Page 5 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

I ’m barely back in my truck when I see her walking her horse into the barn, that long braid swinging behind her as her hips sway.

She’s beautiful. Blonde hair, long legs, pouty lips, and soulful eyes the color of the Wyoming sky.

A country boy’s dream. But I know better.

I know steel when I see it. Maitland Storm might look like she just stepped out of a Western magazine—sweet smile, deep dimple, worn boots, soft curves under her fitted jeans, every move graceful—but there’s a wall behind those sharp eyes. A wall I’ll happily run into head-on.

I won’t even flinch.

I sit for a second with the engine off, my hand resting on the steering wheel.

Something about her got under my skin, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

She’s all flint, fire, and scrutiny, and the second she laid eyes on me, she already summed me up and decided I wasn’t worth her time or effort.

Especially when she heard I worked for Ironhorse.

I can’t blame her.

Holland Ludlow’s reputation has traveled well beyond county lines, and I’m sure that, being next door, the Storm family has had run-ins with him on more than one occasion.

I get it. But I’m not Holland. I’ve known the man all my life, and he lacks the subtlety and finesse needed when handling delicate situations.

And Maitland Storm is definitely a delicate situation.

I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. I’ve come up against the best of the best. And I’m just the man to handle Miss Storm.

I start the truck, roll out slowly, dust trailing in my rearview mirror as I return to Ironhorse Ranch.

I need time to think. That meeting didn’t go badly, exactly, but it didn’t go how I’d wanted it to either.

Albert Storm seems to be a reasonably hospitable man.

And although I didn’t expect them to roll out a red carpet necessarily, I sure as hell didn’t expect his daughter to size me up like I was an enemy before the first word left my mouth.

If I’m being honest, I’m used to a much different reaction from women.

But she’s not your average female. She clocked me before she even dismounted her mare. However, she doesn’t know me, and I have a sneaky suspicion she has no intention of getting to know me.

But I want to know her.

The drive to the Ironhorse property is nothing short of breathtaking; it’s all pristine pastures and rolling hills, edged by the Rockies.

The land is impeccably manicured. Too much so.

Too shiny. Holland keeps his ranch like he’s prepping it for a magazine shoot, but there’s no soul in it.

No grit. Just gloss. The exact opposite of what I saw at Wildhaven Storm.

Their ranch is well cared for, but a little wild and unruly, which is how it should be.

You shouldn’t feel like you’re living in a country club neighborhood when you’re out here.

You should feel surrounded by the natural state of the land.

I tap the screen on my dashboard, and it connects to my phone’s Contacts list. I scroll until I find the name I’m looking for. Mom.

It rings twice, and then her voice comes over the speakers. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Mom. I just wanted to touch base. Make sure the landscaping guys came by this morning.”

“They did. Woke me up at five thirty.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll send an email to the company.”

“No need. I gave them both a proper scolding, and then I made them breakfast and a couple of to-go cups of coffee. They promised not to show before seven again.”

I chuckle, and the sound echoes through the cab.

Marcia Galloway knows how to get what she wants.

I hired a crew to help when she refused to leave the farm.

Dad had bought the property the year they married.

He worked the land while she made a home.

I was born a year later. Now that he’s gone, the place has become too much for her to handle.

I begged her to put a For Sale sign in the yard and come to Wildhaven with me.

We could both use a fresh start, but she wasn’t open to the idea.

She told me she had already lost one anchor in her life and wasn’t ready to lose another, not just yet.

“How are things in Wildhaven? You all settled in?”

“Getting there.”

“Have you been out to the fishing cabin?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

“I know it’s gonna be hard. If you want me to come out there to do it, I will,” she says.

The fishing cabin is a small wooden structure nestled on the side of the Teton Mountains, near Ironhorse. My grandfather built it when Dad was a boy, and he left the place to him.

Every summer, my dad would take me—and sometimes Waylon—there.

When school let out for the year, he’d drive me to Wildhaven with fishing poles and supplies loaded in his old Ford.

After dropping off my things at Ironhorse, where I’d come back to spend the remainder of the summer, we would saddle up a couple of horses and head up the mountain range.

We’d spend the next week fishing, hiking, swimming, cooking over an open fire, and enjoying quality father-son time together—something we rarely had due to his job at the factory and working on the farm.

It was my favorite time of year, and all my best childhood memories were made in that rustic little cabin in the woods.

When he found out he was sick, he told Mom he wanted his ashes scattered on the mountain in the woods where the fishing cabin stood. I carried them here with me. They’re tucked in a pine box in the toolbox in the back of my truck, waiting for me to fulfill his last request and carry him home.

“Case?” Her voice pulls me from my memories.

“You don’t have to come. It’s something I need to do. Guess I’m just waiting for summer to roll back around so we can take one last father-son trip together.”

She sniffles. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Silence fills the cab for several beats.

“Mom, I have to go. I’m pulling up to the ranch. I’ll call you later this week, and we’ll make plans for my next visit.”

“Okay. Tell Priscilla and Holland I said hello.”

“I will.”

“And, Case?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

I press the screen to end the call as I park near the main barn and head inside to check in with our foreman, Darby.

It’s cooler in here, the thick wooden beams soaking up the sun’s heat.

A couple of stable hands give me nods, and I return them with a practiced ease I’ve been working hard to cultivate.

I’m not trying to come in here, guns blazing, barking orders like a Ludlow lieutenant.

I’m trying to build something sustainable and honest—a mutual respect between me and my employees. But respect takes time.

Inside stall five, a mare is nursing her foal, her ears flicking in my direction when I step close.

“Hey there, little mama,” I say, rubbing the white spot above her nose.

She exhales a warm breath over my arm and then returns her attention to feeding like I’m not even there.

Good girl.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a text from Holland.

Holland: How’d the introduction go?

I stare at the screen for a long second before typing back.

Me: Like stepping into an icebox.

It takes him thirty seconds to reply.

Holland: The Storm girl’s a tough cookie, but she’ll come around. Just keep at her.

Keep at her . That’s the thing about Holland: he believes everyone has a price.

However, I have a feeling this particular woman isn’t easily bought or manipulated.

But he brought me here because he believed in me.

Gave me the job. The title. The chance to make a name for myself in Wyoming after leaving Texas and starting anew.

So, I’ll do everything in my power to bring his dreams to fruition .

But I don’t owe him my soul. So, I’m going to do things my way.

Darby appears through the doors at the far end of the barn, a hay bale hoisted in the air.

“Hey there, boss man,” he calls as he drops the hay and wipes his gloves on his dirty jeans.

“Hey, Darby. I wondered if you had a minute to review a few things,” I say.

He removes a rag from his back pocket, wipes sweat from his brow, and then looks over his shoulder toward the door. “I guess I could take a break.”

“If you’re busy, it can wait,” I say.

His eyes come to me, and I can see the indecision behind them.

“One of the grooms called in sick today. I was out with the cattle and didn’t realize it until I returned. I’ve gotta get the horses fed, watered, and turned out,” he says.

I unbutton my shirtsleeves and roll them up as I walk toward him. His eyes widen as he takes me in.

“Come on. I’ll help you.”

“No, sir. I can handle it,” he says.

“I insist,” I say as I stop before him. “Just point me toward a pair of gloves.”

His eyes fall to my feet.

“Oh, right. I’ve got a pair of boots in the back of my truck. I’ll be back in a second.”

I run out, switch my footwear, and return to the barn. The two of us spend the next hour tending to the horses before retiring to his office to discuss next week’s schedule and a few new employee prospects over a cold beverage.