Chasing the Storm (The Wildhaven Ranch #3)

Chapter One

“What about food?” Grandma asks as I fill my thermos to the top.

“No time this morning, Grandma. I have a six-thirty barrel lesson scheduled so Charli can have the space at eight a.m. The Boardman Ranch is bringing in a few colts for her to begin cutting training,” I say.

“I don’t care. You need to eat something,” Grandma insists.

Evelyn Storm is the matriarch of our family.

She and Grandpa Earl moved in to help Daddy run the ranch when our mother, Miriam, passed away thirteen years ago.

They’ve since retired from ranch work, but Grandma still runs the house, and Grandpa has taken to fishing, gardening, and keeping the chickens.

Sighing, I reach over and grab a biscuit from the pan on the stove, place it between my teeth, screw the lid onto my thermos, lean in for her to kiss my cheek, and haul ass out into the damp September morning.

I can’t wait for the expansion to be finished.

Sharing the training space on the ranch has become increasingly difficult over the past year as our client list has grown.

Matty, our oldest sister and ranch manager, does the best she can to keep us out of each other’s way, but with the majority of my and our sister, Charli’s, riding students being school age, there are only so many hours we can work around.

Charli breaks and trains horses and new riders. I work with horses and riders who do specialty training—barrel racing, jumping, breakaway roping, and trick riding specifically.

Luckily, Charli can train horses at any time of day, so she’s been trying to focus on that until construction is completed.

So, today, I’m rushed. I hate being rushed. Therefore, I’m already irritated before the first hammer strikes.

The morning starts great—clear Wyoming blue sky, stretched wide over Wildhaven Storm Ranch, the air smelling like frost-covered grass and the piping hot coffee in my travel mug.

The round pen sits just east of the main riding arena, tucked close enough to the barns that I can keep an eye on the comings and goings, but far enough away that young horses don’t spook at every truck that makes its way down the gravel drive.

Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Today, that theory is getting tested.

“Again,” I call, clapping my hands once as Sylvia brings the gelding around for another approach. “Set him up earlier this time. Don’t rush the pocket.”

Sylvia nods, lips pressed tight with concentration beneath the brim of her helmet.

She’s fifteen, all lanky limbs and youthful ambition, with a new barrel horse her parents mortgaged half their farm to afford.

He’s a gorgeous sorrel with too much energy and not enough patience yet, but there’s something good there. Something I can definitely work with.

They lope the pattern, dirt puffing beneath his hooves, and just as Sylvia heads into her turn—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The gelding jerks sideways, head flying up, and Sylvia yanks instinctively on the reins, losing her line and nearly coming out of her seat.

The hell was that?

“Whoa, whoa. Easy, Chestnut,” she calls, voice cracking.

I spin toward the sound, my jaw tightening as a jackhammer thunders again, loud enough that it rattles my back teeth.

“You okay?” I shout.

Sylvia shrugs, cheeks flushed. “I think so. Chestnut sure didn’t like that.”

“No kidding,” I mutter.

I lift my hand, signaling her to walk it out, then jam my thermos down on the fence rail. I’ve dealt with spooking horses, stubborn horses, dangerous horses. I have not dealt with construction crews deciding mid-morning that the space between our training pens is the perfect place to raise hell.

I take a deep breath and try to refocus my attention, but the noise doesn’t let up.

It gets progressively worse.

Metal clanks, engines rev, and backup signals wail. Someone yells something I can’t make out over the racket, and the hammering continues to echo through the air.

My irritation tips over into full-blown aggravation.

“Hold tight,” I tell Sylvia, already unhooking the gate. “I’ll be right back.”

I stride across the packed dirt, boots biting into the ground with every step.

As I get closer, the scene comes into focus—four trucks parked crooked near the fence line, a skid steer idling, a concrete mixer, and three men arguing over a blueprint that’s spread across the hood of one of the shiny pickups.

Another jackhammer slams into the earth.

“Hey!” I shout, lifting an arm and waving it at one of the construction crew members. “Can you kill that thing for a minute?”

The man holding it glances up, shrugs, and keeps going.

Oh no, you don’t.

I march straight toward him and jab a finger toward the ground. “I said shut it off!”

This time, he does, lifting his goggles and scowling at me like I’m the inconvenience here.

“What?” he barks.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

One of the other men—older, rounder, with a neon vest stretched tight across his gut—steps forward. He looks me up and down, eyes lingering a beat too long.

“We’re pouring concrete for the feeding pads, and Frank here is boring the holes for the anchors,” he says.

“Anchors for what?” I ask, already knowing I’m not going to like the answer.

“Fence panels,” he says. “Chutes go up next.”

My stomach drops. “Chutes for what?”

He sighs like I’m slow. “Bull riding arena.”

I stare at him.

Then I laugh. A sharp, humorless sound that surprises even me.

“No,” I say, “you’re not. Not here anyway.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

“The bull riding arena is going on the other side of the new stables,” I say, pointing west. “Away from the riding pens. Away from the horses. Away from the kids.”

He folds his arms. “That’s not what the plans say.”

“I’m pretty sure they do,” I say.

“Well, I’m pretty sure they don’t.”

“Then your plans are wrong,” I state.

His jaw tightens. “Look, lady—”

I step closer, close enough that he has to look down at me. “You’re going to have to move it.”

Now he laughs. “That’s not happening.”

“It is,” I say flatly.

“We’ve already got the land cleared,” he snaps. “You don’t just move something like this.”

“Great,” I reply. “Then the new riding arena can go here. Problem solved.”

His face reddens. “That’s not what Bryce wants.”

The name lands heavy, deliberate.

Bryce Raintree. Pro bull rider. My sister Charli’s boyfriend and Wildhaven Storm Ranch’s new business partner.

He; our father, Albert Storm; and Matty have joined forces to open a new state-of-the-art rodeo school here in Wildhaven.

Construction of the Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy began late last fall and went full throttle through the spring and summer, starting with additional stables, a cookhouse and dining hall, bunkhouses for the school’s students, and a cluster of small cabins for the academy’s staff.

Now the contractors have moved on to the new training facilities, which include large indoor and outdoor arenas for bronc riding, barrel racing, roping, and ranch event training, as well as a fully equipped bull riding arena.

It’s been a nuisance, but we’ve all tolerated it as best we could while we continue to work through the construction chaos.

I cross my arms. “Bryce also isn’t standing here, watching my student nearly get launched because your crew can’t read a blueprint or map.”

He shrugs. “Your students aren’t my concern. Leading my crew and getting our work done is.”

“Getting your work done correctly,” I snap.

He shakes his head. “We’ve already got the drainage and subbase layer completed, and Bryce wants the bull riding arena operational first.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “But you have to move it.”

“We can’t just pick it up and move it over like a piece on a chessboard.”

“Then start over.”

“If we do that,” he says, voice rising, “it’s gonna set us back an entire month.”

“It’d better not.”

His eyes narrow. “I need to speak to Bryce.”

“Well, Bryce is on the back of a bull in Oregon,” I say sweetly, “so you’ll have to deal with me.”

He exhales sharply and leans in, dropping his voice, like that makes it any less offensive. “Look, sweetheart—”

“Miss Storm.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You may call me Miss Storm.”

Something flickers across his face—annoyance, calculation, maybe the realization that I’m not backing down.

He lets out a frustrated breath. “Look, Miss Storm. Moving it now will cost us at least three weeks and will triple the cost.”

“No, it won’t,” I say. “Because this is your fuckup. We have a contract, and I expect you to do the job within the budget and time frame of that contract.”

He mutters, “Fucking women,” under his breath, but I hear it anyway.

My spine goes straight as a board.

He looks up again, snapping, “That’s not how it works. I work for Connor Construction, not Wildhaven Storm. And I take orders from my boss, not from you.”

“That’s exactly how it’s gonna work,” I say. “And you wanna know why?”

I turn and point across the pasture toward the ranch house porch.

Matty stands there with Grandma Evelyn, arms crossed, posture rigid, eyes locked on us. Even from the long distance, I can feel her attention sharpen.

“She’s the manager of this ranch,” I say, “and Bryce’s business partner. She also happens to be engaged to Caison Galloway, who’s the manager over at Ironhorse Ranch.”

His Adam’s apple bobs.

“And if memory serves,” I continue, “Connor Construction is supposed to break ground on Ironhorse’s new multimillion-dollar expansion next month. Correct?”

Sweat beads on his brow. His mouth opens, then closes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’d be a shame,” I say calmly, “if we had to inform them of how incompetent and disrespectful your company had been. I bet your boss wouldn’t be too happy if he got a call from Holland Ludlow.”

Holland Ludlow is the billionaire owner of the neighboring cattle ranch, Ironhorse. We sold them a thousand acres of our land last year because Holland decided that he wanted to break into thoroughbred racehorse ownership.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant nickering of horses and the idle hum of machinery.

Finally, he nods once. “I’ll make some calls.”

“You do that,” I say. “And shut it down for now.”

He gestures sharply to his crew. The jackhammer dies. The whirl of the cement mixer halts.

I turn and walk away before he can say another word, my pulse still pounding, hands trembling just slightly with leftover adrenaline.

When I reach the round pen, Sylvia looks at me, wide-eyed.

“Are they done?” she asks.

“For now,” I say. “You handled that spook really well. I’m proud of you.”

She smiles, relief easing her shoulders. “Thanks.”

I lean on the fence, watching her walk the gelding, my gaze drifting back toward the house.

Matty lifts a hand in a small salute. Grandma gives me a nod.

I smile to myself.

Let them pour concrete wherever they want—as long as they remember whose ground they’re standing on. This is Storm land. And when you deal with Storm land, you deal with Storm women.