Page 8 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

T he sound of horse hooves striking the concrete echoes through the stable in a steady rhythm.

I stop what I’m doing, lean on my pitchfork, and watch as Shelby leads her horse, Jupiter Rising, past me, her long braid swaying down her back.

She’s already worked up a sweat, and I’m right there with her—shirt sticking to my spine, hands blistering under my gloves from the rake, legs sore from crouching, lifting, and bending for hours.

It’s just after noon, but we’ve been at this since five this morning. Mucking stalls, re-bedding, watering. I’d like to say it gets easier as the days go by, but that’d be a lie. Every day feels harder, heavier. Every task a little more strenuous on my overworked body.

Shelby flashes me a grin as she leads Jupiter into his stall. “He’s full of piss and vinegar this morning. Gave me a run for my money in the arena.”

“I heard. I thought he was gonna kick the damn door off the hinges of his stall this morning.”

“That’s just his way of saying he’s ready.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Ready for what?”

She pauses. Just for a second. Then she untangles Jupiter’s lead and swings the stall door shut with a loud clank. “So … I entered us in the barrel races in Cheyenne,” she says tentatively.

I blink. “Cheyenne. You mean the big rodeo. The one in November?”

She nods, brushing imaginary hay off her jeans. Not meeting my eyes.

“The one that’s in three weeks?”

“That’s the one,” she mutters.

“Shelby,” I start, but she holds up her hands.

“I know. I know what you’re gonna say, but—”

“You haven’t competed at that level in years,” I bellow.

Her jaw sets the way it does when she’s digging in her heels. “I’ve still been training every single day. You know I have.”

“Sure, but riding circles in the south pasture a few hours a day isn’t the same as running against twenty girls who have been training and competing nonstop. You know that.”

She yanks off her gloves and tosses them onto the tack bench beside her. “I know myself, Matty. I’m in top form. Jupiter and I ran a 16.50-second round this morning.”

“On what? Our subpar track?” I ask.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. And it would probably be faster in a real arena,” she snaps.

I let out a breath and soften my tone. “I’m sure it would be. I’m not saying you aren’t as good as you always were. I’m just saying you’re out of practice, and that scares me. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to get back on the circuit?”

“Because you would have told me to go, and you need me here right now,” she says, and I open my mouth to disagree, but she stops me.

“We both know it’s the truth. So, I’ve been training between client sessions.

Jupiter Rising is in good condition. He’s ready.

He’s hungry for it, and so am I. Besides, it’s a twenty-thousand-dollar purse.

That’s money we need, Matty. And I can win it. ”

I stare at her, chest tight. I don’t doubt her skill.

Shelby was a hell of a barrel racer in college.

With quick hands and sharp turns, she was fearless.

And Jupiter’s got the build and the heart for it—there’s no question about it.

But we haven’t had the time or the resources for her to train like she used to.

Not with the ranch falling apart one loose board at a time.

“You’re doing enough already,” I say quietly.

She sighs. “But it’s not enough, is it? You’re carrying the weight of this entire ranch.

I see you, Matty. I can see how exhausted you are.

You’ve been fighting like hell to keep this place and all of us together while all I’ve been doing is training jumpers for shows, which doesn’t pay much.

Let me help. At least give me a chance to try. ”

I want to tell her no. I want to tell her that the risk of her falling, of Jupiter getting hurt, of things going sideways isn’t worth it.

That the thought of her getting hurt scares the shit out of me.

But I can’t cast my fears on her shoulders.

And I know my sister; once Shelby’s mind is made up, there’s no un-making it.

“I’m just worried,” I whisper.

“I promise I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t a hundred percent confident that we’re both ready.” She says it with such conviction that I believe her.

I give a short nod and grab the pitchfork again, turn to the next stall, and stab it into the straw.

She grabs a rake of her own and moves in beside me. We work in rhythm, scooping, dumping, laying down clean bedding. We don’t speak. The quiet lingering between us isn’t angry, just heavy.

Then the footsteps echo down the aisle.

At first, I don’t look up. People wander the stables all day long—boarders, delivery guys, and clients showing up for their riding lessons. But then I hear his voice.

“Hey, Matty.”

My blood chills. I turn around slowly to face him.

Carl’s standing at the barn entrance, sunlight outlining his tall frame, like something out of a damn movie.

His hands tucked into his pockets and a contrite look on his face.

Rugged as ever—jeans worn in just right, shirt rolled at the sleeves, a week’s worth of stubble hugging that familiar jaw. Same crooked smile.

The same man who left.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, voice flat.

Shelby glances between us, eyes narrowing, but she keeps her mouth shut.

Carl takes a tentative step forward. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was in town, and I ran into Giles. Heard you could use some help.”

“You heard wrong,” I say, then turn my attention back to the stall.

He pauses, obviously expecting or maybe hoping for more warmth than he’s getting. “You’re mucking stalls, Matty. Clearly, you need help.”

I glare over my shoulder at him. “What is it really, Carl? You finally run out of money?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been living out in Jackson Hole. Got a job on a farm out past Moose-Wilson Road. But it doesn’t feel right. Nothing does. Not since I left. Not without you. I miss you like crazy. I miss us. ”

I drop the pitchfork with a loud clang. “Don’t,” I warn.

“Matty—”

“No,” I cut in, stepping toward him. “You don’t get to show up here and act like we had a little lovers’ quarrel and hit pause. You left. You walked away when I needed you the most.”

“You didn’t need me,” he says, frustrated now. “You didn’t even see me. All you saw was the books, the fences, the bills. You turned into someone else, and I was the last thing on your long list of obligations.”

“Oh my God,” I say, tugging off my gloves. “You’re serious? No, Carl. I didn’t become someone else. I was trying to carry the burden, and as my fiancé, you should’ve loved me enough to help me carry it.”

He flinches.

Good.

“But instead of being the man I needed you to be,” I add, “you quit. You packed your things and drove off in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he explodes. “You were shutting me out. I felt like I was just another body on your to-do list.”

“And you think I wanted to be that way?” I snap. “You think I enjoyed watching this ranch fall apart piece by piece while everyone I cared about either walked away or I had to lay them off? I was trying to save something.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I made a mistake, okay? A big one. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought for us.”

“Yeah,” I say, folding my arms. “You should have.”

For a long beat, the only sound is the rustle of Jupiter shifting in his stall, the creak of old wood. Then Shelby suddenly steps up beside me, arms crossed, just like mine.

“You want to help?” she says coolly. “We need manure hauled to the compost pile. Wheelbarrow’s over there.” She points to the other end of the barn.

Carl gives a soft laugh, but he’s smart enough to know she’s not joking.

He walks past us and stops to whisper in my ear. “I’ll do whatever you need, Matty. I’m not here to beg for forgiveness. I’m here to prove how sorry I am. I just want to earn a place again. With the ranch and with you.”

I nod once, curtly, and then I turn and look him in the eye. “Fine. You want to help? Start working. But don’t expect anything else from me. ”

He holds my gaze for a second longer, then reaches up and grabs a curl that’s fallen loose from my braid. He wraps it around his finger once and tugs before letting it go and walking toward the wheelbarrow. Shelby and I go back to mucking, though the tension in the air is thick enough to chew on.

After a few minutes, she nudges my shoulder and murmurs, “You okay?”

I don’t answer right away. I just keep scooping. “He was my person, Shell. And when things got hard, he didn’t just drop the ball. He left the field entirely.”

“I know.”

“I trusted him. With my heart. With this ranch.”

“And now?”

I pause. Look over my shoulder toward Carl as he bends to shovel a pile of straw into the wheelbarrow.

He does it with practiced ease. He knows his way around this ranch.

He knows the work. Daddy hired him over a decade ago.

He was our operations manager and a damn good one. But I don’t let that soften me.

“Now?” I say. “Now he’s just a guy with good shoulders and a strong back, who knows how to handle horses and a shovel. We need that right now.”

Shelby grins. “Well, at least he’s got that going for him.”

I laugh despite myself. It’s a hollow sound.

“I’m still entering Cheyenne,” she says after a moment.

“I know.”

“We’re gonna win it, Matty. You’ll see.”

I nod and scoop another pile into the aisle, watching the light catch in Jupiter’s dark mane as he leans his head out over his stall door.

Hope is a strange thing; it burns bright, and it doesn’t quit. Not here. Not in this family. Not in this barn.

Not as long as we have breath in our lungs.