Page 17 of Awaiting the Storm
I nod again, but this time more slowly. The issue with pride is that it can be a double-edged sword. While it can keep you grounded, it can also limit you and prevent you from adapting when the world changes around you and you need to change with it.
“I care about those girls,” Giles says quietly. “They’ve been through a lot. I’ve been with the family since before they lost Miriam. I watched ’em grow up. I’d do damn near anything for them. But I’m not a Storm. And at some point, I’ve gotta think about myself and my family too. I’m forty years old. I want to be training real contenders—Triple Crown hopefuls, not just well-bred geldings for the rodeo circuit.”
He says it with no bitterness. Just raw truth.
“Matty’s not gonna ask for help,” he adds. “And she sure as hell won’t stand for pity. So, if you’re thinking about buying that land—if you really want it—you’d better figure out a way to make it look like a win for her. Not for you. You understand what I’m saying?”
I allow that statement to linger between us. The porch creaks asPriscilla appears with a tray of iced teas. Somewhere in the paddocks, a horse whinnies, sharp and high-pitched, as if he’s impatient for his supper. I glance up at Priscilla and thank her before focusing back on Giles.
“I don’t want to take anything from Maitland or her family,” I say finally. “But I do want to build something here. I’ve got horses coming in that need the space. I need another arena, a big one, if Ironhorse is gonna keep up with the kind of business I’m trying to bring in. This could be a golden opportunity for all involved.”
Giles glances sideways at me. “Holland told me you’re planning to run a state-of-the-art racing operation out of Ironhorse?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Start small, but yeah. We’ve got the bloodlines and some major investors. Just need the right setup and the right people.”
He gives me a long look. “I hope you’re thinking I’m one of those people.”
I hold his gaze just as Holland walks out and takes a seat beside me.
“We do. You want a spot here—training for a ranch that’s going all in on performance horses—you have it,” he tells the man.
Giles laughs under his breath. “You know that’s exactly what I want, or I wouldn’t be here, giving you all this information on my girls.”
More like selling them out.
He stands and dusts his jeans off. “Look, I’d better get back before I’m missed,” he says to Holland, then brings his eyes to me. “I don’t know what kind of terms you’ve floated Matty’s way, but if you want her to even consider it, you’d better come with more than a checkbook. She’s not driven by money. Even when the damn girl needs it and in a hurry. You need to come at her like you want to be partners, not poachers.”
“Bullshit. We aren’t interested in a partnership,” Holland barks.
Giles turns his attention to him. “I understand that. However, she needs to believe it’s a possibility. Once the deal is done, you can find a creative way to exclude her. Surely, you all can manage that. She’s just a simple country girl, and you’re the big, bad, powerful wolves after all.”
That’s not what I’m trying to be.
He extends a hand, and Holland shakes it.
With that, he climbs back into his truck, slams the door, and pulls out, tires kicking up a small cloud of dust. I watch him go, the conversation turning over in my head.
I glance over at Holland, who leans back in the chair, sipping from a sweating mason jar full of sweet tea.
“So?” he says.
“So,” I repeat. “Seems they’re in worse shape than we thought.”
He nods. “Yep.”
“And she’s gonna fight me at every turn.”
“Also yep. But she’s not the only one who gets a say. Perhaps you need to focus on Albert. Matty may be running the show, but he’s still the owner. Talk to him. Make him see that if he doesn’t sell to us, the bank is going to take the land anyway, and he’s gonna leave this earth with nothing to pass down to his girls. Convince him that he doesn’t have to lose everything in order to win.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s not gonna be easy to go over Maitland’s head.”
Holland smiles. “I didn’t say it was going to be.”
“I’ll call Albert.”
“Now you’re thinking like a Ludlow.”
I let that hang in the air for a second. Then I square my shoulders and head back into the office. There’s a deal to make, and it won’t be forged over heated discussions and pushy power plays. It’ll take something harder to draw up—trust.
