Buckskin Gulch.”
“I wondered where she’d run off to,” I say, walking up and giving Imma Jean a one-armed hug over the counter. “It would have been nice if she’d told me. She could have saved me a trip into town.”
She smells like cinnamon and almond soap, holding me close, as shealways does, as if I were still fifteen, heartbroken, and missing my mother something fierce. There’s comfort in this place and in her presence.
Imma Jean Ryse was one of Mom’s closest friends. They had grown up together, and we girls considered Imma Jean our aunt. She stepped in during our most difficult times, when we needed her the most—times when Daddy was so lost in his grief that he could barely function. A couple of years after Mom passed away, she lost her husband to a heart attack. Instead of falling apart, she gathered her strength, put aFor Salesign on their house in the country, and used the proceeds to purchase this place. She moved into the apartment upstairs and opened the café, putting her God-given talents to good use. Nobody can bake like Imma Jean.
“You look frozen,” she says, leaning back to take me in.
“Yeah, I think winter is blowing in a little early this year. I’ve been in the truck most of the morning with the heat blasting, but I was working the south end before that.”
“Fence again?”
“Always.”
“Well, you sit yourself down, honey. I’ll bring you something to warm up your bones. Coffee with extra sweet cream?”
“Please and thank you,” I say.
She sashays off, apron strings swinging behind her, and I slide into my usual stool. From here, I can gaze out the big picture windows and watch the folks passing by on the street. I set my phone on the counter and glance around the café, only half paying attention—until my eyes fall on him.
Ugh. Caison Galloway.
He’s standing near the pastry case, talking with Imma Jean like he’s known her forever. She’s smiling up at him like he just told the best story she’d heard all month, and he’s smiling back, that lazy, charming grin of his working overtime.
He’s got his sleeves rolled up, showing off tan forearms, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, like the cold doesn’t bother him at all. Dark jeans and actual boots today. Not those ridiculous loafers. His hair’s still trimmed close, and he’s clean-shaven today, but somehow, he looks … less polished. More like he belongs.
Damn it.
