Page 58 of Awaiting the Storm
I nod slowly. “Getting there.”
She glances in the direction Carl went, then back at me. “That conversation looked … fun.”
I give a dry laugh. “It was overdue. Not that I think it did much good. The man is nothing if not determined.”
Charli bumps my shoulder. “If anyone can handle a stubborn man, it’s you.”
“Glad you think so.”
“I know so.”
I watch as she follows after Shelby.
Maybe I don’t have everything figured out, and my heart may still be sorting through the mess of what it wants and what it needs.
But one thing’s clear: I’m not chasing survival and holding on too tightly anymore. I’m choosing what gives me peace.
Iarrived early.
I usually tend to be a bit early for things like this, but today, I found myself pacing the sidewalk outside the attorney’s office for nearly twenty minutes before finally stepping inside the building.
It’s not nerves—not about the deal itself anyway. I know the paperwork inside and out. The acreage is solid, the contract is clear, the terms are generous, there are no contingencies, and Holland is a very pleased man. There’s really no reason to be anxious.
Except Matty Storm is about to walk through that door, and I haven’t seen her since the night she broke down in my arms and then vanished behind the walls of the hospital and her family responsibilities.
Three weeks since I saw her face.
One week since I last heard her voice.
I still remember the way she tasted and how she clung to me as if I were the only thing holding her together at the hospital. But then she went radio silent and became distant. I tried to check on her a couple of times, calling the ranch house and leaving messages with Evelyn. I also called Charli, but Matty was never around when she answered. Charli did keep me updated daily via text about Albert’s progress, but I never got a return call from Matty. So, I decided to give her space, knowing she needed it.
But, damn, I’ve missed her.
The receptionist shows me to the conference room—long table, tall windows, legal pads and pens resting in front of each chair. A few minutes later, Holland strolls in, all cowboy polish and easy charm, a big smile already spread across his face.
“Morning, son,” he says, clapping me on the back.
“Good morning.”
Hesets his briefcase on the table and glances around the room. “We’re the first ones here, I see.”
As if on cue, the door swings open once more, and Albert Storm steps inside. He looks much better than the last time I saw him; there’s color in his face, and he has a pep in his step. Although he still looks somewhat tired around the eyes, he stands tall and alert. That’s what matters. He’s dressed sharply, clean-shaven, and greeting everyone with a firm handshake as if nothing had ever happened.
“Albert,” Holland says warmly, reaching for his hand. “Damn good to see you on your feet. How’re you feeling?”
Albert grins. “Still kicking.”
“You gave us all quite a scare,” Holland notes.
“Gave myself one too.”
“Priscilla was a wreck when she heard the news. Called down to the church and got a prayer circle started for you. Told me to tell you she’s making you supper one night when you’re up to it.”
Albert chuckles. “Hell, if she’s still cooking that pot roast, I’d be a fool to turn it down. The girls have had me eating nothing butno salt, no fried, no tastebullshit since I got home.”
They slip easily into a conversation like that of old friends—men who’ve seen each other through decades of rodeos, ranching, weddings, and funerals. They talk about Albert’s girls and Waylon, about how close their wives used to be, how the kids used to run wild through the streets of Wildhaven.
And then the door opens, and she walks in.
