Page 7 of Awaiting the Storm
I grab my keys and tell Carla I’ll be gone for a couple of hours and head out in the truck. The road to Wildhaven Storm winds through groves of cottonwoods and skirts the river before it opens up to a view that stops me cold.
The ranch is raw and rugged—white fences that need paint, two large barns weathered by time, well-maintained stables, and pastures thick with prairie grass. And it’s teeming with activity. Horses roam the lower turnout field, heads down, tails swishing. There’s an outdoor riding arena in use, a couple of round pens with horses in different stages of training, and ranch hands on tractors. In the middle of it all is a two-story ranch house with a big wraparound porch, the Storm flag flying just beneath the American one.
I pull in and park near a battered Ford pickup, engine already offbefore I see a young woman leaving one of the round pens and heading my way.
Tall, sun-kissed skin, dark braid trailing down one shoulder, sharp jaw, and sharper eyes. She doesn’t stop walking as I get out.
“You’re lost,” she says, flat and firm.
“I don’t think I am,” I reply, smiling. “You Maitland Storm?”
She shakes her head, arms crossed. “No. I’m Charli. Matty’s my older sister.”
“Caison Galloway. It’s nice to meet you,” I say as I extend my hand.
She doesn’t shake it. Just tilts her head, sizing me up like a horse she doesn’t trust.
“Is Matty expecting you?”
I keep my voice easy. “No. I just started working at a ranch down the road and wanted to come by and introduce myself to her.”
Her brow furrows. “Matty’s not exactly outgoing. Not sure she’d appreciate you just dropping by.”
“No?”
“Hey, Charli. Who do we have here?”
I glance over her shoulder to see an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair tucked under a faded cowboy hat walking in our direction.
She turns to face him. “Some guy says he just started working around here and wanted to introduce himself to Matty.”
His eyes lift in curiosity. “You don’t say.”
I extend my hand to him, and he takes it.
“Caison Galloway. I’m the new ranch manager over at Ironhorse.”
“Really? What happened to … what’s his name?” he asks.
“Tim Johnson. From what Holland told me, he took a job at a ranch in Montana,” I tell him.
He nods his head. “It’s nice to meet you. I see you’ve met my daughter, Charli. Her sister Shelby is over there, training that gal on a jumper.”
I follow his gaze to the training arena, where a teenager wearing a black riding helmet is seated atop a young gelding. The horse is being led through flatwork exercises by an instructor.
“Well, I’d better get back to Mystic before Giles catches me slacking off,” Charli says before kissing her father’s cheek and sprinting back toward the round pen.
He smiles after his daughter, then turns back to me. “Well, Caison Galloway, Matty is out with a couple of ranch hands, mending a few fences. She should be back for lunch soon. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”
Mending fences? Odd task for the ranch manager.
He turns on his heel and makes his way to the house, and I follow.
The morning sun stands high over the western range, casting brilliant streaks of flaxen light across the grasslands as I ride the fence line along the eastern boundary of Wildhaven Storm Ranch. Luna moves at a steady pace beneath me, her gait sure-footed and light. I can still smell the earthy dampness of last night’s rain and smell the clean freshness in the cool air.
Mornings like this make me feel alive.
I marked three posts yesterday with red tape, knowing they wouldn’t make it through another storm, and a couple of our ranch hands are already at work, replacing the worst of them. I rein Luna in and swing down just as Cabe flicks the tip of his hat toward me.
