Page 21 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T wo weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Daddy collapsed in the barn and we all were afraid we might lose him. Two weeks since I sat at his bedside, listening to the rhythmic beep of a hospital monitor and watched the rise and fall of his chest, counting every breath like it might be his last.

Four days in the hospital. A gauntlet of tests—stress, cardiac, blood work, imaging. And then the news.

No surgery needed—thank God.

But a warning. A clear one. It’s time for Daddy—and by extension, all of us—to make some big lifestyle changes.

New meds. Stricter diet. Daily exercise. More rest. And the most important one, less stress.

Daddy grunted when the doctor mentioned diet and exercise, already scowling at the idea of boiled vegetables and baked meats, walks that were intentional and not just the means of getting from the ranch house to the barn.

He’s stubborn—always has been—but he’s not stupid. He knows this was a wake-up call.

Grandma’s taken the food changes into her own hands.

She’s not exactly subtle about it either.

Sweet tea is now known around the ranch as sweet-ish tea.

Peach cobbler has mysteriously vanished from the weekly supper rotation.

She’s serving things like quinoa and grilled zucchini with fresh berries drizzled with local honey for dessert.

Grandpa and Daddy grumble under their breaths that they miss biscuits and fried chicken smothered in gravy, but the truth is, she’s done a great job of making subtle changes that will hopefully have a positive impact on the health of the entire Storm family.

And every evening after supper, no matter how tired we are after a long day’s work, one of us girls pulls on our sneakers and walks with Daddy down the long dirt drive with Harleigh on video chat.

We don’t talk about anything heavy. Sometimes, we don’t talk at all.

We just set a swift pace that’ll get his blood moving and hopefully tire him out so that he gets a good night’s sleep.

It’s been a good effort by everyone. Still, I know the truth.

The biggest source of Daddy’s stress—the one thing weighing on him more than his health and Grandma’s new obsession with flavorless baked chicken breasts—is the state of the ranch.

And I can do something about that.

So, after breakfast, I brew a pot of coffee—the real stuff, not the watered-down decaf he’s been pretending to like the last week—and I carry it into the living room, where Daddy and Grandpa Earl are parked in recliners, reading the paper and half watching an old black-and-white Western on the television.

I’ve got the folder in my hand that Caison gave me the night of Daddy’s scare.

I haven’t opened it since that night. It’s been tucked in the drawer of the desk in the office. But I’ve been thinking about it every single day.

“Morning,” I say, setting down the mugs on the coffee table. “You two have a minute to discuss something?”

Daddy lowers his paper and glances over at Grandpa Earl, who turns his attention from the screen and squints up at me over the top of his glasses.

“That smells like real java,” Grandpa says, eyeing the steaming cup in front of him.

“It is. Don’t rat on me,” I say as they both reach for the mugs at the same time.

“What’s this about?” Grandpa asks as he takes a long sip.

I sit down in the armchair across from them, lay the folder in my lap, and take a deep breath.

“It’s about the offer from Ironhorse.”

Earl’s eyebrows shoot up.

Daddy’s face stays mostly unreadable as he answers, “I reckon we’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

“I looked through it last night,” I continue. “Line by line. It’s … honestly a really good offer. ”

Grandpa grunts, “I bet it is.”

Daddy clears his throat. “Now, Pop, lets reserve judgment and hear her out,” he says, then tilts his head in my direction. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

I nod. “Like I said, it’s a good offer. Generous even. So, I asked myself why he’s offering so much for a thousand acres of pasture land when he has thirty thousand of his own.”

Grandpa leans forward, elbows on his knees. “And what answer’d you come to?”

I open the folder, flip a few pages, and point to the proposed land tract. “Well, it’s prime grazing land. Great water access. Easy to fence off. I figure they’re bringing in a new herd. Maybe cattle or maybe bison—heck, I’ve even heard he’s been interested in bringing in elk.”

“Sounds about right,” Grandpa mutters. “That Holland Ludlow don’t throw around money unless it’s gonna make him more of it.”

I glance over at Daddy. He just takes a slow sip of coffee. Completely calm.

Which is odd.

But I push on.

“I know it’s a big decision,” I say. “I mean, theoretically, we should be the ones who are using our land to make more money. But we just don’t have the resources.

I’ve tried to get a loan to invest in livestock, but unfortunately, we don’t have the collateral the bank requires, and we’re past due on the loans we do have.

I’ve been cutting corners everywhere I can, and it’s just not enough.

We need a miracle. One that’s going to give us some breathing room.

And one-point-two million dollars means we can catch up on the loans, fix what needs fixin’, rehire at least a few hands we had to let go, and”—I hesitate—“maybe even be able to pick up some new horses at the auction.”

That’s when Daddy sets his mug down.

His eyes meet mine. “I support the sale,” he says.

Just like that.

I blink. “You do?”

“I do,” he repeats. “Been thinking about it too. I had a conversation with that boy myself a few weeks back, and I promised if they came in with a fair offer, I’d give it an honest consideration.”

That catches me off guard. “Caison? ”

He nods. “We ran into each other at Blackey’s. He talked to me about it. Told me what he wanted and why. He was honest. Seems like an upstanding fella. That counts for something.”

I look at Grandpa, who still seems skeptical.

“Grandpa?”

He lets out a long breath and scratches his chin. “Don’t love the idea of selling off pieces of Wildhaven Storm. Never have. But … hell, this place has to survive. If selling a thousand acres saves the other eleven thousand and buys you some peace of mind, then I say it’s worth it.”

The tension in my chest lets go all at once. I didn’t even realize how heavy this decision was weighing on me. Knowing the two of them are okay with this makes all the difference.

“All right then,” I say softly. “I’ll call Caison and tell him he can set the wheels in motion.”

I retreat to the back porch, where it’s quiet, save for the wind stirring the cottonwoods and the low buzz of bees hovering over the flowers in Grandpa’s garden. I stare down at my sister’s phone.

I don’t have a phone—well, I do. Charli gave me one for Christmas the year before last. It’s somewhere in my bedroom. I just hate carrying it. The ringing and vibrating bother Luna, and I spend ninety percent of my day on her back. I never remember to charge the dang thing anyway.

I tap the screen and pull up the Contacts list. My finger hovers over Caison’s name.

Two weeks. Not a word.

I haven’t had time to think about what to say. Not with everything going on. I sat by Daddy’s side the entire four days he was in the hospital, and once we got him home and settled, there was so much work to catch up on. And to be honest, I’ve been avoiding him.

Avoiding what happened between us. Avoiding the ache that I feel every time I think about that night at his cabin before his phone rang. Avoiding the way I can still feel his lips on my neck, his breath in my ear, his voice asking me if I was sure .

I was …

That night.

I take a deep breath and press the Call button.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hi, Charli.” The sound of his deep voice sends a shiver up my spine.

“Hey,” I say, leaning my shoulder against the porch beam. “It’s me.”

“Matty?”

“Yeah. You got a minute?” I ask.

“For you? Always,” he says softly.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I wanted to let you know we’ve decided to move forward with the offer. The land sale. If Ironhorse is still interested.”

There’s a beat of silence, like he wasn’t expecting it.

“Of course we are,” he says, his voice all business now.

“Okay. What’re the next steps?”

“I’ll have our real estate attorney write up a contract. You can have your own attorney review it, and once everything is confirmed, we’ll set the closing date.”

“And then?”

“The deed for the acreage will be signed over, the transfer of ownership to Ironhorse will be completed, and the funds for the sale will be deposited to Wildhaven Storm’s account.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say. “We all went over it—Daddy, Grandpa Earl, and I. Everyone’s on board.”

The line goes silent for a beat.

“All right. I’ll get the ball rolling on the paperwork. Holland’ll be happy.”

I nod even though he can’t see me.

“Matty …” His voice drops, tentative. “Can I come see you?”

I hesitate.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him. I do. I haven’t stopped thinking about him. But something in me keeps second-guessing. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s that bone-deep self-preservation skill I’ve been sharpening for years .

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s been a lot. Getting Daddy settled. This sale. And I’ve still got a mountain of work to catch up on.”

“Matty,” he says, soft and low.

My eyes close, my head resting back against the post. God, just hearing him breathe my name has my whole body remembering the feel of his hands, the weight of him over me, the warmth of his mouth.

“I know you have more important things to worry about right now, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About what happened between us.”

“I haven’t either,” I admit. “But I’m not sure I can juggle anything else right now.”

“I’m not asking you to juggle anything,” he says gently. “I just want to see you.”

I don’t reply.

He doesn’t push.

“Tell you what. You let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and I hear the understanding in his voice. The patience.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I will.”

I click off the line and stare at the phone for a long time before setting it down beside me and wrapping my arms around my knees.

Perhaps saying yes to the land sale was the easy part, and the harder decision—the one I’m still not ready to make—is whether I can risk putting my heart on the line again.