Page 2 of Riding the Storm
“Careful what you say. Grandpa Earl loves that old tractor more than he loves most people.”
“Except Grandma,” Shelby quips.
“Barely,” I mutter, which earns a snort of laughter.
We’ve had this rhythm since forever—work, tease, repeat. It’s what keeps the long days from feeling too long.
Wildhaven Storm Ranch covers a good chunk of land at the base of the Tetons—eleven thousand acres of pastures, paddocks, and Storm family pride. Our oldest sister, Maitland “Matty” Storm, runs the show here at Wildhaven Storm Ranch. She stepped in to help our father, Albert, when our mother passed away thirteen years ago. He semi-retired a few years ago and handed her the reins.
Now she’s the ranch manager, which means she carries the weight of the books, the barns, and all of us ragtag employees. I handle the training program—horses and riders. Shelby takes care of the competition circuit side—jumpers, barrel racers, trick riders. Between us and Dad; our cousin Cabe; his parents, Boone and Irene; and the rest of the crew of wranglers and ranch hands, we manage to keep the place humming, even though, sometimes, it feels like we’re held together by duct tape and copious amounts of caffeine.
I brush Soda Pop down and then turn him loose in his paddock and watch him roll in the dirt like a dog. “Real nice,” I call. “I got you all clean and handsome, and now you’re a mess again.”
“Just like you after a night of tequila,” Shelby quips.
I glare at her. “One time.”
She snorts. “Three.”
She’s not wrong. Most tequila nights end with us falling all over ourselves, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
Grandma Evelyn stands on the front porch, bellowing that supper is ready at seven o’clock sharp, just as she has every day for as long as I can remember.
“Keeps the family tradition alive,” she says.
I think she just enjoys throwing her authority around and herding us all like cattle.
By the time we head to the main ranch house, the sun’s dipped below the horizon, and the scent of her fried chicken drifts from the kitchen. My boots hit the porch steps, and I pause to wipe the dust off before stepping inside the mudroom—Grandma’s rule: no tracking dirt or mud onto her freshly mopped floors.
Inside, the warmth and noise envelop me like an embrace. Dad’s at the head of the table, spooning mashed potatoes from a large porcelain bowl, while Grandpa Earl tells a story we’ve probably heard a hundred times already. Matty sits beside him with her loaded plate. Her blonde hair in a long braid. Across from her, our cousin Cabe leans back in his chair, long legs sprawled, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He grins when Shelby and I walk in.
“’Bout time you two showed up,” he says. “Grandma wouldn’t let us start without you. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving, asshat,” I say, plopping into my chair.
Grandma swats my arm with a dishrag as she passes. “Watch your mouth, Charli Storm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter.
She’s the only person on earth who still calls me by my full name, just like Mom used to when I misbehaved.
Shelby hands me a biscuit, whispering, “Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble.”
Dad says the blessing, and then we all dig in. The dining room fillswith the sounds of forks and knives clanking against plates, people talking over one another, and laughter. The chaos is comforting. This table, the people at this table—they’re my everything. Even when they drive me crazy.
Dad clears his throat halfway through dinner. “Anyone heard from Harleigh?”
“Yeah,” Matty says. “She’s been staying up late, stressing over finals. Said she’ll be home in three weeks.”
Harleigh is the youngest sister of the Storm family. She’s a sophomore at the University of Wyoming, studying business and hospitality management. She dreams of turning Wildhaven Storm into a vacation spot someday—a place with guest cabins, fun ranch activities, and even a rustic spa retreat.
But she’ll have to do it over Matty’s dead body.
“Good,” Grandma says, setting down her spoon. “This house feels half empty without her.”
Cabe chuckles. “You mean quieter and more peaceful.”
Shelby snickers into her glass of tea. “You think this is peaceful?”
