Page 20 of Awaiting the Storm
He walks past us and stops to whisper in my ear. “I’ll do whatever you need, Matty. I’m not here to beg for forgiveness. I’m here to prove how sorry I am. I just want to earn a place again. With the ranch and with you.”
I nod once, curtly, and then I turn and look him in the eye. “Fine. You want to help? Start working. But don’t expect anything else from me.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then reaches up and grabs a curl that’s fallen loose from my braid. He wraps it around his finger once and tugs before letting it go and walking toward the wheelbarrow. Shelby and I go back to mucking, though the tension in the air is thick enough to chew on.
After a few minutes, she nudges my shoulder and murmurs, “You okay?”
I don’t answer right away. I just keep scooping. “He was my person, Shell. And when things got hard, he didn’t just drop the ball. He left the field entirely.”
“I know.”
“I trusted him. With my heart. With this ranch.”
“And now?”
I pause. Look over my shoulder toward Carl as he bends to shovel a pile of straw into the wheelbarrow. He does it with practiced ease. He knows his way around this ranch. He knows the work. Daddy hired him over a decade ago. He was our operations manager and a damn good one. But I don’t let that soften me.
“Now?” I say. “Now he’s just a guy with good shoulders and a strong back, who knows how to handle horses and a shovel. We need that right now.”
Shelby grins. “Well, at least he’s got that going for him.”
I laugh despite myself. It’s a hollow sound.
“I’m still entering Cheyenne,” she says after a moment.
“I know.”
“We’re gonna win it, Matty. You’ll see.”
I nod and scoop another pile into the aisle, watching the light catch in Jupiter’s dark mane as he leans his head out over his stall door.
Hope is a strange thing; it burns bright, and it doesn’t quit. Not here. Not in this family. Not in this barn.
Not as long as we have breath in our lungs.
Blackey’s Barbecue smells like heaven—smoke, spice, and grease—and has my mouth watering. The low thrum of a steel guitar bleeds out from its walls. I’m halfway down the sidewalk, about to pass the big front window, when I see a familiar figure open and walk through its front door.
Albert Storm.
The sight of him stops me in my tracks. Tall, broad, his hat pulled low, with the gait of a man who’s spent more time in a saddle than he ever did in an office chair. It’s the first time I’ve spotted him alone since I introduced myself at Wildhaven Storm.
My boots pivot, and I follow him. This might be the perfect opportunity.
Matty’s father carries more influence than either of them lets on, and if I’m going to convince her that selling part of Wildhaven Storm to Ironhorse isn’t surrender but a perfect survival strategy, I need all the leverage I can get. Holland told me as much. Giles too, in his own way.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside. The air’s thicker in here—meat on the smoker, sweet tea in big mason jars, the hum of conversation from the booths against the walls. A large man is at the register, hollering orders to the cooks behind him. I scan the room and spot Albert settling into a booth toward the back.
I walk over before I can talk myself out of it.
“Mr. Storm,” I say, giving him a polite nod.
He looks up, takes me in. His eyes are sharp, but not unfriendly. “Galloway, right?”
“Yes, sir. Mind if I join you?”
“Have you ordered?” he asks.
I shake my head.
