Page 8 of Awaiting the Storm
Cabe is our foreman. He manages the ranch hands and oversees the upkeep of the barns, pastures, fences, and other ranch infrastructure. He’s also my cousin. His father, Boone, is my mother’s older brother, and he and his wife, Aunt Irene, work here at the ranch. Meanwhile, his brothers, Axle and Royce, are off chasing rodeo dreams.
“Got eyes on the worst one over there by the ravine, Matty,” he says, pointing. “She’s snapped clean through.”
“Yeah, I saw it last night. Could’ve let our whole damn herd through, and we’d have lost them down in that steep valley.” I pat Luna’s neck and squint toward the break. “Let’s dig in new footing and secure the posts with concrete. I want these to hold through winter.”
Cabe nods and instructs the rest of the hands to get to work. I hang around a while longer, watching them dig—tools clinking, boots thudding in the dirt—making sure everything is in alignment, checking the tension on the wire. It’s steady, quiet work—the kind that fills a day before you even notice the sun’s slid down the mountain.
By the time I head back toward the ranch house, it’s nearing midday.Luna’s damp with sweat, I feel the ache in my thighs from the ride, and my stomach is rumbling from hunger.
I love this land. Every inch of it has Storm blood, sweat, and tears soaked into it. I ride with my shoulders square and my head up. Proud. This place has provided for us for four generations. Through good years and hard ones. It’s ours, and I’m damn sure going to keep it that way.
As the house comes into view, I spot Daddy standing on the porch, his hat pushed back on his head and hands resting on his hips. But what really catches my eye is the man standing next to him.
He’s tall, easily over six feet, and broad across the shoulders—the kind of broad that doesn’t come from gym memberships, but is God-given. His shirt is crisp, a deep navy button-up, tucked into a pair of crisp khaki slacks, with a brown leather belt and matching loafers. On a ranch. Not boots. Not even decent walking shoes. He looks like he got lost on the way to a boardroom.
He shifts his weight as I approach, hands loosely in his pockets, and I notice the angle of his jawline—clean, sharp, with just a hint of a five-o’clock shadow. His hair’s cut close to his nape, and his skin is sun-kissed. His lashes are thick, the kind that women pay good money for, and his eyes are dark.
There’s something about the way he’s watching me that sets me on edge. Observant. Unsettling. He doesn’t belong here. This place doesn’t take well to outsiders, and neither do I. Especially ones dressed like they haven’t stepped foot on a ranch before.
Daddy waves me over. “Matty! Come meet someone.”
I hesitate, just for a second, then swing down off Luna and lead her by the reins toward the porch.
“Everything good with the fence?” he asks.
“Snapped post by the ravine. Crew’s fixing it now. They should have the new one in place before sundown.”
“That’s good,” he says, then nods toward the stranger. “This here’s Caison Galloway. He’s the new ranch manager over at Ironhorse.”
That gets my attention.
Ironhorse Ranch.
I keep my face neutral, but my spine stiffens. Ironhorse is just west of us—thirty thousand acres of prime beef cattle, owned by HollandLudlow. The man has a reputation as long as the Snake River and nearly as crooked. Greedy. Pushy. The kind of man who sees other people’s land as easy acquisitions.
And now his newest henchman is standing on our front porch.
“Caison, this is my daughter, Maitland Storm. Ranch manager here at Wildhaven Storm. She keeps this place running smooth as a shot of top-shelf whiskey.”
The man—Caison—smiles, slow and easy. “Nice to meet you, Maitland.”
I nod. “Likewise.”
Polite. That’s about all he’s gonna get from me.
Caison holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to get a read on me. Good luck with that. I’ve dealt with Ludlow before. Anyone working for him either shares his values or owes him something. Neither makes for a trustworthy acquaintance.
“I just came over to introduce myself, and your father here was nice enough to talk shop with me over a glass of lemonade,” he says, his voice deep and warm. “I’m getting settled in at Ironhorse this week and figured it was time I met some folks.”
“How neighborly,” I say.
Daddy shoots me a stern look.
“I like to know who I’m sharing the ridgelines with,” Caison adds, unfazed.
I let Luna’s reins slip through my fingers, giving her a gentle pat as she nudges my shoulder. She’s picking up on my mood.
“Fair enough,” I say. “We don’t get many visitors out this way though. You’ll find most folks around here keep to themselves.”
