Page 3 of Awaiting the Storm
And then there’s me.
Maitland Storm. Ranch manager, big sister, pseudo-mom, and certified stubborn mule when it comes to letting go. I rule this ranch and this family with an iron fist.
Sometimes, I wonder what I’d be if Mom hadn’t died. If she were still here, still riding Luna, still baking peach pies on Sundays and making Daddy weak in the knees with just a look. Would I still be sitting here now? Or would I have left to pursue another dream, chasing something bigger than broken fences and large feed bills? The truth is, I don’t even remember what my dreams were back then.
The wind picks up and rustles the porch chimes. Bringing with it the chill of late fall. Winter will be upon us in the blink of an eye. I look out toward the dark hills, the pastures stretching wide and silent under the stars.
No. I’d still be here.
Because this place is in my blood.
It’s a part of me, and I’m a part of it.
I’m right where I belong.
Tomorrow, we’ll fix the fence. Maybe finish painting the tack room if it stays dry. Cabe’ll be back with the feed delivery, and I’ll have to call the vet about that limping gelding. Just another day at Wildhaven Storm.
“Hey, you want a piece of pie?”
I look up to see Charli’s head peeking out of the screen door.
“Yeah,” I say as I rise to my feet and follow her inside.
The morning air is a little sharper than I remember. Wyoming has always known how to wake a man up—blue skies that stretch for miles and snowcapped mountains rising like an ancient crown watching over the land. I pull off to the side of the gravel road, step out of my truck, and let the engine hum as I take in the view in silence. The wind bites through my thin layer of clothing like it has teeth. Just up ahead is the gate of Ironhorse Ranch.
My new home.
I slide my sunglasses down and rest my hands on my hips, taking it all in. I grew up less than an hour from here, in Jackson Hole, but I haven’t set foot in Wildhaven since I was eighteen. College took me south, and Texas roped me in for longer than I’d expected. I tell people I went there to learn cattle operations, and that’s true, but I stayed for the business. Finance, ranch management, forecasting, spreadsheets—things that’d make my father scratch his head and pour another whiskey.
But now I’m back. Thirty years old, older and wiser, with a few more calluses than I had when I left.
Ironhorse Ranch is what called me back to the Equality State. Thirty thousand acres of prime land, high-quality cattle, and a storied history large enough to make anyone who isn’t in the family lineage feel small. And now, its owner, Holland Ludlow, is trusting me to manage it and bring them into a new line of business—thoroughbred breeding and training. They’ve dabbled in horses, but now they’re ready to go all in.
I climb back into the truck and ease down the lane, gravel crackling under my tires. The main house rises into view—white-trimmed, grand front porch, pine trees lining the path like the queen’s guards. Barns stretch beyond it, along with fields and pastures as far as the eye can see.
A burly figure stands on the porch, hands in his trouser pockets and backstraight. Holland Ludlow. Tall, silver-haired, with sun-leathered skin, wearing the same kind of snap-button shirt he’s worn since I was a kid. He grins when I kill the engine and step out to join him.
“Caison Galloway,” he calls, voice gravelly. “Damn, boy. You look just like your old man.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, walking up the steps and taking his hand.
His grip’s like a vise. “It is. Depending on the day. Hell, come here.”
He pulls me into a bear hug, and for a second, I’m not the guy who runs numbers and manages millions. I’m just a Wyoming kid again, back where the dirt feels familiar and everyone in town knows your name.
“You got time for a cup of coffee before you settle in?” he asks as we walk inside.
“Absolutely.”
He leads me to the kitchen, where he fills two large cups, and then to the dining room—same table, same fine linen cloth, same crystal chandelier. We sit, and I wrap my hands around the mug.
“I know I said it already,” he begins, “but I’m glad you’re here, son. This ranch needs someone like you. You’ve got the blood, the brains, and from what I hear, a damn good killer instinct.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “Texas taught me plenty. But I missed home.”
He nods, eyes flicking toward the window, where the fields stretch out into the haze of morning. “Ironhorse is running like a well-oiled machine, but my knees ain’t what they used to be, and the last manager—well, we won’t get into that. But there’s work to be done. Lots of work.”
“What’s the herd looking like?”
