Chapter Four
When I step through the sliding glass door with our bags in tow, the Jackson Hole air hits me like a slap—crisp, thin, mountain cold, even in May. Awe-inspiring snowcapped peaks look painted in the distance.
Shawn headed straight to the rental company inside the terminal to arrange our transportation, but I needed a moment to breathe.
I stretch my neck and roll my shoulders. They ache sometimes, especially after long flights. A stark reminder of all the times I hit the ground hard and got back up.
And how blessed I am.
Yes, this last fall was a doozy. But I’m far from broken down.
My body is as strong as it’s ever been. Honed by years of hard physical training, both in and out of the arena.
I’ve been lucky enough to have access to the most state-of-the-art equipment and facilities, as well as elite coaching and injury prevention conditioning, to refine my mental and physical game.
My core, grip, and leg strength are unparalleled in the sport.
Sure, I could up my cardio and flexibility games.
But the fucking hot yoga and long walks in the park that the last eighteen-year-old hippie therapist suggested sounded like sissy bullshit.
I’d rather deal with the stiff neck and aching shoulders.
A black Chevrolet Silverado pulls up with Shawn behind the wheel.
I toss my duffel in the bed with the rest of our bags and climb inside.
“You sure you can handle this thing?” I ask. “It’s a lot different from that little shiny Mercedes you zoom around Fort Worth in.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Just sit back and take a nap or something,” he snaps as he taps the screen on the dashboard.
“How far is this place—uh, what did you call it again?” I ask.
“Wildhaven. About an hour’s drive.”
“Wildhaven,” I repeat, half amused. “Sounds made up.”
“Small town, but it’s very real,” he says.
We pull out of the airport and hit the highway, winding through pine forests and valleys that look untouched by time. Cattle graze in distant pastures. Fences run for miles, silver wire glinting in the sun.
I start to see the appeal. It’s quiet, wild, rugged.
Maybe the name does fit.
Too bad I’m not here to relax or appreciate this natural beauty.
“You think this guy knows what he’s in for?” I ask.
Shawn grins like he knows something I don’t. “Doubtful. But hopefully, Charli Storm can handle one pissed-off bull rider.”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The closer we get to Wildhaven, the smaller the roads get.
The highway turns into two-lane blacktop, then to gravel, a cloud of dust kicking up behind us.
I see the ranch sign before I see the house—WILDHAVEN STORM RANCH, carved into rough cedar, a black iron horseshoe logo bolted along the top.
Beyond it, past half a mile of fencing and tall cottonwood trees, spreads a patchwork of fields, barns, stables, pens, and distant paddocks, where horses graze.
It’s not what I expected.
There’s nothing fancy about it, but it does have rustic charm—I’ll give it that.
We roll up the long drive toward the main house—a big timber-and-stone lodge. There’s a massive barn to the left with a few riders already working with horses in the arena.
“Welp,” Shawn says. “This is it.”
I climb out of the truck, boots hitting gravel. It smells like hay, horse, and mountain air. Refreshing. Comforting even.
A woman steps out of the barn—tall, blonde, wearing a denim shirt and a fixed smile. As she walks toward us, I notice the way she moves with easy authority—calm, confident, the kind of stride that says she’s not impressed by much.
“You must be Raintree,” she says when we meet halfway.
“Bryce,” I confirm. “Or Ry. Whichever you prefer.”
She nods once. “Matty Storm. I’m the manager here at the ranch.”
We shake hands, firm and brief. Her grip says she’s all business.
“This your handler?” she asks, glancing at Shawn.
“Agent,” Shawn corrects. “Shawn Norris.”
Matty gives him a curt nod. “Well, Mr. Norris, I’ll take it from here.”
Shawn grins. “Good luck.”
I glance at him. “You’re not staying?”
“You don’t need me to hold your hand. I delivered you, as promised, and I’ll be here to pick you back up in August.”
“Pick me up?” I say. “You aren’t leaving me here without a ride.”
“Why? So you can escape the minute I’m gone?” he says, shaking his head. “You’ll be staying at a cabin here on the property. And Miss Storm has assured us that someone will be able to take you back and forth into town whenever you need something they haven’t provided.”
“So, I’m a fucking prisoner. Great.”
Matty looks me over, slow and assessing, like she’s sizing up a horse before buying. “Not a prisoner,” she says. “We’re here to help you, not hold you against your will, Mr. Raintree. We have plenty of ranch trucks, ATVs, and horses, in case you didn’t notice.”
Her tone makes me feel like a reprimanded child. Which I do not like.
“Fine, whatever,” I reply, marching back to the truck to grab my things.
Shawn sighs as he follows me. “Can you at least be civil?”
“You never said I was gonna be stuck out here without wheels of my own. I thought I was going to be in a hotel in town or something.”
“They had the empty cabin and offered it. I thought it’d be good for you to stay out here, close to the place.”
“And out of trouble,” I finish for him.
“That too.”
I toss the duffel bag over my shoulder and take the handle to my suitcase. Then I turn back to Matty. “Point me to my bunkhouse.”
“I thought I’d introduce you to Charli first. She’ll be your new trainer,” Matty replies.
She?
My eyes shift to Shawn, and he has the nerve to look apologetic.
“Charli is a woman?”
“Is that a problem?” Matty asks.
My eyes flit back to her. She crosses her arms across her chest and glares back at me defiantly.
“Of course not,” I grit out.
“Good. Because she’s one hell of a trainer and deserves respect.” She emphasizes the last word and narrows her eyes.
“You got it,” I say.
She turns toward the riding arena to the left of the barn and calls out, “Charli, come here for a second, will ya? I want to introduce you to someone.”
My eyes land on a vision—dark hair tumbling in loose waves down her shoulders catching the sunlight as she moves.
Her jeans fit like they were made for her, hugging strong legs that grip the saddle with firm control.
Her white ruffled blouse is tucked in at the waist, the fabric soft and feminine, a stark contrast to the worn, rugged leather boots on her feet.
Her cowboy hat sits low on her brow, shadowing sharp, determined eyes as she guides the horse beneath her—every movement fluid, confident, commanding.
The reins respond to the slightest shift of her wrist, the horse reading her with ease.
There’s power in her posture, elegance in the way she leans forward, coaxing the animal into a perfect turn.
I watch as she leads the horse to the gate, unable to look away.
She dismounts and then pats the horse’s muzzle and speaks softly to it before setting it loose. Then she exits the arena and heads to where we’re standing. Stopping at Matty’s side.
“Charli, I’d like you to meet Bryce Raintree,” Matty introduces. “Bryce, this is my sister Charli Storm. She’s the head horse and riding trainer here at Wildhaven Storm, and she’s the one you’ll be working with and answering to while you’re here.”
Answering to?
I let the question slide as she outstretches her arm and I take her offered hand.
“Bryce—your ward, apparently,” I clip.
Her eyes narrow slightly at my comment.
“Charli, and I’m nobody’s babysitter,” she says.
“Yeah, well, that’s what the hell it sounds like to me,” I say, swinging my eyes back to Shawn, who just shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, ladies. Ry’s not usually this impolite.
He’s just being an ass because he’s mad at me.
He’s not exactly enthusiastic about the direction his career is veering toward and apparently blames me instead of the doctors’ sound medical advice.
But I’m hoping that he’ll come around after you’ve had a chance to work with him, Miss Storm. ”
Charli steps forward, and her sapphire-blue eyes home in on me. “I’m not your enemy. I’m here to help you.”
I laugh. “Contrary to what Shawn has told you, I don’t need help. I just need time.”
She clicks her tongue. “Let’s get one thing straight, Raintree.
You do need my help, and I’m not here to be your whipping post. So, whatever frustration you have with your predicament, you need to point it elsewhere.
I’m not gonna put up with a shitty attitude.
I’m here to work. You’re here to work. And as long as you do that, we’ll get along just fine.
You show up late or hungover or if you half-ass it, I’ll put you on the next plane back to wherever the hell you came from.
But if you listen and follow the program I put together, I’ll teach you how to stay on a bronc and maybe save your career. Fair?”
Teach me how to stay on a bronc? I have to hold back my laughter.
“Guess we’ll see,” I say.
She smirks. “I’ve broken harder men than you, cowboy.”
My gaze goes to hers.
“And how do you know how hard I am?” I ask.
Shawn chokes beside me, and all our eyes go to him.
“Sorry.” He coughs as he beats on his chest.
Charli looks over her shoulder. “Matty, show our guest where to drop his bags.” Then she swings back around to me. Her eyes flicker with challenge. “We’ll get started after lunch, Mr. Raintree.”
“Bryce. But my friends call me Ry.”
“Great. Bryce it is,” she quips. “You’ve got an hour. We’ll start with groundwork.”
“Groundwork?” I echo, incredulous. “I’m not some fucking rookie.”
“Good. Then prove it.”
She turns and walks back toward the barn. I stand there for a second, watching her go before glancing at Shawn.
“What the fuck, Shawn?”
“Stay positive,” he says, grinning. “She’s exactly what you need.”
I scowl. “I need a drink.”
He laughs. “After training.” He looks to Matty. “He’s all yours.”
I watch as the truck disappears down the drive. I feel that familiar coil of defiance tightening in my gut. I don’t like being told what to do.
Never have.
But I’ve got no choice but to play along—for now.
Because the truth is, even if I hate every second of this, I don’t know what else I’d do at the moment. All I’ve ever wanted to be was a bull rider. Chasing rodeos is all I know how to do.
I was born for the arena and the crowds.
It’s my world.
And this might be my only chance left to stay a part of it.
I grasp my suitcase and turn to Matty, giving her a tight smile. “Lead the way.”
She guides us to a dirt path that runs behind the main house, through a garden, and into a grove of tall lodgepole pines. Just beyond the forest, dense with straight trees, stands a cabin.
It’s tiny but proud, built with weathered pine logs—the kind that look like they’ve weathered decades of Rocky Mountains snow and sun.
The roof is tin, faded to a matte gray, and the porch runs the length of the front, sagging just slightly in the middle, like a few of the old boards could use replacing.
A pair of rocking chairs sits on either side of the door, and an old rusted horseshoe hangs above it.
We climb the porch steps. From here, the view to the left opens wide—fenced pastures, distant mountains, the faint glimmer of a creek winding through the meadow. Before I can take it all in, Matty steps ahead, taking a key from the pocket of her jeans. She unlocks and pushes open the front door.
“Come on in,” she says, and the screen creaks softly behind her.
Inside, it’s warm and inviting. The floorboards groan beneath my boots, worn smooth from years of use.
The paneled walls are honeyed pine, with framed black-and-white photos—horses, barns, and an old split-rail fence, holding a calf rope and cowboy hat.
A stone fireplace anchors the room, its mantel displaying a television with an antenna.
The scent of bleach lingers in the air.
Matty gestures toward a miniature kitchen tucked into one corner—just enough room for a two-burner stovetop, slim fridge, microwave, a coffeepot, a green enamel sink, and open shelves, stacked with mismatched mugs and plates.
A short hallway leads to a bedroom with a handmade quilt spread neatly over the queen-size bed, sunlight spilling through the window and catching on the brass frame.
“There’s a bathroom across the hall. It’s small, but it has hot water and clean towels,” Matty says. “It’s not fancy, like you’re probably used to, but it should be comfortable.”
“It’s great,” I say, and I mean it.
The cabin has a quiet appeal, the kind of peace you only find when the rest of the world feels a hundred miles away.
Matty smiles. “Well, get settled in. And when you’re ready, come over to the ranch house. We’ll get you some lunch and introduce you to everyone else.”
With that, she hands the key to me and leaves me alone in what will be my home for the next ninety days.