Page 87 of Riding the Storm
Cabe nods. “Axle said he called you. Something about respect and cowboy ethics.”
“What’s that? Arespect your eldersrule?” she teases.
I turn back to her and narrow my eyes. A warning that says,I’ll show you who’s an elder.
Her lips twitch. The minx reads me loud and clear.
When we make it to Wildhaven, I roll down the window and take a deep breath. Flying and staying in a hotel was fun for a few days, but I’m glad to be back. It might not be home, but I’ve grown fond of that little cabin in the woods.
I unpack my duffel and go out in search of Albert. Charli decided sheneeded a long bath and nap after the early wake-up call and long morning of flying, so it’s the perfect opportunity for me to catch up with him.
Albert doesn’t say much when I ask if I can take him to a late lunch. He just studies me for a long second, like he’s trying to figure out what I could want to discuss in private. Then he gives one small nod.
“Sure,” he says. “Jeep’s out front. We’ll go grab a bite at the diner.”
We walk across the gravel drive toward his old green Wrangler. He climbs behind the wheel, and I slide into the passenger seat, trying to look relaxed even though my heart’s hammering like I just drew a rank bull.
The engine grumbles to life, and we pull out, bumping down the long gravel road that stretches from the Storm property to the highway.
“So,” Albert says finally, glancing at me over the top of his sunglasses, “what’s this all about?”
“I was hoping to run an idea by you,” I say. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while now.”
“All right.”
We drive in silence for a few miles. The hum of the tires and the steady rattle of the Jeep fill the space between us. Out here, there’s nothing but open land—sagebrush, scattered pines, and fences that go on forever. Cows and horses graze in the distance.
The old diner comes into view—a squat little building with a faded red sign that readsThe Golden Griddle.
Albert turns into the dirt lot and parks under the shade of a cottonwood.
“It ain’t fancy, but trust me, the food’s good,” he says, killing the engine.
Inside, the diner smells like deep-fried grease and coffee that’s been sitting on the burner a little too long. The walls are lined with old rodeo photos, all curled at the corners. Old cowboys caught midair, spurs flashing, ropes flying. I instantly feel right at home.
We slide into a booth near the front window. A waitress with silver hair and eyebrows that look permanently painted on drops off two menus and a pot of coffee.
“Usual, Albert?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Albert says and looks at me.
I take a quick look at the menu.
“I’ll take a cheeseburger with extra pickles and fries.”
“You got it, sugar,” the waitress says, pouring our coffee before disappearing back behind the counter.
Albert leans back, one arm draped over the booth. “All right, Bryce, let’s hear it.”
Here goes nothing.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a rodeo school,” I say. “A real one. Not just a weekend clinic or a training camp, but a full program. Courses, instructors, livestock, the works.”
His brows lift slightly. “Sounds like quite the undertaking.”
“Yeah, it is.”
I take a sip of coffee, trying to steady my thoughts. “It’d be coed. I want it to cater to both men’s and women’s events—barrel racing, roping, bronc and bull riding. Not just the glamourous events, but the tough stuff too. Each discipline would have specialized training, instructors who know what they’re doing. The goal would be to get riders ready for the professional circuit, no matter what event they’re in.”
