Page 17 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he numbers line up on the spreadsheet that’s opened across my screen—columns of acreage, projected earnings, and comparative comps for land across the valley.

I’ve run the calculations a dozen times, but I double-check them once more.

Then again. Because this isn’t a normal deal.

This isn’t just about expansion or strategic acquisition.

This is about Wildhaven Storm Ranch.

And Matty Storm.

I lean back in the chair and run a hand across my jaw, feeling the scratch of the stubble there.

I rode to Jackson Hole after leaving Wildhaven Storm yesterday. I had dinner with Mom and spent the night in my old bedroom. I didn’t get much sleep though, and I didn’t have a chance to run a razor over my face this morning before heading back here.

I stare at the figures on the screen. One thousand acres, sectioned off, along the western edge of their property line.

Prime terrain—accessible, flat, with a natural water source, and adjacent to Ironhorse.

The land would give us the space we need to build a second arena, offer new training programs, and expand our breeding operation. It’s good land. Really good land.

But more than that, it’s a lifeline for Wildhaven Storm.

I know they’re drowning. Holland’s contact at the bank sent detailed notes about their predicament.

And if the price was right, he’d even be willing to tighten the vise around Matty’s neck and call in the debt they owe.

It’s shady. It’s not the way I like to conduct business and told him and Holland as much.

But it’s not an uncommon practice. It’s the good ol’ boy , you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours way of doing back-door business.

Big fish greasing each other’s pockets .

The problem is, it’s all true. And the Storms are very aware of the precarious position they’re in. The awareness is in the way Albert speaks carefully, the way Matty tenses when money is mentioned, the way Giles looked me square in the eye and said they were barely staying afloat.

So, I sweeten the deal.

Ten percent over market value. All-cash offer. Immediate close.

A clean, no-hassle transaction that would put just over a million dollars into their account in less than thirty days. A life raft that could keep them from drowning.

I know Matty’s proud, and I know she’s stubborn. I’ve seen it. But she’s not a fool. She loves that land, but she loves her family more. She’ll see the logic in this. See that this is the answer to all of the ranch’s cash flow problems.

She has to.

I finish drafting the final page of the proposal and hit print.

The hum of the printer is oddly satisfying.

I pluck the pages from the tray and smooth them out on my desk.

I read through everything once more, making sure every I is dotted and every T crossed.

Ensuring that the wording is the right balance between logical and respectful.

She’s going to hate this.

At first, at least. But maybe—just maybe—she’ll understand. If she can keep her anger in check long enough to listen and really hear me.

The door to my office creaks open, and I glance up as Holland strolls in, cowboy hat in hand, his white dress shirt pressed and collar crisp.

“Working hard or hardly workin’?” he asks, grinning.

I hold up the proposal. “Just reading over the final draft.”

He steps closer, eyes scanning the document. “This the offer for the Storms?”

“Yeah,” I say, rising from my chair. “I bumped it up—ten percent over market—like we discussed. Cash deal. No contingencies. We can close in under thirty days.”

He lets out a low whistle and nods, clearly impressed. “That’ll be hard for them to walk away from.”

“That’s the idea.”

He picks up one of the pages and scans it. “I’m not usually this generous.”

“You’re not usually dealing with a ranch that’s been your neighbor all these years and that’s been in the same family for four generations.”

He glances at me over the top of the paper. “You think they’ll go for it?”

I pause. “Albert might. Matty … she’ll be a harder sell, but I think I’ll be able to talk her around.”

He nods. “She’s always been a little spitfire, that one. I remember when she was just a tiny thing, running around the ranch in pigtails. Always on Miriam’s heels.”

“I didn’t realize you knew Miriam well.”

“Oh, sure. She and Priscilla were good friends. She’d bring the girls over for afternoon tea. They’d play on that old tree swing in the back with Waylon. Shame what happened to her.”

That takes me by surprise.

“Yeah. Not sure Matty has ever recovered from the loss. But she’s the one who’s been keeping that place alive. She’s smart. Resilient. Determined. And she isn’t going to want to let go of any of it.” He eyes me curiously. “You like her.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I freeze for half a beat too long, then shrug. “I like the whole family. They’re good folks. Salt-of-the-earth people. They have integrity, and they work hard. They’ve earned the right to be treated with dignity.”

Holland sets the papers back on my desk. “You’re more personally invested in this than I expected.”

I meet his gaze and deflect with a slight smile. “You know I give a damn about doing things right.”

He studies me for a long moment, then finally nods. “That you do, son.”

He walks to the window and looks out toward the paddocks, arms crossed. “I’m proud of you, Caison. You’ve got good instincts and an admirable work ethic. You’ve come in here and taken hold of this place like it was your own. Your father would’ve been proud too.”

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down and offer a quiet, “Thank you.”

He turns back to me. “I meant what I said when you moved in. You’re part of the family here. Like a second son to me and Priscilla. I trust you with this land, this business—hell, the whole damn Ironhorse outfit. ”

His words matter more than I want to admit.

“You’ve got Waylon,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “He’s your son too. Your flesh and blood.”

Holland’s smile fades slightly. He looks back out the window like the thought of Waylon is too much for him to bear.

“I do,” he says eventually. “Haven’t heard much from him lately.”

“Have you reached out to him?”

“Now and then,” he mutters. “Sometimes, he answers. Sometimes, he doesn’t.”

I nod, reading the pain behind his eyes. Holland doesn’t show emotion often, but it’s there now—sadness laced in his words.

“I’ll give him a call,” I say. “Check in. Maybe it’d be good to catch up. Hear how life is treating him these days.”

His eyes meet mine, gratefulness flickering there. “I’m sure his mother would appreciate that.”

We both go quiet for a moment.

“You really think this offer will help the Storms, huh?” he asks.

“I know it will,” I say. “It’ll give them breathing room. Pay down debts. Keep their operation running and give them the funds they need to grow. And we’ll finally get the space we need to move forward with our plans. It’s a win-win.”

He nods slowly. “All right then. Let’s get it signed.”

I exhale, tension releasing in my shoulders. “I’m delivering it myself tonight.”

“Sure you don’t want a courier to make the delivery? Give Maitland a chance to cool down before you approach?”

I shake my head. “No. I want to do it myself. Take her to a nice dinner and talk her through the specifics.”

He smirks. “A public place. Good thinking. But something tells me that talking her through the proposal isn’t the only reason you want to have dinner with Miss Storm.”

I give him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I have eyes. I can see the look on your face when you mention her name. And she is a pretty little filly. I wouldn’t blame you if you were interested. ”

I arch a brow. “I’m trying to buy land, Holland. I’m not trying to fall in love.”

He laughs as he walks to the door. “Famous last words, son. Famous last words.”

When he’s gone, I sit back down at my desk and stare at the proposal again.

I’ve made a lot of deals in my life. Pitched a hundred ideas in high-stress boardrooms. But this one feels different. This deal feels more stressful somehow.

Not just because the deal hinges on how tonight goes and my powers of persuasion.

Because it’s her. Because I don’t want her to be upset. I don’t want to hurt her. And that’s not something I’ve ever had to consider in past negotiations.

I recall the memory of her curled up in her bed last night. In my shirt. Her eyes pleading. And the thought does something to me I can’t explain.

I can’t wait to see her again.

Eight o’clock can’t come fast enough.

The Foraged Bistro is tucked back off the main road, nestled in a grove of aspens. It’s quiet here. One of the few places in Wildhaven where the plating is as impressive as the food itself and the wine list rivals the beer menu. Not that I need either tonight.

I just need a clear head.

The hostess leads me to a table in the back corner—low lit and private, just like I asked. The candles flicker against the dark wood, casting a warm glow across the table. I slide into my seat and glance at my watch. It’s five minutes till eight.

I shift in my seat, tug at the collar of my button-down, and roll my shoulders.

The white dress shirt feels too formal for a town like this.

I wanted to look professional tonight, but now I’m second-guessing that decision.

Matty isn’t impressed by suits and ties.

If anything, she’s probably repelled by them.

She’s down-to-earth. The type of woman more likely to notice and appreciate a relaxed look.

And for the first time in a long damn time, I want to be noticed.

I sip my water, scanning the room and looking up every time the door opens. A couple walks in. Then a group of older women. And then she appears.

Matty Storm steps into the bistro like she doesn’t belong here, but she’s owning the space anyway.