Page 11 of Riding the Storm
Too bad I’m not here to relax or appreciate this natural beauty.
“You think this guy knows what he’s in for?” I ask.
Shawn grins like he knows something I don’t. “Doubtful. But hopefully, Charli Storm can handle one pissed-off bull rider.”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The closer we get to Wildhaven, the smaller the roads get. The highway turns into two-lane blacktop, then to gravel, a cloud of dust kicking up behind us. I see the ranch sign before I see the house—WILDHAVEN STORM RANCH, carved into rough cedar, a black iron horseshoe logo bolted along the top. Beyond it, past half a mile of fencing and tall cottonwood trees, spreads a patchwork of fields, barns, stables, pens, and distant paddocks, where horses graze.
It’s not what I expected.
There’s nothing fancy about it, but it does have rustic charm—I’ll give it that.
We roll up the long drive toward the main house—a big timber-and-stone lodge. There’s a massive barn to the left with a few riders already working with horses in the arena.
“Welp,” Shawn says. “This is it.”
I climb out of the truck, boots hitting gravel. It smells like hay, horse, and mountain air. Refreshing. Comforting even.
A woman steps out of the barn—tall, blonde, wearing a denim shirt and a fixed smile. As she walks toward us, I notice the way she moves with easy authority—calm, confident, the kind of stride that says she’s not impressedby much.
“You must be Raintree,” she says when we meet halfway.
“Bryce,” I confirm. “Or Ry. Whichever you prefer.”
She nods once. “Matty Storm. I’m the manager here at the ranch.”
We shake hands, firm and brief. Her grip says she’s all business.
“This your handler?” she asks, glancing at Shawn.
“Agent,” Shawn corrects. “Shawn Norris.”
Matty gives him a curt nod. “Well, Mr. Norris, I’ll take it from here.”
Shawn grins. “Good luck.”
I glance at him. “You’re not staying?”
“You don’t need me to hold your hand. I delivered you, as promised, and I’ll be here to pick you back up in August.”
“Pick me up?” I say. “You aren’t leaving me here without a ride.”
“Why? So you can escape the minute I’m gone?” he says, shaking his head. “You’ll be staying at a cabin here on the property. And Miss Storm has assured us that someone will be able to take you back and forth into town whenever you need something they haven’t provided.”
“So, I’m a fucking prisoner. Great.”
Matty looks me over, slow and assessing, like she’s sizing up a horse before buying. “Not a prisoner,” she says. “We’re here to help you, not hold you against your will, Mr. Raintree. We have plenty of ranch trucks, ATVs, and horses, in case you didn’t notice.”
Her tone makes me feel like a reprimanded child. Which I do not like.
“Fine, whatever,” I reply, marching back to the truck to grab my things.
Shawn sighs as he follows me. “Can you at least be civil?”
“You never said I was gonna be stuck out here without wheels of my own. I thought I was going to be in a hotel in town or something.”
“They had the empty cabin and offered it. I thought it’d be good for you to stay out here, close to the place.”
