Page 22 of Riding the Storm
“Did you finish everything I asked?”
“Yeah,” I say shortly. “Your horses’ stalls are spotless, and they’re all fed and watered.”
“Good,” she says, her tone surprised, almost appreciative, and then she turns back to her sister.
Something in me twists. Maybe it’s annoyance. Maybe something else. I can’t decide.
The rest of dinner goes by in a blur of conversation I barely follow. I catch bits about Matty’s boyfriend clearing land he just purchased, construction about to begin for new boarding stalls here on the ranch, and a mare that they’re excited is due to foal soon. Every time Charli laughs, that same nerve twists in my chest.
When I finally push back from the table, she looks up again. “Day starts at six tomorrow morning.”
“Six?”
“Mmhmm. So, if you want breakfast, you need to be in this kitchen by then.”
For fuck’s sake.
“You ever sleep?” I ask.
She blinks up at me innocently. “We start work around here at four, so I am letting you sleep in. You’re welcome, cowboy.”
I shake my head, trying to fight a smirk, and head for the back door.
As I step out into the night, the cool air hits me. The ranch is quiet except for the soft nickers of the horses and the hum of crickets and tree frogs. The stars are bright here, clear and endless.
I lean against the porch rail, looking out over the dark fields, and forthe first time since I got here, I start to wonder if maybe there’s something to the way she’s doing this. A method to Charli Storm’s madness.
Groundwork. Balance. Focus.
Things I used to have in abundance. They came naturally. But the truth is, I’ve developed habits that need breaking. Involuntarily wrapping my wrist today was proof of that.
There’s more to being a cowboy than the roar of the crowd and the glory of winning the buckle.
I lost that somewhere along the way. Somewhere between sponsors and fans and cameras and headlines.
Now I’m here, back at square one, being told by a sharp-tongued cowgirl that I need to learn how to lead a horse before I can ride one again.
And damn it if part of me doesn’t hate how right she might be.
I’m up before my alarm. Can’t sleep. Too many thoughts running through my head. Today, I plan to work with Bryce early because I have Pearl coming at eleven and a new rider starting after school.
Last week was a long one. A very long one. The man has fought me at every turn. He’s so full of anger and fear that he can’t get out of his own way.
Yesterday, I came really close to throwing in the towel and sending him packing, but then he did something I hadn’t expected. He admitted he was scared.
Scared to get back on a bull and scared not to.
The admission slipped out in a moment of exhausted frustration. And he might not have realized it was a breakthrough, but I’ve broken enough stubborn animals to know that it was.
So, here I am, facing another morning with an ornery cowboy.
When I get to the arena, he’s already there, much to my surprise. He’s leaning against the rail, coffee cup in hand, hair tucked under his hat. The black quarter horse is hovering close.
Bryce seems lost in thought as he watches the horse lazily walk in circles.
“You’re early,” I say as I unlatch the gate.
“Didn’t wanna get in trouble with the boss lady,” he mutters as I step into the pen.
