Page 2 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he morning air is a little sharper than I remember.

Wyoming has always known how to wake a man up—blue skies that stretch for miles and snowcapped mountains rising like an ancient crown watching over the land.

I pull off to the side of the gravel road, step out of my truck, and let the engine hum as I take in the view in silence.

The wind bites through my thin layer of clothing like it has teeth.

Just up ahead is the gate of Ironhorse Ranch.

My new home.

I slide my sunglasses down and rest my hands on my hips, taking it all in.

I grew up less than an hour from here, in Jackson Hole, but I haven’t set foot in Wildhaven since I was eighteen.

College took me south, and Texas roped me in for longer than I’d expected.

I tell people I went there to learn cattle operations, and that’s true, but I stayed for the business.

Finance, ranch management, forecasting, spreadsheets—things that’d make my father scratch his head and pour another whiskey.

But now I’m back. Thirty years old, older and wiser, with a few more calluses than I had when I left.

Ironhorse Ranch is what called me back to the Equality State.

Thirty thousand acres of prime land, high-quality cattle, and a storied history large enough to make anyone who isn’t in the family lineage feel small.

And now, its owner, Holland Ludlow, is trusting me to manage it and bring them into a new line of business—thoroughbred breeding and training.

They’ve dabbled in horses, but now they’re ready to go all in.

I climb back into the truck and ease down the lane, gravel crackling under my tires. The main house rises into view—white-trimmed, grand front porch, pine trees lining the path like the queen’s guards. Barns stretch beyond it, along with fields and pastures as far as the eye can see.

A burly figure stands on the porch, hands in his trouser pockets and back straight. Holland Ludlow. Tall, silver-haired, with sun-leathered skin, wearing the same kind of snap-button shirt he’s worn since I was a kid. He grins when I kill the engine and step out to join him.

“Caison Galloway,” he calls, voice gravelly. “Damn, boy. You look just like your old man.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, walking up the steps and taking his hand.

His grip’s like a vise. “It is. Depending on the day. Hell, come here.”

He pulls me into a bear hug, and for a second, I’m not the guy who runs numbers and manages millions. I’m just a Wyoming kid again, back where the dirt feels familiar and everyone in town knows your name.

“You got time for a cup of coffee before you settle in?” he asks as we walk inside.

“Absolutely.”

He leads me to the kitchen, where he fills two large cups, and then to the dining room—same table, same fine linen cloth, same crystal chandelier. We sit, and I wrap my hands around the mug.

“I know I said it already,” he begins, “but I’m glad you’re here, son. This ranch needs someone like you. You’ve got the blood, the brains, and from what I hear, a damn good killer instinct.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “Texas taught me plenty. But I missed home.”

He nods, eyes flicking toward the window, where the fields stretch out into the haze of morning. “Ironhorse is running like a well-oiled machine, but my knees ain’t what they used to be, and the last manager—well, we won’t get into that. But there’s work to be done. Lots of work.”

“What’s the herd looking like?”

“We’ve got about twenty-four thousand heads. Both Hereford and Black Angus.”

“And staff?”

“We’re fully staffed. Herd and ranch managers have been with us for years, as have the foreman and several of the cowboys and ranch hands.

And Carla, in the office. She keeps the lights on and the taxes paid.

We’ve also hired a few new faces on the horse side of things. I’ll introduce you around today.”

I nod. “And the books?”

“Are good. We have great cash flow, and I want to invest in good stock. New horses, bloodline thoroughbreds, but the market’s changed a lot. I know you’ve got the mind for it. You’ll be looking at everything—operations, auctions, maybe even ownership and syndicate options.”

I take another sip. “Sounds like a full plate.”

He grins. “Yep. Figured I’d throw you in headfirst and let you swim or sink. You hungry?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Okay. Priscilla’s got a pot roast in the oven for supper. Come on. I’ll show you around and see if we can build your appetite up.”

Priscilla is Holland’s wife and like a second mother to me.

We head out to the barns, dust kicking up beneath our boots as the air fills with the scents of hay, horses, and earth.

He introduces me to the ranch staff, allowing me to match faces with the names on the employee list I received last week.

After we finish our rounds, he leads me to the small training barn, where the new horses are kept.

The lights hum, and I can hear the horses snorting in their stalls.

A woman, wearing a cowboy hat pulled low over her brow and dusty jeans, leans over a bay filly, adjusting a leg wrap. She looks up as we enter.

“Dani,” Holland says. “This here’s Caison Galloway. Your new boss.” Then he turns to me. “Dani is our barn manager.”

“Actually, it’s equestrian facility operations manager. Nice to meet you, boss,” she says.

I extend a hand. “Just a title. You run this barn; I’m just here to make it easier.”

She shakes my hand with a firm grip and an arched brow. “We’ll see if that’s true.”

Holland chuckles and claps me on the back. “She’s prickly, but as good as they come.”

“I can work with prickly,” I say.

“Good,” Dani says. “’Cause these horses don’t care what your job title is or what your résumé says. You here to work?”

“Every day.”

She nods once. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

We walk the barn together, Dani talking about each horse like they’re her own kids. I listen, noting how she tracks bloodlines, habits, personalities. She’s sharp, and that’s good—I don’t want a yes woman; I want someone tough and smart who’ll fight for what’s best for the horses.

After the tour, Holland steps away to take a call, and I wander toward the main pasture. There’s a single chestnut colt standing alone near the fence, watching me. Long legs, sleek lines, curious eyes. He’s a fine-looking horse.

I rest my folded arms on the top rail and he moseys his way over to me.

“You’re not scared of strangers, huh?” I murmur as he edges closer, ears twitching.

“He’s called Scorpio,” comes a voice behind me. “Scorpio’s Wrath, to be exact.”

I glance over my shoulder to see an older woman with a clipboard tucked under one arm approaching. Blazer over jeans. Practical yet professional.

“Wrath, huh?” I say. “Seems calm enough.”

“Until you get him under a saddle.”

We shake hands.

“Carla Timmons,” she says. “I handle the office, the scheduling, and most everything else around here.”

“I’m Caison.”

“I know who you are. Holland’s been talking about you for weeks.

Thinks you’re some kind of whiz kid who’s gonna fix everything that needs fix’n and take Ironhorse to the next level.

I’m not quite sure what that level is. We’re already the most successful cattle ranch in the county, maybe the state, but that man’s ambition knows no bounds. ”

“No pressure then.”

She grins. “I’ve got files in the office for you to look at. I’m sure you’ll want to see all the goods—employee records, expense spreadsheets, sales reports, branding and vaccination schedules, insurance breakdowns, et cetera.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lead the way.”

I follow her inside the office, and she gives me a rundown of the logistics.

Payroll, auction entries, income earning, and partnerships—all the things I love.

Ranching, to me, isn’t just hay bales and mucking stalls.

It’s numbers, projections, branding, and market timing.

And Ironhorse is ripe for expansion and growth .

By late afternoon, I’ve shaken a dozen hands; memorized the layout of the offices, barns, and stables; and started my first page of notes in a leather journal. I join Holland and his wife, Priscilla, for supper, and after we’ve eaten our fill and the table is cleared, Holland gets down to business.

“So, we want to build a new racehorse training arena with a state-of-the-art starting gate to train both horses and jockeys. I had plans drawn up,” he says as he unrolls and spreads a set of blueprints across the table.

“Here’s where the arena would go, and over to the side, there will be a new barn, stalls, parking area, and other amenities catering just to the racehorse training facility. ”

“And here I thought you just wanted to get started in the horse ranching game,” I say.

He gives me a look. “I don’t want to just tiptoe in. I’m ready to move full steam ahead and build a horse dynasty.”

Carla was right. He’s all ambition.

I nod, looking down at the blueprints. “Looks good, and Carla already gave me the financial breakdowns. I’ll look over those numbers tonight,” I say.

His eyes lift to me. “Money isn’t going to be a problem, but Maitland Storm is.”

“Maitland Storm?”

He nods. “Her father owns Wildhaven Storm Ranch. It borders our property here.” He points to where the new arena is planned. “I want to purchase a thousand acres of their land for this project.”

“And they don’t want to sell?”

“I haven’t approached them yet. But they already train horses over there.

It’s not a huge operation—mid at best—but they’ve had moderate success.

Enough that they’ve got the attention of owners from across the country.

I’ve been in secret talks with Giles Godwin.

He’s their head trainer. He’s been wanting them to expand for years so they could take more clients, but Maitland has refused to even consider it.

I had my guy at the bank do some digging, and it seems they may be in a bit of a bind, and the bank isn’t willing to extend them any more credit.

I suspect that’s what’s been holding them back. ”

“Which is good for us,” I surmise .

“Which is good for us,” he repeats, then continues, “Giles is willing to jump ship and come train for us as soon as we break ground.”

“Okay. So, what’s the problem?” I ask.

“We need Wildhaven Storm Ranch to sell us those thousand acres first.”

“Why?” I ask. “Don’t you have plenty of land already?”

“Because all our existing acreage is spoken for between the cattle and few horses we do have. We’ve primarily been a cattle ranch, and we’re just now dipping our toes into horses.

And I like it. My father was always hesitant.

He was a cattleman. But me? I’m a horseman.

However, I’m not a stupid man. The cattle are the bread and butter of this ranch at the moment, so we have to keep them in place and paying the bills until this takes off. So, I want that thousand acres.”

“And you don’t think the Storms will sell?” I ask.

“I think it might take some persuasion, and that’s where you come in.

Albert Storm is a reasonable man, but he’s pretty much given the reins to his eldest daughter, and she’s a spitfire.

So, I’m counting on you to use charm and that college-educated financial prowess of yours to make her see the benefits of taking our very generous offer,” he says.

“Financial benefits,” I repeat. “You mean selling us the land we need to build a competing training facility that could possibly put them out of business?”

“Well, now, she doesn’t need to know the details of why we want the land.”

“I see.”

“That’s enough business talk for the night.” We both look up to see Priscilla standing in the doorway of the dining room. “I’m sure Caison is exhausted after his long day of travel and ranch introductions.”

Holland agrees with his wife and rolls up the blueprints and returns them to a cardboard case. Then he gives me the keys to the ranch manager’s cabin that sits on the property about half a mile from the main house.

We say our goodbyes, and I make my way back to my truck that’s still parked out front.