Page 32 of Riding the Storm
I furrow my brow. What in the world is he doing?
“I’ll snip her some,” Grandpa says, taking the shears from the leather tool belt slung around his hips and walking over to where the herbs are planted.
Bryce drives the stake into the soil and stands from where he’s been crouched by the bean stalks.
He straightens. And, Lord help me, the sight hits like a sucker punch to the lungs.
His usual cowboy hat is gone. In its place, he’s wearing a worn-out Oklahoma Sooners ball cap, bill curved low over his eyes, shadowing the sharp lines of his face, making him look younger somehow.
He’s in a white ribbed tank top, sweat darkening the fabric down his chest. The faint signs of dark curls are visible beneath. An olive-green T-shirt is tucked into his back pocket.
But what really gets me—what stops me cold—is the ink curling down his shoulder. I’ve caught glimpses of it before, peeking out from under a sleeve or when he’s lifted his hand to wipe his brow after riding. But now, I can see it all—black-and-gray swirls of detailed art twining around his muscled arm, woven together in a beautiful pattern.
It shouldn’t make me forget what I came out here for.
But it does.
He turns toward me, tugging the brim of his cap up just enough that I can see his eyes—that stormy blue, steady and glinting with amusement. He wipes his hands on the front of his well-worn jeans, leaving behind a smear of dark soil.
“Hey, Chuck.”
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“Helping Earl stake some of the pole beans.”
“Why? I told you that you could take the day off. Don’t get many of those. Shouldn’t you be relaxing?”
“I was sitting on my front porch, drinking a beer, when I noticed him out here, working. He seemed to be struggling a bit, getting them in the ground, so I offered.”
“Well …” I say, glancing back at my grandfather.
He’s still sharp as a tack, and he loves tooling around in this garden and messing with the chickens, but he’s getting older and moving a lot slower than he used to.
I swing my eyes back to Bryce. “That was kind of you.”
He shrugs. “I’m enjoying it. He’s been telling me stories from when he was in the Army,” he says, his lips curling into a sly grin. “Your grandpa was a rascal back in the day.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh, I don’t wanna know.”
I know he was young once, too, but the thought of my sweet grandfather raising hell and chasing skirts causes my stomach to roll.
He laughs. “No, you do not. Don’t worry; my lips are sealed.”
We stand there in loaded silence. Neither of us knowing what to say to the other. It’s weird. When we’re in the arena, we’re like combatants, and I have plenty to say when he’s battling me and resisting my instruction. But now, with him standing in the backyard, his knees and hands covered in black potting soil from him spending the afternoon indulging my grandfather, I can’t find my words.
“So, Cabe told me Harleigh is coming home tonight,” he finally says, breaking the awkwardness.
“Yep. Shelby and I are leaving in about an hour to pick her up in Jackson Hole.”
“He also said that you guys are going out dancing after dinner.”
“We are. We need to get Matty out of the house, so Imma Jean and Grandma can start preparations for tomorrow’s surprise party.”
He nods.
“Plus, Harleigh just finished exams, and she wants to go blow off some steam.”
“Is she even old enough?” he asks.
