Page 14 of Awaiting the Storm
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a parent,” I whisper.
He gives me a funny look, but doesn’t press. Just slides his gaze to the street out the window for a beat.
I ask, “If your father and Holland were close, does that mean you grew up around here?”
He and his name aren’t familiar. And I’m guessing he can’t be much older than me, so if he had grown up in Wildhaven, surely, we would have known each other.
He shakes his head. “Born in Jackson Hole, but I spent quite a few summers here as a kid.”
“Oh.”
“And I assume you’ve been here your entire life?”
I nod. “Yep. Four generations of Storms have lived here. My great-great-granddad homesteaded our land. My father and all four of us girls were born in the house we still live in.”
There’s pride in my voice. I don’t hide it.
He leans forward a little. “That’s rare. People usually sell out before the second generation. Hard to hang on to land these days.”
“We would never sell.”
“I believe you.”
I look at him again, sharp. “Do you? Because I know Holland wants to expand, and I know you asked Daddy to walk our western pastures. Which isn’t going to happen, by the way.”
“I do,” he says, calm as can be. “I can tell by the way you talk about it. And how you ride that horse of yours like she’s an extension of your body. People don’t give that kind of care to places they’re willing to let go of easily.”
I blink.
Because that … that’s not what I was expecting him to say.
“She was my mother’s,” I say.
He raises a brow.
“Luna, my horse—she belonged to Mom before she passed. She was actually riding her when it happened. Luna carried her all the way home.”
There’s something in his eyes now—not just charm or confidence. Not sympathy exactly. Something gentler.
It makes me uncomfortable.
I clear my throat. “You’re good at talking pretty, Galloway. Is that part of the job?”
“Maybe,” he says with a half grin. “But I’m being honest. I can tell how much you love your family and your ranch.”
“I still don’t trust you.”
He smiles, but his eyes fall to the mug in his hands.
Another long silence. But this one feels different. Not tense. Not hostile. Like two people circling something unspoken, unsure of what to say next.
“How’dyou end up here? I mean, Texas had to be more exciting,” I ask before I can stop myself.
His jaw flexes. “I came back for my mother. She needs me.”
Well, that punches me straight to the heart.
He doesn’t say more, and I don’t ask. I know that tone. It’s the sound of wounds that haven’t quite closed.
