Chapter Thirty-Four
It’s been a good day.
The kind that settles into my bones and makes everything feel steadier, even with all the usual chaos that comes with running a ranch and being a Storm.
The new ranch hands Matty hired are actually good—like, really good—which is nothing short of a miracle.
They move with purpose, they listen, and they don’t act like they’re allergic to hard work.
With them fully trained, the load has lightened just enough that Charli and I don’t feel like we’re constantly sprinting uphill.
Which is a blessing because Matty is … not okay.
Her morning sickness has decided to be an overachiever.
Like her finally telling us allowed it to come to full fruition.
Morning, afternoon, evening—she’s been miserable around the clock, pale and queasy and trying to pretend she isn’t.
I honestly don’t know how we didn’t figure it out sooner.
She was so good at hiding it, always pushing through.
Last night, she had Caison over for supper, and together, they announced the news to Grandma, Grandpa, and Dad.
There were tears. Grandpa cried, already placing his request for a great-grandson.
Daddy went quiet in that way he does when he’s overwhelmed, then hugged Matty so tight that she squeaked.
And Grandma? Grandma just nodded like she’d already known.
Of course she had.
“She’s been acting pregnant for weeks,” Grandma said. “I’ve just been waiting for her to confirm it.”
She also assures us the sickness is the worst in the first ten weeks, that the second trimester is much easier, which Matty is praying is true.
Harleigh left for campus this afternoon, and even though she’s been doing that for years now, it somehow gets harder every time. I stood on the porch and waved until her car disappeared down the drive, my chest aching.
May and her graduation can’t come soon enough.
Now I’m standing to the side of the arena, leaning against the rail, watching Waylon lead Ruby around the barrels. The late afternoon sun turns the dust golden, and Honey’s coat shines like polished copper as she moves beneath Ruby’s small, careful hands.
“Remember to make a pocket, Ruby,” I call. “Don’t run straight at the barrel. Use your leg like we practiced to drive Honey around it.”
Ruby nods so hard that her helmet almost tips. “Okay!”
“There you go. That’s good. Now look at the next barrel and use your hands like a steering wheel, coming out of the turn. A soft L. Don’t pull back.”
She bites her lip, concentrating, and does exactly what I said. Honey responds beautifully, bending and driving through the turn like an old pro.
My heart swells in that stupid, dangerous way it does when one of my kids and their horse clicks.
Waylon watches her with pride written all over his face. It hits me, not for the first time, how much he loves that little girl.
When Ruby finishes her next pattern, I step in and lead Ruby through a few circles and straight-line practice loops before we walk Honey to cool her down.
Waylon waits by the fence, and that’s when I notice Charli’s next client, Laney, standing awfully close to him.
Too close.
I pretend not to listen as I pass by, but their voices drift over.
“Noah is my nephew,” Laney says. “We should totally get him and Ruby together for a playdate sometime.”
“Yeah, sure,” Waylon replies. “That sounds good.”
Ruby calls his name then, and he turns away, excusing himself. He helps her down from the saddle, lifts her like she weighs nothing, and sets her on the ground. She immediately takes off toward the main house, shouting something about Grandma’s milk and cookies.
Waylon follows me and Honey into the barn, closing the door behind us to keep the breeze out.
“So,” I say casually, “a playdate, huh?”
He shrugs. “Noah’s a little boy in Ruby’s day care class. He wants to come out to Ironhorse to see the horses or something.”
I snort. “Right.”
“What?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“I think Laney’s the one who wants the playdate.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Are you jealous, Stormy?”
“Hardly,” I say, lifting Honey’s saddle off and hanging it on the rack. “You can play with whomever you like.”
“Yes, you are,” he says lightly.
“I am not.”
“So jealous—I can tell.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I add, defensive for no good reason.
He leans against the stall door, eyes warm, amused. “I know I can make you lose control with just these two fingers,” he says, wagging his extended fingers at me.
I hate that he’s right.
“Stop it.”
He stands and walks slowly toward me. “Should we test that theory again?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I retreat until my back is pressed into the stall door. He boxes me in. His big body hovering over mine. His hands resting against the wood.
“You sure?”
“Your daughter is waiting for you,” I say.
He brings his lips to my ear. “I can make it quick.”
He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and a shiver runs through me.
“Waylon,” I breathe, and even I don’t know if it’s a plea or a protest.
He kisses his way across my jaw. “How about you and I have our own playdate on Friday night?”
My eyes move from his mouth to his eyes. “Like a date, date?”
“Yeah, like a date, date. I’ll come to the door and pick you up like a gentleman. Take you to dinner. Bring you home at a respectable hour.”
“You are neither respectable nor a gentleman, Waylon Ludlow,” I tease as his mouth hovers over mine.
“I’ll do my best,” he says against my lips.
I arch into him, and he presses his mouth to mine in a scorching kiss that almost makes my legs give out.
His arms fall to my waist, and he pulls me into him as I kiss him back just as eagerly.
Then a throat clears.
We break apart to see Cabe standing at the end of the aisle, grinning at us. Waylon doesn’t let go. Instead, he tightens his grip.
“Kinda in the middle of something here, Cabe,” Waylon says calmly.
“I can see that,” Cabe replies. “But the contractor needs someone to sign off on a work order, and Matty isn’t in her office.”
“I got it,” I say as I try to wiggle out of Waylon’s grasp.
Cabe shakes his head. “I’ll tell him it’ll be a minute.”
As soon as he’s out of sight, Waylon grabs me and kisses me thoroughly before letting me go and walking toward the door. “Friday. Seven o’clock.”
“Seven o’clock,” I repeat.
I guess I’ve got myself a playdate.