Page 27 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he tires hum against the blacktop as I head south toward Jackson Hole, the snow-tipped Tetons rising like pillars in the distance.

The road stretches ahead of me, and the land around is wide, scattered with grazing cattle and the occasional cluster of trees.

It’s a beautiful drive, the kind that usually calms my restless mind.

It’s a time when I can get lost in the lyrics of old country songs blaring through the speakers.

But today, I can’t seem to slow down my thoughts.

All I can think about is Matty Storm.

She was something else last night. The way she laughed so easily over a slice of pizza and savored the barely acceptable wine as if it were a ninety-six on the Parker scale was captivating.

Her eyes softened when she talked about her mother, and they sparked with sisterly concern when she mentioned Shelby and that damn barrel race.

And, oh, the way her hand found mine on the table, tentatively lacing her fingers with mine—the connection was palpable.

She seemed … carefree. Lighter.

Like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the Storm family’s survival and the entire ranch on her back all by herself.

I’ll be damned if I don’t feel a sense of pride because I think maybe I had something to do with it.

My efforts in securing the land purchase at an above-market price helped ease some of Matty’s burdens.

I did that. Even though it was my job—the one Holland had brought me here to do—the truth is that my motivation was more about helping Matty than pleasing Holland.

I need to sort that out because I have to be on point.

The next phase of expansion at Ironhorse is going to be intense, and Holland needs me to be on top of my game. I owe him that.

Now that I know Matty and her family will be okay, I feel like I can be focused .

At least I will be on Monday, hopefully, because right now, I’m all kinds of distracted.

My thoughts drift back to last night and Matty’s face when we got back to Wildhaven Storm. I’d barely put the truck in park before she was in my lap, her mouth hot and hungry on mine, her body writhing beneath my touch, like she couldn’t get close enough, fast enough.

And, geezus, watching her so wild and uninhibited, coming apart right there in the cab of my truck, her fingers clutching my shoulders and her breathy cries muffled against my neck … it was the hottest, most intimate moment of my life.

And, yeah, I went home with an intense case of blue balls that nearly killed me, but I didn’t care. That moment? It was everything.

I find myself grinning like a fool as I turn onto my mother’s long driveway.

The little white farmhouse comes into view, nestled among a cluster of juniper trees, with smoke curling from the stone chimney.

Memories of my childhood flood back—riding my bike up and down the dusty driveway, building a fort in the old oak, and the time I broke my arm while flipping the porch swing.

I kill the engine and step out. The scent of cinnamon and fruit drifts on the breeze.

As I walk inside, I find Mom in the kitchen, stirring a large pot of something golden and sticky.

She looks up when I walk in, and her face lights up the same way it always has, like I’m still her little boy coming in from the cold after a long day of playing in the woods.

“Well, look what the wind blew in,” she says, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “You’re a little late. Thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.”

I lean in and kiss her cheek. “I could never forget about my best girl. Just got a little sidetracked, is all.”

Her eyes sparkle with curiosity, but she doesn’t press for answers—yet. “Can you help me jar this jam before it burns?”

We fall into an easy rhythm, the kind created only by years of practice.

I ladle the hot jam—apple and pear—into the mason jars while she wipes the rims and secures the lids.

Then she submerges them one by one into the boiling water bath.

After ten minutes, I carefully pull them from the canner and set them on the rack beneath the window to cool.

Mom presses the center of each jar to make sure they’re sealed while I watch. It smells like home, like my childhood.

When we finish, she places a hand on her lower back and groans. “I think that’s enough for one day. You mind if we go into town for dinner? I think all that peeling and dicing cured me from wanting to cook.”

“Only if you let me treat,” I say, grabbing my keys off the hook by the door.

We end up at Snake River Grill. It’s a cool spot in Jackson. It’s a casual Western-styled bistro with log beam walls in the old section of town with low lighting and a menu full of Mom’s favorites.

I order a grilled elk chop, she gets the pan-seared striped bass, and we split a bottle of red wine even though she’ll only drink one glass.

Halfway through the meal, she sets her fork down and gives me the look. It’s the one that used to make me confess everything from stealing cookies to skipping school.

“You seem … good,” she says. “Lighter than the last time you visited.”

I raise a brow. “Lighter?”

“Happier,” she clarifies. “Like something’s shifted. Things at Ironhorse going that well?”

“They are,” I admit, reaching for my glass. “Better than I expected. Holland’s given me a lot of room to run. I’m getting the hang of the ranch and getting to know all the employees. He has a good, solid team. They were a little standoffish at first, but I think I’ve charmed them around.”

She smiles. “I had no doubt you would.”

“We’re about to expand. Closed on the land for it yesterday. Adding another arena and building a huge training facility.”

She nods. “Well, that sounds exciting. I’m proud of you.”

That hits me harder than I expected. “Thanks, Mom.”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “So, you’re staying for sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her smile widens. “Does that mean you’ll be putting down roots?”

The last time I visited, we discussed how, if things worked out at Ironhorse, I planned to buy my own property and settle down.

I laugh softly. “Yeah, I’ve been looking. Nothing official yet, but there are a few parcels I’ve had my eye on. Couple south of Ironhorse. One a little closer to here. ”

She sips her wine. “You still want to build?”

I nod. “Eventually. I want a place that’s mine. Not a manager’s cabin. Not a rented house or apartment. Something I plan every speck of and build from the ground up.”

Her eyes warm. “And you want it close to Ironhorse?”

“And to you,” I say quietly. “Big enough for a second little place if you ever decide you want out of that old farmhouse.”

“For me?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m considering a few hundred acres. That’s a lot of space. We could build something that’s entirely yours—close enough for me to drop by for your cooking a couple of nights a week, but far enough away that we both have our privacy,” I explain.

She studies me for a moment. “I might be open to that. Someday.”

“Yeah?” I grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good. Now, out with the rest,” she says as she picks up her fork.

I furrow my brow. “The rest?”

She lifts her eyes to mine as she takes a bite of fish. “Yes. Spill. Because I know there’s something else on your mind. You didn’t just come out here to talk about ranch business and real estate.”

I lean back in my chair and exhale.

She knows me too well.

“There’s a woman,” I say finally.

Her eyes light up like Christmas. “I knew it. I knew that look wasn’t just about sealing some big deal. Tell me everything.”

And so I do.

I tell her all about Maitland Storm—how she grew up on and now runs the neighboring ranch, the impact of her mother’s passing, and the way she rides Luna as if she were born in the saddle.

How she’s proud, stubborn, and the most capable woman I’ve ever met.

I tell her about the big, lively Storm family—her sisters, grandparents, and father, all of whom still live in that ranch house.

I talk about the weight she carries but refuses to let show, the walls she has built around herself, and how, little by little, I feel like I’m getting past them.

I leave out the part about her coming undone in my truck. My mother does not need to know that detail.

But I do tell her how Matty looked at me last night, as if maybe she saw me as more than a nuisance from the ranch next door. Like maybe she finally trusted me. Or wanted to.

As I speak, I realize that I’m not just referring to a woman I’m trying to befriend to secure a business deal. I no longer want to win her over simply to finalize a land sale.

I want her.

Her.

All of her.

That realization settles in my chest, feeling solid, heavy, and undeniably right.

“I think I’m falling for her,” I say, almost to myself.

Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I believe you are. I can see it written all over you,” she says, squeezing my hand. Then she releases it and sits back. “Now, when do I get to meet this lucky woman who has captured my son’s heart?”

I shake my head. “I’m the lucky one. And you might have to wait a little while; it’s still new and fragile. I just hope she lets me in. She’s been through a lot. Her ex did a number on her, and she doesn’t believe anyone will stick around.”

“Then show her you will,” my mom says simply. “Stick around.”

I nod, my heart thudding in my chest.

I plan to.

After dinner, we walk through the square, past the old elk antler arches and shops. We make our way to Gaslight Alley so she can pop into Mursell’s Sweet Shop and pick up some of her favorite homemade chocolates. Then I have myself custom-fitted for a new cowboy hat at Encounter Hat Company.

The sky is soft with twilight, and the moon hangs low over the mountains as we make our way back to my truck.

Mom loops her arm through mine and leans into me. “You’ve grown up good, Caison Galloway,” she says. “Becoming a real good man.”

I press a kiss to her temple. “I’m still figuring it out.”

“You’ll get there.”

I lean my head on hers. “I had a damn fine example.”

She nods, but doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t have to.