Page 1 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he sun is sinking low behind the western ridge of the Teton mountain range, casting long golden shadows across the pastures of Wildhaven Storm Ranch.

Luna’s hooves thud a steady rhythm beneath me, her gait familiar and sure, even after a grueling day’s work.

Her shiny black coat glistens in the sunlight, and her breath puffs in quiet bursts of mist in the cool evening air.

She’s tired—and so am I. It’s a good tired.

The kind that settles in your bones after a long, hard day.

I shift in the saddle and stretch my spine, wincing at the ache that settles between my shoulders. It’s been one of those days—a fence breach, a surprise colt escape, and a water pump that decided to quit just as the tanks were running low. Just a typical Tuesday.

The ranch house rises up ahead, warm light glowing from the windows guiding me home. My grandmother, Evelyn Storm, has supper on the table every night at seven o’clock sharp—no exceptions. Not even if the barns are on fire. She swears that meals hold families together, and I expect she’s right.

I guide Luna through the gate and into the yard. She tosses her head as we approach the barn. She knows her routine as well as I do, and she knows that a good brush-down and a meal of grass-alfalfa hay awaits.

“Good girl,” I murmur, patting her neck. “We’re almost done for the day.”

The familiar creak of leather and the soft jangle of tack keep me grounded, rooted to this land. Everything I know and love is here on this ranch. This dirt, these fences, this sky.

Wildhaven Storm isn’t just a name; it’s a legacy.

My great-great-grandfather settled in Wildhaven, Wyoming—a town just outside of Jackson Hole—over a hundred and twenty years ago.

He was drawn to the beauty of the Rocky Mountains.

What started as a small livestock ranch has expanded over generations into the twelve-thousand-acre horse ranch that Wildhaven Storm is today.

Horses are our main source of income while a small cattle herd provides some additional support, but mostly, we raise them to help feed our family.

We also have chickens and large vegetable gardens that my grandfather, Earl Storm, plants and maintains each season. We even keep our own dairy cows.

I swing down from the saddle and lead Luna to the barn, walking slowly.

The air inside is warm and heavy with the scents of hay, manure, and horses—a comforting aroma.

I gently unsaddle her, brush her down with practiced hands, and give her an extra scoop of oats before turning her out into the paddock.

“You earned it. Good job today, girl,” I whisper.

For twelve years, she’s been my constant companion.

Luna was my mother’s horse—strong, stubborn, and loyal.

Just like Mom. I was only fifteen when it happened—when an aneurysm took Miriam Storm in the middle of a spring ride.

One second, she had been laughing, and the next, she was slumped over Luna’s neck, reins slipping through her fingers.

She was here, alive and vibrant, one minute and then gone.

Luna brought her home.

I shake off the memory, but it clings like mud to my boots. Some days, it still doesn’t feel real. Other days, the pain is so real that it strikes me like a knife to the heart.

As I close the barn door behind me and step into the dusk, the porch light flickers on, catching my eye. Grandma’s silhouette stands behind the screen door, arms crossed, her apron covered with flour, as usual.

I grin despite myself.

“I see you, Matty Storm,” she calls. “You have exactly five minutes to get your behind in a chair at my table before I feed your supper to the dogs.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I call back, stomping my boots on the porch steps before heading inside after her.

The warmth of the house wraps around me the second I cross the threshold.

It smells like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and cornbread—heaven.

I drop my hat on the hook by the door, wash my hands at the mudroom sink, and glance down the hallway.

The familiar sounds of laughter and clinking dishes drift from the kitchen.

Home.

“Don’t you track mud through this house, Matty,” Grandma warns as she steps to the stove and loads a plate with a thigh and a breast. “I just mopped.”

“I won’t,” I promise as I kick my boots off.

“Mmhmm.” She eyes me like only a grandmother can, then nods toward the table as she hands me my plate. “Go. Sit. Eat.”

I obey, taking my usual seat at the large wooden table, which has seen countless family meetings, birthday celebrations, and Sunday prayers.

Daddy sits at the head of the table. He’s a giant in our eyes and serves as the quiet backbone of the ranch.

He nods at me in greeting. His face is lined with exhaustion, but his eyes are always clear and attentive.

“You get the south fence checked?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the cornbread. “Two posts are rotted through. I marked ’em. We’ll need to dig ’em out tomorrow.”

He grunts. That’s Albert Storm speak for good job .

My sisters, Charli and Shelby, are seated across from me, prattling on about something. Those two are thick as thieves. Always have been.

“Can you pass the potatoes?” I ask, interrupting them.

Charli hands the bowl over. “Shelby finished all the gravy.”

“First come, first served,” Shelby says. “I can’t help that Matty is always late to supper.”

“Because I’m the only one who does any work around here,” I snap.

“Bullshit. We all work. You’re just an over-the-top micromanager, Sissy,” Shelby teases.

“I’m not over the top.”

Charli chokes and slaps herself on the chest as she reaches for her glass of tea.

Grandma appears behind them and smacks the table lightly with a wooden spoon. “Enough. Eat or starve, but quit squabbling,” she booms before taking her seat beside Grandpa.

That settles us quickly.

Harleigh, the baby of our family, isn’t here.

Her empty chair sits at the far end of the table.

She’s away at the University of Wyoming, pursuing a degree in business and hospitality management.

I miss her terribly. We’re kindred spirits, although I’d never say that out loud.

She’s the youngest of the Storm sisters, but she has an old soul .

Mom would be proud of her girls.

We eat in comfortable silence for a while.

Grandma keeps the conversation light—weather, church news, a neighbor’s new baby—but underneath it all, I can feel the weight of the ranch pulsing like a heartbeat.

Charli and Shelby don’t get it. Every day is a gamble, every month a prayer we make ends meet.

Grandpa, Daddy, and I bear the burden. But this is what we do. It’s who we are.

After supper, us girls help Grandma with the dishes. It’s our routine. She washes; we dry and put them away.

“You’re dragging,” Grandma says to me without looking up. “Rough day?”

I nod. “Colt breach. Took both me and Cabe to wrangle him. Damn near tore my shoulder.”

Cabe is our cousin and one of the few employees we kept after last year’s incident.

She tsks. “You need to slow down, Matty. You don’t have to do everything yourself. That’s what we hire hands for.”

I smirk. “We’re short on those these days if you haven’t noticed, Grandma.”

As ranch manager, I oversee all daily operations, including staff management, animal care, land upkeep, equipment maintenance, and our financials. When we’re forced to lay off most of our staff, I also take on their work.

“You need to delegate to the ones you have left,” she says.

“Delegate is not in Matty’s vocabulary,” Charli quips.

“Well, it should be. A manager oversees; a dictator rules. You need to loosen the reins a little and let other people do their jobs,” Grandma mutters.

“I try.”

She leans over and nudges my shoulder with hers. “Try harder.”

Once the last dish is dried and put away, I grab a cup of coffee and step outside onto the back porch.

The sky has turned a deep indigo, with stars twinkling through the darkness like jewels.

I settle into the swing, feeling the warm cup between my hands, and allow the quiet to settle into my bones.

The ranch is still and peaceful, but it is far from silent.

Crickets chirp in the grass, frogs sing by the riverbank, and an owl calls from the trees just beyond the barn.

This land is alive and breathing. It’s always been like this—grounding me and holding me steady when everything else threatens to spin out of control.

I take a sip of coffee and close my eyes.

It has been twelve years since Mom passed away.

Twelve years since everything changed.

I had to grow up quickly. I helped Daddy keep things running while raising three sisters, even though I was still a kid myself.

I guided them through their grief while trying to stave off my own.

Some days, I think I did okay. Some days, I feel like I failed because the sisterly bond we’d once had was lost when I took on a parental role.

Now that we are adults, I’m trying to rebuild that connection.

They are all strong woman, and that makes me proud.

Charli is twenty-five now. She’s the sensitive one, intuitive, although she masks it with sarcasm. Like our mother, she has a special way with horses. A rare connection.

Shelby’s feisty and sharp-tongued, always ready to challenge me and anyone else who stands in her way. She is incredibly talented and has done everything from barrel racing to trick riding.

As for Harleigh, she’s the dreamer of the family, and she’s always had her head in the clouds.

And then there’s me.

Maitland Storm. Ranch manager, big sister, pseudo-mom, and certified stubborn mule when it comes to letting go. I rule this ranch and this family with an iron fist.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’d be if Mom hadn’t died.

If she were still here, still riding Luna, still baking peach pies on Sundays and making Daddy weak in the knees with just a look.

Would I still be sitting here now? Or would I have left to pursue another dream, chasing something bigger than broken fences and large feed bills?

The truth is, I don’t even remember what my dreams were back then.

The wind picks up and rustles the porch chimes. Bringing with it the chill of late fall. Winter will be upon us in the blink of an eye. I look out toward the dark hills, the pastures stretching wide and silent under the stars.

No. I’d still be here .

Because this place is in my blood.

It’s a part of me, and I’m a part of it.

I’m right where I belong.

Tomorrow, we’ll fix the fence. Maybe finish painting the tack room if it stays dry. Cabe’ll be back with the feed delivery, and I’ll have to call the vet about that limping gelding. Just another day at Wildhaven Storm.

“Hey, you want a piece of pie?”

I look up to see Charli’s head peeking out of the screen door.

“Yeah,” I say as I rise to my feet and follow her inside.