Page 6 of Awaiting the Storm
We say our goodbyes, and I make my way back to my truck that’s still parked out front.
The cabin looks smaller than I expected.
It’s tucked behind the main house into the woods, shaded by aspens and tall lodgepole pines, and perched on a gentle rise that gives a good view of the eastern pasture. Nothing fancy—just rough-hewn logs, a tin roof, and a small porch with two steps that could use a sanding and new stain. But it’s solid and all I need.
I pull the truck close to the front, cut the engine, and climb out. My duffel’s on the passenger seat, along with a box of books, my laptop bag, and the one framed photo I keep of my parents—Mom smiling in front of our old Chevy, Dad leaning on the hood with a cigarette in hand and a grin lifting one corner of his mouth.
I carry everything inside in one trip. The door creaks as I push it open, and the scent of Pine-Sol, leather, and old wood hits me. It smells like my childhood.
The place is clean enough. Priscilla must’ve sent someone through with a mop and dust rag before I arrived.
A worn leather couch faces a woodstove. A television is perched on a shelf above it. A small table with two wooden chairs sits under a window off from the open kitchen, which is tucked into the corner—gas stove, slim fridge. There are exactly two mugs, a tin of coffee grounds, and a box of filters in the cabinet above the counter, holding a coffee maker and microwave.
I drop the duffel onto the queen-size bed in the attached bedroom—simple frame, gray flannel sheets, thick wool blanket folded at the foot. Everything about the cabin is practical. Efficient. And mine.
It’s a far cry from the luxury apartment I was living in in Texas, but it’s all I need for now.
I spend the next hour putting things in place. Clothes in the small closet.Laptop on the table. A row of worn books—ranch management, bloodline records, finance theory, a couple of thrillers by Dean Koontz—goes on the shelf next to the TV. Toiletries on the vanity, next to the shower in the bathroom.
I tack up a dry-erase board I brought with me from Texas on the wall next to the table, already mapping out pasture rotation and seasonal strategies. The photo of my parents goes on the window ledge above the kitchen sink.
I stop and take a look around the place. It’s not much. But it’s home.
I drag one of the chairs outside and sit on the porch with a beer I found in the fridge—a pen in hand, journal open on my lap. The sun starts to dip behind the ridge, throwing long gold shadows across the land. Cattle graze just past the fence. The breeze is cool and smells of fall. This is what I’ve missed.
A dog barks in the distance as the woods start to come alive with the sounds of night.
I didn’t expect it to feel this right, this fast. But it does. Something about these woods, those mountains, and the Wyoming skyline brings a man peace.
I think of my dad, Dan Galloway. He was quiet, fair, and tough as nails. He worked the land until his hands looked like bark and his knees eventually gave out. Holland was his best friend, from their high school rodeo days, until Dad took his last breath this past spring. I know this job offer isn’t just about me; it’s also about Holland wanting to ensure that his best friend’s family is taken care of and to bring me home for Mom’s sake.
This cabin might be small, but it’s the center of something big—thirty thousand acres of legacy, ambition, muscle, and grit. It’s the kind of responsibility that presses down on your shoulders—in the best way, heavy with purpose—and I’m ready to get to work.
I take out my phone and tap the screen. I scroll through photos from my time in Texas—team meetings, herd inspections, late nights with spreadsheets and strong whiskey. Good years, ones that taught me a lot about ranching and even more about myself, but this feels like the right pivot at the right time. Not just a new job, but a new journey. A return. A promise. Texas was a steppingstone, but Wyoming is where I was always meant to be.
I close the photo app, open the internet browser, and pull up the website for Wildhaven Storm Ranch. I navigate to the menu and click through the various bullet points—their small livestock trade, horse stock, breeding and sales schedule, as well as the boarding and training prices and calendar. I also explore the ranch’s history, which includes photos of the Storm family. I see the grandparents, who have retired but still live on the property, along with the current owner, Albert Storm, and his four daughters.
I focus on the oldest daughter, Maitland Storm, the ranch manager, who stands tall and proud next to her father. She smiles, but there’s something behind her eyes—perhaps pride? Ambition? I think determination is closer to the mark. I recognize that look because it’s the same expression that greets me in the mirror every morning.
I set the phone aside, take a long pull from my bottle, and lean back, letting the quiet settle in.
Ironhorse is my new domain, and I’m ready for it. Holland wants to be a big player in the horse game, and I’m just the man to take him there. I’ll get him what he wants, starting with those thousand acres. No matter the fight, I thrive on resistance. Let Wildhaven Storm Ranch and Miss Maitland Storm dig their heels in. There’s nothing that turns me on more than a challenge.
Bring it on.
I’m here to stay.
And I’m just getting started.
I wake up with the sun and head to the ranch’s office. By the time I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee, I’ve already spent two hours studying the files Carla gave me, analyzing the Ironhorse projections. The numbers don’t lie; if we want to compete in the thoroughbred market, we need more training space to stay competitive, keep the syndicate horses in rotation, and attract more clients. This means we need a new arena, which, in turn, requires additional land.
And I already know where that land is. I glance at the map once again and circle the spot—a thousand acres lying just beyond Ironhorse’s easternfence line, rolling hills and creek-fed pasture that would be perfect for a new training facility.
It’s time I pay Wildhaven Storm Ranch a visit and feel them out.
We’ve never met, even though I lived not far from Wildhaven and often visited Ironhorse as a kid. I spent quite a few summers here with Holland’s son, Waylon. Waylon and I were close in age and grew up together, but we lost touch when I went off to college. From what Mom tells me, Waylon turned his nose up at the family business and decided to head west after high school—a move that did not please Holland. The last I heard, he was somewhere between Southern California and Nevada, and he and his father were not on speaking terms, which was why I didn’t mention his name yesterday. However, I did make a mental note to ask Priscilla for his contact information. If there’s one thing Dad’s passing has taught me, it’s that time is short, and you shouldn’t let petty differences keep you from your loved ones.
I search for Wildhaven Storm and find their listing on several horse forums as well as the Better Business Bureau. The Storm family has been residing on their land since the 1800s, making them a prominent fixture in Wildhaven. Their horses and training style lean more toward ranching and rodeo activities than for thoroughbred racing, but their breeding program is well respected, even if it is not particularly flashy. They receive positive reviews from buyers, training clients, and boarders alike.
