Page 69 of Awaiting the Storm
“Yep, I got her covered,” she says.
“Good. We have four new boarders coming in this week too. I may need you to check them in while I’m on the cattle drive. And two of them are looking for training. Giles should have the specifics.”
“Got it. Sounds like this place is coming back to life,” Charli chirps.
It sure does.
I take a deep breath as I climb onto Luna’s back. It feels good to be able to breathe easy again.
Charli walks with us out of the barn, then waves and calls as she heads to the ranch house, “Have a good ride.”
I guide Luna through the gate to the riding trail that leads to the wooded northern border of the ranch, and once she’s warmed up, I let her run.
The tires hum against the blacktop as I head south toward Jackson Hole, the snow-tipped Tetons rising like pillars in the distance. The road stretches ahead of me, and the land around is wide, scattered with grazing cattle and the occasional cluster of trees. It’s a beautiful drive, the kind that usually calms my restless mind. It’s a time when I can get lost in the lyrics of old country songs blaring through the speakers. But today, I can’t seem to slow down my thoughts.
All I can think about is Matty Storm.
She was something else last night. The way she laughed so easily over a slice of pizza and savored the barely acceptable wine as if it were a ninety-six on the Parker scale was captivating. Her eyes softened when she talked about her mother, and they sparked with sisterly concern when she mentioned Shelby and that damn barrel race. And, oh, the way her hand found mine on the table, tentatively lacing her fingers with mine—the connection was palpable.
She seemed … carefree. Lighter.
Like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the Storm family’s survival and the entire ranch on her back all by herself.
I’ll be damned if I don’t feel a sense of pride because I think maybe I had something to do with it. My efforts in securing the land purchase at an above-market price helped ease some of Matty’s burdens. I did that. Even though it was my job—the one Holland had brought me here to do—the truth is that my motivation was more about helping Matty than pleasing Holland. I need to sort that out because I have to be on point. The next phase of expansion at Ironhorse is going to be intense, and Holland needs me to be on top of my game. I owe him that.
Now that I know Matty and her family will be okay, I feel like I can be focused.
At least I will be on Monday, hopefully, because right now, I’m all kinds of distracted.
My thoughts drift back to last night and Matty’s face when we got back to Wildhaven Storm. I’d barely put the truck in park before she was in my lap, her mouth hot and hungry on mine, her body writhing beneath my touch, like she couldn’t get close enough, fast enough.
And, geezus, watching her so wild and uninhibited, coming apart right there in the cab of my truck, her fingers clutching my shoulders and her breathy cries muffled against my neck … it was the hottest, most intimate moment of my life.
And, yeah, I went home with an intense case of blue balls that nearly killed me, but I didn’t care. That moment? It was everything.
I find myself grinning like a fool as I turn onto my mother’s long driveway. The little white farmhouse comes into view, nestled among a cluster of juniper trees, with smoke curling from the stone chimney. Memories of my childhood flood back—riding my bike up and down the dusty driveway, building a fort in the old oak, and the time I broke my arm while flipping the porch swing. I kill the engine and step out. The scent of cinnamon and fruit drifts on the breeze. As I walk inside, I find Mom in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of something golden and sticky.
She looks up when I walk in, and her face lights up the same way it always has, like I’m still her little boy coming in from the cold after a long day of playing in the woods.
“Well, look what the wind blew in,” she says, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “You’re a little late. Thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.”
I lean in and kiss her cheek. “I could never forget about my best girl. Just got a little sidetracked, is all.”
Her eyes sparkle with curiosity, but she doesn’t press for answers—yet. “Can you help me jar this jam before it burns?”
We fall into an easy rhythm, the kind created only by years of practice. I ladle the hot jam—apple and pear—into the mason jars while she wipes the rims and secures the lids. Then she submerges them one by one into the boiling water bath. After ten minutes, I carefully pull them from the canner and set them on the rack beneath the window to cool. Mompresses the center of each jar to make sure they’re sealed while I watch. It smells like home, like my childhood.
When we finish, she places a hand on her lower back and groans. “I think that’s enough for one day. You mind if we go into town for dinner? I think all that peeling and dicing cured me from wanting to cook.”
“Only if you let me treat,” I say, grabbing my keys off the hook by the door.
We end up at Snake River Grill. It’s a cool spot in Jackson. It’s a casual Western-styled bistro with log beam walls in the old section of town with low lighting and a menu full of Mom’s favorites.
I order a grilled elk chop, she gets the pan-seared striped bass, and we split a bottle of red wine even though she’ll only drink one glass.
Halfway through the meal, she sets her fork down and gives me the look. It’s the one that used to make me confess everything from stealing cookies to skipping school.
“You seem … good,” she says. “Lighter than the last time you visited.”
