Page 103 of Riding the Storm
The fire crackles low in the stone fireplace, throwing golden light across the cabin walls. I pull the red ribbon tighter around my neck and settle back into the couch, trying not to laugh at my own ridiculousness.
The Christmas tree glows in the corner, trimmed with silver ribbon, glass ornaments, and the hand-stitched stars Grandma made for me and my sisters when we were little. The air smells like pine and cinnamon, thanks to the candle burning on the coffee table.
Outside, the wind hums across the hills, brushing snow off the pines’ branches.
Wildhaven is quiet tonight—a deep, content kind of quiet.
The addition is almost finished—Bryce’s pride and joy. He designed it himself—a new wing at the back of the cabin with a master suite and an extra bedroom. He expanded and upgraded the kitchen and added a wide porch large enough to hold a hot tub. He said he wanted space for us to “grow into,” which made my heart do a backflip.
Grandma, Shelby, and Harleigh came over last week to help decorate. It took two days, one full-on sibling argument, and about seven mugs of hot cocoa to get the tree standing straight. Harleigh was in charge of lights, Shelby hung the stockings, and Grandma just sat by the fire, shaking her head at us all squabbling.
Now the cabin looks like something out of a postcard—warm, homey, and all ours.
And me? I’ve been pacing this floor all day, waiting.
Bryce texted an hour ago.
Bryce: Passing through Jackson Hole. Be there soon.
Soon.
I let out a long breath and stare at the door. Every time I think about him walking through it, my stomach flips. He’s been gone a month, and even though we’ve talked every day, it’s not the same. The sound of his voice through a phone doesn’t compare to the sound of his boots on these floors.
I miss the way he feels. I miss the way he smells.
I miss him. Plain and simple.
The clock on the mantel ticks toward seven. My heart’s keeping pace.
And then, faintly, I hear it. The crunch of tires on the gravel drive. Headlights flash through the window, slicing across the snow.
Finally.
I lie back on the new extra-wide couch, in nothing but the ribbon around my neck, pretending to be calm.
The door opens, slow and creaky.
Cold air rushes in first. And then … there he is.
Hat dusted with snow, duffel slung over his shoulder, wearing that cocky smile. He steps inside and closes the door behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
“Chuck?” he calls, voice low and warm.
“Welcome home, cowboy.”
He freezes. His gaze lands on me—on the couch, the fire, the tree twinkling beside me—and I watch the confusion melt into surprise, then into liquid fire.
“You’re late,” I say.
His gaze drops for a second, perusing my body, then lifts back to mine. “My apologies. I had to sign the paperwork for the condo sale before I left Dallas.”
I grin. “So, it’s official?”
He looks at me again, eyes shining. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Good. I got you a present to celebrate,” I say.
His mouth curves. “I can see that,” he says slowly.
