Page 13 of Riding the Storm
She smirks. “I’ve broken harder men than you, cowboy.”
My gaze goes to hers.
“And how do you know how hard I am?” I ask.
Shawn chokes beside me, and all our eyes go to him.
“Sorry.” He coughs as he beats on his chest.
Charli looks over her shoulder. “Matty, show our guest where to drop his bags.” Then she swings back around to me. Her eyes flicker with challenge. “We’ll get started after lunch, Mr. Raintree.”
“Bryce. But my friends call me Ry.”
“Great. Bryce it is,” she quips. “You’ve got an hour. We’ll start with groundwork.”
“Groundwork?” I echo, incredulous. “I’m not some fucking rookie.”
“Good. Then prove it.”
She turns and walks back toward the barn. I stand there for a second, watching her go before glancing at Shawn.
“What the fuck, Shawn?”
“Stay positive,” he says, grinning. “She’s exactly what you need.”
I scowl. “I need a drink.”
He laughs. “After training.” He looks to Matty. “He’s all yours.”
I watch as the truck disappears down the drive. I feel that familiar coil of defiance tightening in my gut. I don’t like being told what to do.
Never have.
But I’ve got no choice but to play along—for now.
Because the truth is, even if I hate every second of this, I don’t know what else I’d do at the moment. All I’ve ever wanted to be was a bull rider. Chasing rodeos is all I know how to do.
I was born for the arena and the crowds.
It’s my world.
And this might be my only chance left to stay a part of it.
I grasp my suitcase and turn to Matty, giving her a tight smile. “Lead the way.”
She guides us to a dirt path that runs behind the main house, through a garden, and into a grove of tall lodgepole pines. Just beyond the forest, dense with straight trees, stands a cabin.
It’s tiny but proud, built with weathered pine logs—the kind that look like they’ve weathered decades of Rocky Mountains snow and sun. The roof is tin, faded to a matte gray, and the porch runs the length of the front, sagging just slightly in the middle, like a few of the old boards could use replacing. A pair of rocking chairs sits on either side of the door, and an old rusted horseshoe hangs above it.
We climb the porch steps. From here, the view to the left opens wide—fenced pastures, distant mountains, the faint glimmer of a creek winding through the meadow. Before I can take it all in, Matty steps ahead, taking a key from the pocket of her jeans. She unlocks and pushes open the front door.
“Come on in,” she says, and the screen creaks softly behind her.
Inside, it’s warm and inviting. The floorboards groan beneath my boots, worn smooth from years of use. The paneled walls are honeyed pine, with framed black-and-white photos—horses, barns, and an oldsplit-rail fence, holding a calf rope and cowboy hat. A stone fireplace anchors the room, its mantel displaying a television with an antenna.
The scent of bleach lingers in the air.
Matty gestures toward a miniature kitchen tucked into one corner—just enough room for a two-burner stovetop, slim fridge, microwave, a coffeepot, a green enamel sink, and open shelves, stacked with mismatched mugs and plates. A short hallway leads to a bedroom with a handmade quilt spread neatly over the queen-size bed, sunlight spilling through the window and catching on the brass frame.
