Page 15 of Riding the Storm
“Still doesn’t give him license to act like an ass,” I mutter.
Grandma waves me off. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll come around once he realizes no one here’s out to embarrass him. Give him a chance.”
I’m about to argue when a sharp rap of knuckles sounds against the kitchen’s doorframe.
All three of us turn.
And there he is.
Bryce Raintree.
Crap. Where did he come from?
He’s leaning with one shoulder against the frame, hat tipped low, eyes locked right on me. Those eyes—blue gray, like a thundercloud rolling over open plains—bore into mine. His face is rugged, jaw lined with a well-groomed beard, cheekbones carved like he was chiseled from the Teton mountains. His T-shirt stretches over a broad chest, his shoulders so wide that they nearly fill the entire doorway.
And of course, that crooked smirk of his is back.
The one that says he knows he’s good-looking and he’s used to people noticing.
My pulse betrays me, and there’s one hard thud in my chest before I cross my arms and meet his gaze with every ounce of steel I can muster.
We stand there in a silent standoff for a good five seconds.
Then Grandma clears her throat. “Well, now, you must be this famous bull rider I’ve been hearing about.”
Instant transformation. His smirk softens into a charming grin, and his posture straightens, like he’s a gentleman from an old Western movie. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat politely. “Bryce Raintree. It’s real nice to meet you.”
The sudden shift makes me snort. Twenty minutes ago, I was the enemy. But a grandmotherly smile, and he’s all cowboy manners and charm.
Grandma extends her hand, and he takes it lightly. “Welcome to Wildhaven Storm Ranch, Bryce. I’m Evelyn Storm. Grandmother to these girls here.”
He smiles, and the warmth of it fills the kitchen. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she says, glancing at me with a pleased expression. “We were just about to set lunch out on the porch. You hungry?”
He hesitates only for a second before that smile deepens. “Yes, ma’am. I could eat.”
“Good. You can carry the sandwiches out for me.” She picks up the platter we just loaded.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, moving easily to take it from her hands.
Matty glances at me, and her eyes widen. Her face says,See? He’s not so bad.
I grab the bowl of pasta salad, biting back my irritation at how smoothly he turned the charm on.
Grandma leads the way out to the wraparound porch, where the long wooden table awaits, sun streaming through the trees. The smell of the fields drifts over—grass, hay, and horses.
Daddy and Grandpa Earl are already seated at the far end, arguing good-naturedly about something or other.
Grandma gets their attention. “Gentlemen, we’ve got company today. This is Bryce Raintree.” She stops and lays a hand on Daddy’s shoulder. “Bryce, this is my son and the girls’ father, Albert, and that old geezer next to him is my husband, Earl.”
Daddy looks up first, assessing with those sharp eyes that have seen a lifetime of people come and go. “Bryce Raintree, huh? I know that name.”
Grandpa leans back in his chair. “Ain’t you the one who rode Widowmaker for eight seconds back in ’19?”
Bryce’s grin flickers into something genuine. “That’s me.”
“That was something, son. Only one to ever score on him.”
