Page 16 of Awaiting the Storm
I set the papers aside and lean back in the creaky desk chair, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m a little busy here. Can it wait?”
“Not unless you want to miss a golden opportunity to understand what you’re really up against.”
That gets my attention. I push up from the chair and follow him out to the porch of the main house. The breeze hits me like a balm—dry, cold, laced with the faintest tang of hay and horses. A battered Ford Bronco idles in the gravel driveway. Leaning against it, arms crossed over a faded button-down flannel, is a man I recognize.
Giles Godwin. Head horse trainer over at Wildhaven Storm Ranch. The man’s built like a linebacker but looks like an old cowboy who’s spent too many years in the sun and doesn’t give a damn about appearances. However, his eyes are keen and sharp.
“Giles,” Holland says, gesturing between us. “Caison Galloway. Caison, Giles Godwin.”
We shake hands. His grip’s firm, calloused, and he looks at me like he’s sizing me up in the same way he’d inspect a new thoroughbred—assessing my stance, my posture, the state of my boots. I nod. He gives the kind of nod that says he doesn’t know what he thinks of me yet, but he’s willing to talk.
Holland leads us to the seating area on the porch, sun on ourbacks, while he excuses himself to go help Priscilla with our drinks. Giles doesn’t waste time.
“Holland tells me you’re interested in buying a piece of Wildhaven Storm’s land,” he starts, voice low and measured. “Figured you should hear the big picture before Matty sends you packing.”
I wait. Let him keep going.
“You’ve seen the fences. They’re holding up, but barely. Some of them have been patched with baling twine and good intentions.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Last year, we lost a batch of horses to thieves. They came in in the middle of the night like ghosts. We had no idea until the following morning. They got away with a dozen head—half a dozen basic riding horses, four breeding thoroughbreds, and some trained performance horses. That hit us hard. Matty had to scramble. It was a mess of returning stud deposits and paying off owners. Once word got out, boarders, concerned about our security, started moving their horses. I’d estimate the loss at around three-quarters of a million dollars. Matty called the sheriff, but there wasn’t much they could do, and the ranch didn’t have any money to put into an independent investigation.”
My jaw tightens. I’ve heard stories like that before, but they always feel like something out of the past—like Old West outlaws stealing horses—not something happening right down the road.
“After that,” Giles continues, “we faced several financial setbacks as a result. The loss of income was the biggest blow. We relied on those stud fees from breeding and monthly boarding fees. We had to replace the horses used for ranch work and riding lessons. This meant covering the costs of purchasing new horses, along with transportation fees, training time, and the added security measures we needed—cameras, reinforced fencing, frequent patrols. It all added up. The insurance company covered only a fraction of it and then doubled our premiums afterward. So, we had to make cuts—hard cuts. We let go of a few ranch hands, including both of my training assistants. Now it’s just me and Charli.”
“Charli Storm?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. She’s a good kid. Got talent—I’ll give her that. She has a natural feel for horses, sharp eye for confirmation and gait. But she’s green—fresh outta college with no real experience. And nota damn thing in her training prepared her for dealing with colts fresh off the trailer from Kentucky.”
“Still,” I say, “she must be holding her own if you’re keeping her on.”
Giles chuckles, a low, rough sound. “She’s family. And, yeah, she’s doing her best. But I’m not getting the opportunity to train horses the way I want to anymore. I feel like I’m babysitting half the time and just trying to keep the place from falling apart the other half. Hell, we let two of our most reliable hands go just this morning.”
I nod slowly, trying to picture it. I’ve only really spoken to Maitland, but I’ve heard plenty through the grapevine in town. The Storm girls—they’re tough, proud, and stubborn as mules.
Giles scrapes a hand over his jaw. “Matty’s running herself into the ground. She’s been doing the books, managing the crews, working horses when I need an extra hand. Hell, she’s even mending fences and fixing irrigation valves in the middle of the night. She’s had to take on everything. She’s thought about hiring someone to help with the admin work, but there’s just no money for it. The ranch is running threadbare and could go under at any moment if something doesn’t give and quick.”
“What about the bank? Can’t they loan the ranch some money to help with the cash flow issue?” I ask.
“Matty applied for another loan this spring, but she was denied. Too much debt on the books, not enough projected income.” He sighs, deep and weary. “Right now, we’re floating by on stud fees for our one remaining thoroughbred and whatever boarding fees are still coming in from the stable. But it’s lean. Real lean.”
“What about the cattle?”
He scoffs. “I’m not well-versed when it comes to livestock. But I do know the cattle herd at Wildhaven Storm has always been an afterthought. A hobby for Albert’s father, Earl. It’s too small to bring in any real cash at auction. Albert’s a horse rancher. And so is Matty. She loves that ranch, and she loves horses. She has grandiose plans for the place. But I fear they’re unrealistic at this point.”
I shift in my chair. “That’s why she’s so hell-bent on not letting go of anything. Even land she’s not using.”
“She sees that dirt as the Storm family legacy,” Giles says. “Every fence post was put in by her father or grandfather. Maybe even hergreat-grandfather and great-great-grandfather too. That means something to her. Matty’s the kind of woman who’d work herself to the bone and go belly up rather than sell off a single acre of her family’s land.”
I get that. Maybe more than I want to admit.
“But Harleigh,” Giles continues, “she’s been on Matty about turning that acreage you’ve got your eye on into a guest ranch. Wants to set up cabins, hire a few guides, run trail rides, maybe even do some horsemanship clinics. Hell, she’s even tossed out the idea of a swanky spa.” He laughs at the thought.
“Harleigh? I don’t think we’ve met,” I say.
“She’s the youngest. She’s still in school at the University of Wyoming, studying business and hospitality. She’s a smart kid and says if Matty will give it a chance, she’ll come home to run the whole thing once she graduates.”
“That would bring in some cash,” I admit.
“Sure would,” Giles says. “But Matty wants nothing to do with it. Says she doesn’t want a bunch of tourists turning Wildhaven Storm into a dude ranch. She wants it to stay what it’s always been. Working land. Breeding and boarding, raising quality livestock. Not some Instagrammable vacation spot for rich, spoiled folks.”
