Page 13 of Braving the Storm
His shirt and jacket are a potent scent ofmanthat I’m entirely unprepared or ill-equipped to deal with. My body took one deep inhale of the collar and promptly turned into a purring feline ready to rub and twine around his ankles, drunk on a heady blend of woodiness, spices, and leather. There’s a smokiness there, too. Faint and subtle, but it keeps tempting me to bury my nose in the fleece lining, chasing that charred scent.
Wearing his clothes makes me drift off into reveries of nights in these mountains, beneath the stars, curled in front of a bonfire, being held in strong arms.
An embrace that I could only ever hope in my furthest away fantasies might end in heated kisses and perfectly rough touches.
“Devil’s Peak Ranch is at the top of the mountain access road. Colt is what you might call a neighbor out here, except you’d be trekking a hell of a long way to borrow a cup of sugar.”
Uncle Storm’s words jolt me out of my daydream. How badly my cheeks flame doesn’t bear thinking about. It feels like I’ve been caught red-handed in the act of somethingverywicked… namely that the stranger I should have been picturing was tattooed and broad-shouldered and far too similar to the man filling the opposite end of this long seat.
The truck tires bump over the grit and rough road beneath us, and I realize we’ve passed the turn-off to get to the cabin.
Our cabin? My cabin? I don’t even know what to call it.
Oursfeels too much like we’re a couple, and with my current predicament of how badly my body is behaving all because he insisted on my wearing his clothes, I’m not certain it’s a good idea to entertain thoughts of anything along those lines.
Maybe I need to name the cabin. Like how people give a sailboat a name?
We carry on higher up the mountain, passing more and more snow as we do so. It’s obvious, even to my inexperienced eye, that wherever we are headed, this ranch would get snowed in much more frequently.
“Do you work up here a lot?” My eyes track the scenery. There’s a steep ravine on one side of the road—terrifying, thank you very much—on the other are sturdy pine trees and rock faces. Everything appears frozen in crisp shades of white and pale blue.
“When the horses need shoeing. Or when Colt needs help getting shit done around the ranch.”
“Shoeing?” I give him a look, but he’s concentrating on the road, and that sets my pulse a little more at ease. Not that I’ve been white-knuckling the seat this entire ride, but I might have been as we traversed some of the narrow bends and blind corners.
“You’ll see.” He doesn’t give me any more than that. Around us, the truck speakers thud with a whole lot of angry-sounding drumming and aggressive lyrics. My uncle’s choice in music is… a lot.
But he drums his fingers in time, seeming to enjoy his taste in death metal.
It’s not doing anything to calm my jangled nerves, but I’m hardly in a position to take control of the playlist.
Sucking in a breath, I focus on the winter wonderland outside, which is utterly breathtaking, prompting me to dig out my phone—this thing has been intentionally left on airplane mode ever since I boarded my flight—and film a little of the snowy vista as we drive.
“It’s so pretty,” I murmur.
And that’s when we crest the final ridge, and Devil’s Peak makes her dramatic appearance on the horizon.
“Stôrmand Lane’sniece has never ridden a horse before?” A sapphire-eyed cowboy with an impeccable jawline leans on theside of our vehicle. Kayce Wilder was all beaming smiles and seemed friendly enough when he came out of the barn to greet us as we arrived and first hopped out of the truck.
Uncle Storm grunted something before striding away, leaving me unsure whether to follow after him, or stay put.
So I’ve ended up standing around in the gravel parking area outside an incredible-looking mountain homestead, trying not to openly drool over how gorgeous this ranch is.
Not that I have any experience in visiting other ranches before, but this one seems picturesque and has an energy about it I can’t help myself from immediately being drawn to.
“You’re for real?” Kayce looks me up and down with a bemused expression.
“Nope. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a horse in person, either.” I grimace and cover my face with my hands. “Annnnd now you probably think I’m some sort of city-girl-idiot admitting that out loud.”
Kayce laughs, a deep, genuine chuckle that lights up his eyes. “Nah. Don’t sweat it. If you’re Storm’s niece, you’ll do just fine around ‘em. That man is like the fucking horse whisperer, I swear.”
I have to bite my tongue about five ways as the immediate urge bubbles up to shout and dramatically wave my arms in an effort to emphasize that we’re not related by blood in any way, shape, or form.
Except, I realize how utterly absurd that would be and not suspiciously odd behavior at all.
God, I really am the queen of overthinking.
“Can we go see them?” Deflecting to something other than talking about uncles and nieces, I give Kayce a hesitant smile.
