Page 40 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

Six Months Later

T he trail narrows as we climb higher, Luna’s gait steady beneath me.

The late May sun peeks through the trees, warm on my back, but broken by a cool breeze whispering down the ridge.

I shift forward in my saddle to give Luna her head and glance back at Caison, who’s a few feet behind me on Blackjack, one hand resting on the horn, the other holding his reins.

He gives me a slow smile when he catches me watching him. He doesn’t say much—hasn’t for the past hour. The silence isn’t uncomfortable though. I know his mind is occupied. Full of his dad.

The saddlebag on Blackjack’s right side carries a simple wooden box, holding the ashes of the man who raised Caison into the strong, loyal, loving man he is.

He asked me to come with him to this fishing cabin tucked away above a cold mountain stream.

He told me it was a special place where he and his dad had spent every summer together since he was five years old.

It was here that his dad had taught him how to build a campfire, run a trout line, and clean a day’s catch.

This was also where his dad wanted his ashes scattered.

I told him that he should go alone, that some things were meant to be private.

But he took my hand and said, “He’d want you to see it. And I want us to start something new, Matty. Our own tradition. You should be part of the memories I make there now.”

We packed the saddlebags full of supplies for ourselves and the horses and set off before sunrise, with him assuring me that Ironhorse and Wildhaven Storm would be fine without us for a couple of days .

I think we both needed to escape for a while.

The trail levels out, and the trees thin enough to reveal a breathtaking view of the valley below. It stretches out wide and green, dotted with cattle and adorned with wildflowers. Luna flicks her ears, eager to keep moving.

I rub her neck gently and say, “Easy, girl.”

Behind me, Caison lets out a long breath, as if he had been holding it for miles.

“You doing okay back there, cowboy?” I ask without turning around.

He doesn’t answer right away. I can hear Blackjack’s steady footfalls behind me.

“Yeah,” he finally replies.

We ride in silence for a while, the only sound the chirp of a songbird somewhere high in the pines.

Just as we crest the next rise, he calls out, “There it is.”

I look ahead and see a tiny cabin nestled in the clearing.

It’s weathered and humble, with steps that sag slightly on one side.

A rusted tin bucket sits on the small porch, and there’s a split log bench by the door.

Down by the spring, there’s a mini wooden dock, half hidden by the overgrown foliage.

Caison pulls up beside me and takes off his hat. “He built that dock with his own hands,” he says, nodding toward it.

I smile.

We ride the last stretch up to the cabin slowly. When we reach the porch, Caison dismounts and moves to Blackjack’s saddlebag. He lifts the box and cradles it against his chest.

I tie Luna near the hitching post and walk over to him. “You want me to take the packs inside?”

He nods. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be down at the water.”

I watch him walk toward the dock, his boots carefully navigating the uneven ground, a wooden box held close to his chest. Then I gather the rest of the supplies and step inside the cabin.

It’s small but clean, consisting of one room with two bunks, a woodstove, and a couple of fishing rods leaning in the corner.

Above the woodstove, perched on a homemade mantel, there’s a faded photograph of a much younger Caison alongside a man who shares the same eyes.

They’re both holding up trout and grinning from ear to ear .

I set our gear down and stand there for a moment, looking at the photo. Then I head back outside.

Caison’s on the dock now, sitting at the edge, legs dangling over the water. The box rests beside him. I walk slowly, giving him time, but when I reach him, he looks up and pats the dock.

I sit.

The spring flows below us, clear and cold, full of smooth river stones and the swimming shadows of fish.

Caison rests his elbows on his knees and stares out at the water.

“We used to sit here for hours,” he says. “Didn’t even matter if we caught anything. He’d bring beef jerky he made himself. We’d just sit and talk.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Everything—school, girls, what I wanted to do when I grew up, how to treat people, and how not to treat people. He told me that a man holds his temper until the right time to let it go and that the true measure of a man is knowing when that time comes.”

I reach over and take his hand. “He sounds wise.”

“He was,” he says. “And he loved it up here. Said it was one place he truly felt at peace.”

“That must be why he wanted to be laid to rest here,” I whisper as I squeeze his hand.

He swallows hard and picks up the box, opens the latch, and lifts the lid. A plastic bag is nestled inside. He stands slowly and looks downstream.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye to him,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to,” I say, standing beside him. “Like Grandma said when Mom passed, you just carry him differently now.” I point to his chest where his heart beats. “In here.”

He nods. Then he untwists the bag and lets a bit of the ash spill out into the wind.

It lifts and swirls and drifts over the water like smoke, catching the sunlight. He shakes a little more loose, his hand trembling just slightly, and then the rest. We watch it all fall softly into the water.

When it’s done, he exhales.

“I think he’d be happy you were here,” he says.

“I’m honored to be here,” I say.

He wraps his arm around me, tugging me in close, forehead pressed to mine. I feel him breathe in, steady and slow.

We sit a bit longer, watching the water flow down the mountain until the sun begins to dip behind the trees.

Later, we’ll build a fire. We’ll drink the wine I packed. We’ll eat supper on the porch, wrapped up in an old quilt and each other. I’ll ask more questions about his dad, and he’ll tell me healing stories about their time together in these woods.

But right now, we just sit.

Eventually, he murmurs, “Next year, I wanna come up again. Same time. Just us.”

I smile. “So, we’re making this a tradition?”

“Yep. Every spring. You and me. Let Wildhaven Storm and Ironhorse fend for themselves without us for a week.”

“You think they’ll survive?”

“Barely, but it’ll make them appreciate us a little more.”

He looks over at me, a teasing smile playing at his lips, the same one that started this whole crazy thing between us on a dark dance floor.

“I want to bring our kids up here one day,” he says softly. “Tell ’em about their granddad. Teach ’em to fish. Let ’em wade in the water barefoot and catch frogs and tadpoles.”

My mind fills with images of tiny versions of him running wild, splashing in the water.

“I like the way that looks,” I whisper, and he gives me a curious grin.

Then he takes my hand, and we walk slowly back to our little cabin in the woods.

Toward the rest of our lives.

Together.

Always.