Page 27 of Riding the Storm
He looks at me and grins. “I won’t turn it down.”
Truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m idle. Years of chasing eight seconds on the back of a bull doesn’t leave much room for rest. You live between adrenaline and exhaustion and fill the space in between with whiskey and women. Being left to myself and my own thoughts feels uncomfortable.
We fall into a rhythm—him mucking out the stalls and me beddingthem down with fresh hay. Every so often, I catch myself glancing toward the barn door, expecting to see her walk through.
Charli.
Sharp tongue. Sharp wit. Eyes as blue as the azure sky and legs as long as the Trinity River that runs by my place in Fort Worth.
I try not to make it obvious, but Cabe notices. He leans against one of the stall doors, smirking.
“You lookin’ for somebody?” he asks, voice teasing.
“Nope.” I toss a scoop of clean hay into the stall.
“Uh-huh.” He gives a short laugh. “Charli and Shelby took off for town this morning.”
That catches my attention. “Town?”
“Yep. They usually do supply runs on Saturday mornings. Grab breakfast and sometimes lunch, groceries, maybe hit the feed store.” He straightens his hat. “Just sayin’. If you were hopin’ to see her.”
“I wasn’t hopin’ for anything,” I say too fast.
Cabe grins. “Sure you weren’t.”
I grab another forkful of hay just to give my hands something to do. “She say when she’ll be back?”
“Nope. But if you’re feelin’ restless, I was headin’ that way after chores anyway. Gotta pick up some posts and wire at the hardware store.”
That perks me up a little. “Mind if I tag along? Need a few things for the cabin.”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “Passenger buys the coffee.”
“Deal.”
We finish out the morning side by side, the work going quicker with two sets of hands. By the time we’re done, the sun’s high, the horses are fed, my shoulders are tight, and sweat trickles down my back. I hose off by the well pump, run to the cabin to change shirts, and meet Cabe by his truck—a dusty old Ford that looks like it’s seen better days but still roars to life when he turns the key.
The road to town winds through open range, dipping in and out of the cottonwoods until a sign for downtown Wildhaven appears. The town is small but bustling. Trucks and SUVs are parked all along Main Street. Families walk the sidewalks. The scent of baked goods and coffee drifts through the air as patrons mosey in and out of storefronts.
“Welcome to Wildhaven,” Cabe says, sweeping a hand out the window. “Population: just enough, but not too many.”
I laugh. “Seems fitting.”
We roll past a feed store, a Western wear shop, general mercantile, pharmacy, a florist, and a tiny bookstore with a hand-painted sign. Then we turn into a narrow lot beside a building with a yellow awning that reads Ryse & Shine Café.
Cabe kills the engine and climbs out. “Best coffee and pie in Wyoming. The owner, Imma Jean, is a family friend. She’s a character. You’ll see.”
The moment we step inside, the smell hits—fresh-baked bread, apple, cinnamon, and strong coffee. The place is crowded but cozy, all wood floors and mismatched tables. There is a large L-shaped counter in the center with a glass pastry case to the left.
A woman behind the counter—with honey-colored hair piled on top of her head and big, kind eyes—clocks us as we enter, and her face lights up. This must be Imma Jean herself—slight, warm, and glowing like sunshine in her yellow apron.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite Trust boy!” she says, hurrying around the counter toward us with arms open. “Cabe, you’d better get over here and give me a hug.”
Cabe obeys, chuckling as she squeezes him tight. “Mornin’, Imma Jean.”
She swats his chest. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Blame Matty. She’s the one keeping me so busy,” he says before kissing her cheek.
