Page 32 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)
I ’m halfway between Jackson and Wildhaven with the Tetons leading the way. I check the time again and press a little harder on the gas.
I hadn’t planned on returning this early.
I was supposed to help Mom pull the holiday decorations out of the attic and prepare the house for the season.
Marcia Galloway loves the holidays. It’s her favorite time of year.
She agreed to come to Ironhorse the week after next to spend Thanksgiving with Holland and Priscilla.
However, she insisted on celebrating Christmas at the farm.
It might be the last Christmas morning we spend in the old house, so I want to make sure it’s special for her, even though it will be difficult for both of us without Dad.
After decorating, I planned to take Mom to Sunday brunch and then head to Wildhaven Storm to spend the evening with Matty. But Holland texted me just after breakfast with a direct message.
There was no further explanation, just that request of my presence.
But I know that when he uses the word expected , it ain’t a suggestion.
So, now I’m thirty minutes from town, wearing the cleanest shirt I had in my truck and trying to guess what kind of pitch or power play this meeting could be about.
Whatever it is, it must be big. Holland Ludlow doesn’t waste anyone’s time.
Still, I can’t shake the low thrum of irritation in my chest. I was looking forward to seeing Matty.
Last night, when we were texting and things took a heated turn, I nearly hopped in my truck and drove to her.
If I had been at home instead of an hour and a half away, I would have.
It killed me to cancel our ride and reschedule it for Wednesday, which is the next evening that both of us had free.
I pull into The Buckhorn’s parking lot and pass my keys to the valet.
Inside, the place is humming with low conversations and the scent of grilled steaks.
The hostess leads me to the back corner, where Holland sits at a round table with two other men—one I recognize instantly as Giles Godwin, and the other … I don’t.
The silver-haired stranger is impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and loafers that look more expensive than my truck. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, and something about his smooth confidence puts my instincts on high alert.
Holland catches my eye and beckons me to them.
“Caison,” he calls as I approach, rising just enough to shake my hand. “Glad you could make it.”
“Of course,” I answer, nodding to Giles. “Good to see you again.”
“You too,” Giles says with a genuine smile. “Was hoping you’d join us.”
The stranger stands next, extending a hand. “Stanhope Marshall,” he says in a clipped New York accent. “Pleasure.”
“Caison Galloway,” I reply, shaking his hand.
His grip is firm, his smile polite and genuine.
Holland gestures for me to sit. Then he calls for the server. After a quick perusal of the menu, we place our orders, and Holland asks for their best bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon.
“Stanhope’s in from the East Coast,” Holland explains as the server sets a glass in front of me. “He and I finalized a purchase this week. A two-year-old thoroughbred named Pharaoh’s Secret. Out of Secretariat’s bloodline.”
I blink. “No kidding?”
“No kidding,” Stanhope says proudly. “Twenty-two million. Worth every damn penny. The colt’s already proving himself on the track, and his breeding potential is off the charts. Holland’s made a smart investment.”
I glance at Holland, who gives a modest shrug that fools no one. “We’re building the future,” he says. “And that future includes a state-of-the-art training facility. Arenas. Broodmare barns. Breeding sheds. A full-scale operation. ”
I nod slowly, letting the pieces fall into place. We’re going bigger. Which means we need to add to the team.
“So, our expansion just expanded,” I surmise.
“Exactly.” Holland tips his glass toward Giles. “And I’m pleased to say that after a lot of discussion and some hard-core negotiation, Giles here has agreed to come on board at Ironhorse. Full-time. Starting in two weeks. Which is when Pharaoh’s Secret will be arriving.”
The smile on Giles’s face is the biggest I’ve seen from him. He looks ten years younger all of a sudden. “It’s an incredible opportunity,” he says. “State-of-the-art facilities, world-class horses, and frankly, the salary Holland offered made it an easy decision.”
“Deserved,” Stanhope adds. “I’ve worked with Giles on three separate projects now, and there’s no one better. He’s the man for the job if we want a chance at the Kentucky Derby next year.”
“I appreciate that,” Giles says with a short laugh, then looks at me. “This all came together fast, but I’m excited. I know you’ve got big plans at Ironhorse, and I’m damn proud to be part of it.”
I force a smile and lift my glass. “Well then, here’s to the future.”
Everyone clinks glasses. The mood is celebratory. Steaks and lobster with caviar-topped potatoes are served, and Stanhope dives into a story about Saratoga and some hedge fund magnate’s prized stallion throwing a shoe mid-race. They all laugh. And I nod and grin at the right places.
But inside, my gut’s twisting.
Because while I’m thrilled for Holland and I know that Giles is going to be a great addition to the Ironhorse team—he’s a hell of a trainer—my mind’s already a few miles down the road at Wildhaven Storm.
Matty’s not gonna like this.
She doesn’t know she’s about to lose her head trainer.
The one steady hand she’s had through all the chaos of the last year.
The one employee she fought tooth and nail to keep on staff when she had to let everyone else go.
And if I know her at all, she’s going to take it personally.
She’ll see it as another betrayal. Another nail in the coffin of a legacy she’s trying like hell to hold together.
I stare at the amber liquid in my glass and try to calculate just how bad the fallout is going to be.
Giles leans over slightly. “I hate leaving Matty in the lurch. I do. But I told her from the beginning that this gig wasn’t forever. I’m going to make some calls and see what names I can rustle up. Make sure she finds a competent replacement.”
“So, she has no idea?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Let me talk to her first. I want to be the one to tell her.”
“Okay then,” he says, then clasps my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Matty’s reasonable, and she’s stronger than she looks.”
“She is,” I say, and it’s not just a platitude. “Still … timing could be better.”
Giles nods. “It always could be.”
Holland picks up his fork and starts on his steak.
“I understand your concern, Caison. But you and I both know Wildhaven Storm is not the place for a horseman like Giles. What we’re building here is something world-class.
Profitable. And we’re not poaching. We’re hiring the best. People change, quit jobs, and move on all the time.
It’s just a part of doing business. Nothing personal. ”
No one says it, but the implication hangs heavy over the table. Matty’s loss is Ironhorse’s gain.
And I’m the only one who seems to care.
I excuse myself for a minute and head to the men’s room. Splash cold water on my face. Grip the sink.
This isn’t just business to me anymore; it is personal, and that scares the hell out of me.
I came to Wildhaven with a goal—to transform Ironhorse Ranch into a leading horse ranch and build a home for myself and my mother. My focus was singular, and my plan was clear.
But I hadn’t planned on Maitland Storm.
When she entered the picture, everything changed. Somewhere between tequila shots and stolen dances, amid her cautious smile and the fierce glint in her eye, I found myself shifting from thinking like a businessman to simply thinking like a man.
I don’t want to hurt her.
And now, whether it’s my fault or not, this is going to hurt.
By the time I return to the table, Holland’s ordered dessert for us all, and he’s halfway through explaining the layout for the training complex. Stanhope and Giles are listening intently. I slip back into my seat and grab the bottle to pour myself another drink.
For the rest of the evening, I keep my thoughts to myself. I allow Holland to outline the new breeding contracts and the partnership with the syndicate in Kentucky, and Stanhope explains the new branding strategy his firm in New York will implement. It’s all impressive.
Game-changing.
After dessert—bourbon pecan pie—Stanhope makes his exit, heading off to catch a late-night flight back to JFK. Giles lingers a little longer, swapping stories with Holland about races and foals and pasture management.
When he finally stands to go, he claps me on the shoulder. “I’d better go. I’ve got to be at Wildhaven Storm bright and early. I’ll wait for word from you before I tender my resignation.”
I shake his hand. “I appreciate that.”