Page 21 of Braving the Storm
It seemed hard to believe that, for the most part, the horses don’t mind literal nails being driven through the horseshoes and their hooves.
For my uncle, it amounts to hours upon hours bent double between the hammering and the metalwork and the filing. There are no shortcuts, and it’s even more obvious now why his body is so well-defined. This man doesn’t need a gym when this kind of physically demanding, rigorous workout is on offer.
Add in the fact it involves horses and a picturesque ranch backdrop? I mean, a girl could become weak-kneed extremely easily seeing that kind of show on repeat.
We’re not going to mention the hat, either.
Nope.
We’re resolutely ignoring what the sight of my uncle in a cowboy hat does to stir up butterflies in my stomach.
The image paused on the screen shows him mid-ride. From one of his early career championship runs. One arm is flung high in the air, and the fringe of his chaps mimics the action. His chin is tucked, and that hat fixed on his head looks so damn good, along with the rest of him on top of that bull, the tattoo reaching up his neck, it makes my thighs squeeze involuntarily.
Later in his glittering pro-life, he switched to a helmet, which is only mildly less terrifying. Lord knows that tiny bit of rigid plastic would do next to nothing to prevent other possibly fatal injuries if things went wrong inside the ring.
He’s fearless in a way that makes my insides melt.
Not for the first time this week, I’ve found myself drifting toward dangerous thoughts. Wondering what it might be like for a man like him, one who isn’t my uncle of course, to look my way.
A man who is rugged, wild, and chaotic but exudes charm and charisma in a gruff and silent manner.
His stubbornness just adds to the layers of this man. There’s something about it that I find infuriating, but also deeply captivating.
Bull-headed fool that he is, has refused my offers, of which there have been many, of swapping places. Even if only for one night, which I damn near pleaded with him about during dinner. I’m more than happy to take the couch, but my uncle keeps insisting that he’s fine, when he’s clearly not.
I see the dark circles under his impossibly blue eyes.
Those weren’t there a week ago.
As the truckheadlights swing over the front porch of the cabin—should I call her something old-fashioned? Clarabelle, perhaps? Or something named after the mountain forest, like Cedarwood Acres?—I’m beyond ready for a hot shower, food, and to crawl under a fluffy blanket.
I helped around the barn as much as possible today. Mucking stalls, dealing with literal piles of horse shit, basically being a ranch hand, the absolute definition of someone who has no idea what she’s doing but is just happy to be here.
I’ve also now met Layla and Colt, who had just arrived back after they’d both been away traveling. I think I might have developed more than a bit of a girl crush on the gorgeous babe who must be the same age as me, or thereabouts. The girl with coppery curls, green eyes, and energy that made me want to traipse around as her shadow all day as she showed me what to do with the horses.
My crush was totally at its peak when Layla looked at me and announced, “Thank fuck there’s another woman living on thismountain, pinky-promise you’ll come to the bonfire next winter, if you’re still here?”
I don’t know what this bonfire is, or what it entails, but I enthusiastically nodded. And I can see why her rugged-looking cowboy, Colton Wilder, was hardly able to take his eyes off her wherever she went. Totally, one hundred percent in agreement with that. Facts are, Layla is a babe, and she’s so fucking nice; I felt like I wanted to hug her when we left this evening. Is that weird? Maybe, but whatever.
There have been so few times in my life when I’ve met other women who didn’t have an agenda, or only wanted a fake friendship because of my family, or, even worse, only wanted to hang out with me in order to try and get to Antoine.
Fake fucking bitches, the lot of them.
I’m so relieved to be out of that toxic fishbowl.
After showering and changing into clothes that don’t smell like a horse’s ass, I make my way into the kitchen, half expecting to find it empty. Much to my surprise, there’s a mountain of a man already seated with a heaped portion of steaming food in front of him, and a similarly overloaded plate on the opposite side of the table waiting for me.
It looks like meat, mashed potato, and a whole lot of gravy and smells heaven-sent after a day working outside and in the barn. Cold weather does something different to your taste buds I swear, because I’m the girl who has been on-again-off-again vegan at times, and never once in my life have I craved something that looks and smells like this. Yet, I’m ready to fall upon it, inhale that entire plate, and go in search of more.
“You didn’t have to do all this.” I slide into the seat at the opposite end of the table. My uncle has already damn near finished his meal in the time it took for me to get cleaned up. He’d already been through and showered first; somehow, I scored a win on that front. It was something I absolutely refused to budge on since the first day joining him in going out to the ranch. He’s the one manhandling horses and putting his body through a punishing day’s work.
Insisting that he should have the first shower seemed only reasonable. Although I’ve found attempts to negotiate with this man are more often than not futile.
“God, this smells delicious. Honestly, thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” He shrugs.
We descend into the usual silence of finishing our meals. Sitting here at night, like this, we don’t exactly talk a lot, I've come to realize. Which honestly suits me, and I can understand. Here I am, treading all over this man’s peaceful, reclusive existence, and I’m still not quite sure how to resolve the issue. I usually scroll my phone and he does the same, and then I disappear off to the bedroom while he watches something on the small television he’s got in the corner of the lounge.
