Page 3 of Riding the Storm
Cabe shrugs and continues to shovel food into his mouth.
The conversation drifts to the usual—fences needing mending, the lot of incoming horses, and how the weather might ruin our training schedule again. I half listen, mostly thinking about tomorrow’s lessons. I’ve got a couple of new riders coming, and one’s a seventy-six-year-old lady who decided to take up horseback riding as a hobby. Should be entertaining.
Matty sighs. “We’ve got three new boarders coming on Friday, and Caison’s sending over a stallion for training.”
I freeze mid-bite. “From Ironhorse?”
“Yeah,” she says casually.
“Why doesn’t Giles take care of it?” I ask.
“Seems they need a little reinforcement until their new training facility is up and running. Why?”
Caison Galloway is Matty’s new man and the manager of Ironhorse. It’s a thirty-thousand-acre cattle ranch that borders us to the west—well, now thirty-one thousand acres. Dad and Matty sold a thousand acres of our land to them last year. They made the tough decision to sell to save Wildhaven Storm, which had been struggling financially.Matty had fought as hard as she could to keep us afloat, but her back was against the wall. Caison gave us a more than fair price for the acreage, and the proceeds from the sale have gone a long way toward improving things around here. Still, it pisses me off that Holland Ludlow, owner of Ironhorse and Caison’s boss, decided to jump into the horse business all of a sudden. Granted, it’s high-dollar thoroughbred racehorses. Not to mention, they stole our head trainer, Giles Godwin, right out from under us—which felt pretty underhanded to me. But in the end, I got a promotion, and Matty ended up with a smokin’ hot boyfriend.
I shrug, stabbing at a chicken thigh, the mere thought of an Ironhorse stallion here at Wildhaven Storm frustrating me. “Just wondering.”
“Everything okay?” Matty asks, studying me.
“Fine,” I say too fast. “Just want to make sure you negotiated a good rate if I’m gonna train a horse for our competition.”
She narrows her eyes but lets it go. “Always do. Besides, it’s Case’s new horse. He handpicked him last week, and he said that there’s no one he’d rather have train him than you.”
That knocks some of the wind out of my sails. She knows I’m a Caison fan, and my tone softens. “Oh, you could have just said that. I’ll make sure he’s in excellent condition for him.”
After dinner, we all scatter—Dad and Grandpa to the den for a ball game, Cabe off to finish his evening chores, and us girls and Grandma to our usual cleanup routine. Grandma washes, I rinse, and Shelby dries while Matty puts everything away.
Afterward, I head back outside with a flashlight and walk the line of paddocks, just to say good night to the horses. It’s a habit. I like seeing them all bedded down, tails swishing.
The stars are out in full—tiny, bright, endless. It’s the kind of Wyoming night that makes you feel small in the best way.
I lean on the fence by the training arena, breathing in the cool night air. A coyote howls somewhere in the distance, and one of the geldings answers with a low snort.
Tomorrow, I’ll start early—muck stalls, ride the green colts, then begin work with a new student. Same routine, different day. But as Istand here, watching the moon settle over the ranch, I get this twinge of unease, like something is brewing I can’t quite explain. Like change is coming, and I’d better brace for it.
Either way, I know one thing for sure: storms don’t scare me. I was born to ride them.
The morning sun is harsh today. It bites the back of my neck and glints off the metal railings like it’s trying to blind me. I’m standing in the arena with a gentle older chestnut mare and my new geriatric client, Pearl, who looks like she’s one wrong move away from needing a hip replacement.
“Keep your heels down,” I call, watching her wobble in the saddle. “You’re sitting too far back. You’ve got to move with her, not against her.”
Pearl nods, biting her lip, eyes wide under her helmet. She may be in her seventies, but she rides like a nervous twelve-year-old.
The mare, Sweet Pea, is patient—thank God—but she’s starting to lose interest in this slow-motion circus. I can tell by the way her ears flick back, like she’s saying,You’re boring me, lady.
“That’s better,” I say when Pearl finally finds some rhythm. “Now breathe. Horses can tell when you’re holding your breath.”
Pearl lets out a shaky exhale, and Sweet Pea’s whole frame relaxes a little. They finally move as one for a few beautiful strides, and Pearl’s face takes on an expression of pure elation. It’s the kind of moment that makes all the yelling and sweating worth it.
When we’re done, I meet her at the gate, give her a smile, and pat the mare’s neck. “See? Not so bad.”
“I felt like I was going to die for a second there, but then it felt like I was flying, even though we were barely moving,” Pearl admits with a whimsical laugh.
“That’s the sweet spot,” I tease. “Means you’re conquering your fear.”
She laughs harder, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know about that. I was still shaking like a leaf.”
“I’ve been doing this since before I could tie my shoes,” I say, taking the reins. “A little bit of fear is good. It keeps you alert. Reminds you torespect the animal. You just have to learn to control it and not let it control you, is all.”
