Chapter Five
The kitchen is cool and inviting. I find Grandma Evelyn at the island, stirring her pasta salad—the kind she makes with elbow macaroni, chopped celery, and that tangy, creamy dressing that we all love so much.
I walk over to the sink and wash my hands before joining her to layer slices of ham and cheese between soft white bread.
She’s got her sleeves rolled up, her silver hair tied back in a sleek bun, and she’s humming some old George Strait song like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Me? I’ve got plenty of cares—starting with the six-foot-something headache I met twenty minutes ago.
“Grandma,” I say, a little sharper than I meant to, “you would not believe the cowboy they just dropped off here.”
She glances up, not missing a beat as she slides the bowl aside and starts slicing tomatoes for the sandwiches. “Oh, I believe I might,” she says, her tone mild and knowing. “That’d be the bull rider Matty was expecting, right? Bryce something?”
“Bryce Raintree,” I mutter, dragging a stool out from the island and plopping onto it. “And, yes, that’s him. Mr. Professional Bull Rider turned”—I make air quotes—“ ‘future bronc rider.’ Except he doesn’t seem too thrilled about any of it.”
Grandma’s lips curve into that small, patient smile she saves for when one of us is riled up about something and she’s about to start spouting her old-lady wisdom. “Well, I can’t imagine he’s jumping for joy. That’s a big change.”
“Yeah, but does that give him a right to be rude?” I lean forward, still wound tight. “I mean, I barely said hello before he looked me up and down like he was sizing up a problem he didn’t want to deal with.”
She stops slicing and glances over her glasses at me. “Maybe he was.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Maybe you’re a problem he doesn’t want to deal with,” she says matter-of-factly, laying the knife aside and wiping her hands on her apron. “At least not yet.”
That earns a short, frustrated laugh from me. “You sound like you’re taking his side.”
“I’m not taking sides, sweetheart. I’m just saying, think about it.
That young man’s probably spent his whole adult life being the top dog in one arena, and now folks are telling him he has to start over in another.
That’d be hard on any man, especially one who’s made a career out of being fearless and strong. ”
I huff, staring at the flecks of gold in the green-and-black-veined granite of the island. She’s not wrong. But still.
“Fearless doesn’t mean arrogant,” I say. “He looked at me like he expected me to be impressed or intimidated or something. I told him I was here to help with his transition, and he laughed—laughed—and said he didn’t need help, just time.”
Grandma chuckles. “Sounds like pride to me.”
“More like ego.”
Before she can reply, the screen door creaks, and Matty walks in, tugging her hair tie loose and letting her long curls fall down her back.
“Well,” she says, heading straight for the fridge to pour herself a glass of tea, “that was interesting.”
I tilt my head. “You showed him the cabin?”
“Mmhmm.” She gulps half the glass, then sets it down and leans on the counter. “He’s … exactly how I expected him to be.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s about as thrilled to be here as you are to have him here.”
“Great,” I groan. “Grandma thinks I should cut him some slack.”
At that, Grandma looks up from the sandwiches. “Not slack, dear. Grace. There’s a difference.”
Matty smiles faintly, though there’s hope in her eyes. “She’s right, Charli. It’s gotta sting for him. From what I heard, his management practically staged an intervention to get him out here. Must’ve been humiliating.”
“Still doesn’t give him license to act like an ass,” I mutter.
Grandma waves me off. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll come around once he realizes no one here’s out to embarrass him. Give him a chance.”
I’m about to argue when a sharp rap of knuckles sounds against the kitchen’s doorframe.
All three of us turn.
And there he is.
Bryce Raintree.
Crap. Where did he come from?
He’s leaning with one shoulder against the frame, hat tipped low, eyes locked right on me.
Those eyes—blue gray, like a thundercloud rolling over open plains—bore into mine.
His face is rugged, jaw lined with a well-groomed beard, cheekbones carved like he was chiseled from the Teton mountains.
His T-shirt stretches over a broad chest, his shoulders so wide that they nearly fill the entire doorway.
And of course, that crooked smirk of his is back.
The one that says he knows he’s good-looking and he’s used to people noticing.
My pulse betrays me, and there’s one hard thud in my chest before I cross my arms and meet his gaze with every ounce of steel I can muster.
We stand there in a silent standoff for a good five seconds.
Then Grandma clears her throat. “Well, now, you must be this famous bull rider I’ve been hearing about.”
Instant transformation. His smirk softens into a charming grin, and his posture straightens, like he’s a gentleman from an old Western movie. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat politely. “Bryce Raintree. It’s real nice to meet you.”
The sudden shift makes me snort. Twenty minutes ago, I was the enemy. But a grandmotherly smile, and he’s all cowboy manners and charm.
Grandma extends her hand, and he takes it lightly. “Welcome to Wildhaven Storm Ranch, Bryce. I’m Evelyn Storm. Grandmother to these girls here.”
He smiles, and the warmth of it fills the kitchen. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she says, glancing at me with a pleased expression. “We were just about to set lunch out on the porch. You hungry?”
He hesitates only for a second before that smile deepens. “Yes, ma’am. I could eat.”
“Good. You can carry the sandwiches out for me.” She picks up the platter we just loaded.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, moving easily to take it from her hands.
Matty glances at me, and her eyes widen. Her face says, See? He’s not so bad.
I grab the bowl of pasta salad, biting back my irritation at how smoothly he turned the charm on.
Grandma leads the way out to the wraparound porch, where the long wooden table awaits, sun streaming through the trees. The smell of the fields drifts over—grass, hay, and horses.
Daddy and Grandpa Earl are already seated at the far end, arguing good-naturedly about something or other.
Grandma gets their attention. “Gentlemen, we’ve got company today. This is Bryce Raintree.” She stops and lays a hand on Daddy’s shoulder. “Bryce, this is my son and the girls’ father, Albert, and that old geezer next to him is my husband, Earl.”
Daddy looks up first, assessing with those sharp eyes that have seen a lifetime of people come and go. “Bryce Raintree, huh? I know that name.”
Grandpa leans back in his chair. “Ain’t you the one who rode Widowmaker for eight seconds back in ’19?”
Bryce’s grin flickers into something genuine. “That’s me.”
“That was something, son. Only one to ever score on him.”
“Yeah, I was younger and feistier then,” Bryce says.
Daddy lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. We don’t get many legends around this table.”
“Not counting me,” Grandpa says with a wink.
Bryce chuckles, ducking his head a little, clearly pleased to be recognized by the two of them, but trying not to show it too much.
Just then, Shelby bounces up the front steps, her braid swinging, followed by Cabe.
“Looks good,” Shelby says, plopping into a chair and grabbing a sandwich. Then she spots Bryce and freezes. “Wait.” Her eyes come to me. “Is that—”
Bryce turns toward her, offering his hand. “Bryce. Pleasure.”
Shelby shakes it, eyes wide. “Oh my God, Charli, that’s the Bryce Raintree.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know.” Figures she’d recognize him, seeing as she spent a year on the rodeo circuit herself.
Cabe looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “No way! Dude, I’ve watched every one of your rides. I saw you at Cheyenne. You rode Widowmaker like it was nothin’.”
Bryce’s grin widens. “You were there?”
“Front row!” Cabe says, practically glowing. “Man, you’re a freaking beast.”
Matty laughs softly. “Cabe’s our cousin. He’s the youngest brother of Axle and Royce Trust.”
“No shit,” Bryce says, his eyes flitting to Grandma. “Sorry, ma’am.”
She waves him off with a smile.
He focuses back on Cabe. “Those boys can ride. Hell, Axle is going to be better than me one day.”
Cabe’s grin stretches wider. “Wait till I tell him you said that.”
Bryce chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “You do that. Tell ’em both I said they still owe me a beer from Vegas.”
That earns laughter around the table.
I sit across from him, arms folded for a second before I finally reach for a sandwich. I can feel his gaze now and then, flickering up from his plate. Staring like he’s trying to figure me out.
When our eyes meet, he smirks again.
I arch a brow in warning.
He grins wider.
God help me, he’s infuriating.
Grandma starts questioning him as we eat. “So, Bryce,” she says, spooning some pasta salad onto his plate, “what made you decide to switch from bulls to broncs?”
He hesitates, his fork pausing midair. For a moment, that easy charm falters. Then he shrugs, forcing a tight smile. “Didn’t really decide, ma’am. Doctors told me I’m one bad fall away from being out of commission for good. Bulls are … well, less forgiving than horses, I guess.”
A shadow flickers in his eyes before he looks down. “My team figured broncs might be a better option if I wanted to stay in the game a few more years.”
The table quiets for a heartbeat, all that bravado replaced by something rawer—bitterness maybe. Bruised pride.
Grandma nods slowly. “That must be hard.”
He gives a half laugh with no humor in it. “Yeah. Feels like being told I can’t do what I was born to do.”
That hits me unexpectedly. For all his attitude, I hear the truth in his voice—the loss, the sadness.
I glance at Matty. She’s watching him, too, thoughtful.
“Well,” Grandma says after a moment, “you’re in good hands here. Charli’s one of the best riders in the state. She’ll get you where you need to be.”
Bryce looks up at me then, eyes steady. “Guess I’ll find out.”
The words are polite, but there’s an edge to them.
“Guess you will,” I reply evenly, stabbing at my pasta salad.
Grandpa clears his throat, clearly sensing the tension. “So, Bryce, where you from?”
“I live in Texas now, but I’m from Oklahoma originally,” he says. “Grew up outside Tulsa.”
Daddy nods. “Good horse country.”
“Good bull country too,” Bryce adds, flashing a grin.
“Got to stop concentrating on bulls.” I can’t help but say it, my tone a little sharper than intended.
He meets my eyes again, slow and deliberate. “Not gonna be easy there, Chuck.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Chuck?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yep.”
Grandpa chuckles. “I get it. Like Peppermint Patty used to call Charlie Brown.”
I growl under my breath. That makes Bryce’s grin widen.
“Well, you’re gonna have to stop fixating if you wanna ride broncs. Horses aren’t bulls. They don’t forgive heavy hands.”
His lips twitch. “You assuming I’ve got heavy hands, darlin’?”
I glare at him. “I’m assuming you’ve got something to prove. And it’s Charli. Not darlin’. Not Chuck.”
“Maybe I do. Have something to prove, that is.”
The table goes quiet again.
Then Grandma laughs softly. “Well, looks to me like you two are gonna have plenty of fun, working together.”
Matty gives me a look—half warning, half amusement. “Charli’s never met a challenge she couldn’t handle.”
Bryce grins. “Good. I like a challenge myself.”
Cabe grins too, oblivious to the underlying agitation. “This is gonna be awesome. Charli, you’re gonna train Bryce Raintree. That’s insane.”
“Insane is one word for it,” I mutter.
Grandma rises, clapping her hands softly. “All right, that’s enough talk. Eat up, all of you. There’s work to be done.”
We all eat until the platter and bowl are empty. Bryce jumps up first to help Grandma clear the table, and of course, she beams like he’s her new favorite person.
“Thank you, dear,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies smoothly, carrying the platter inside.
When he passes behind me, I catch the faint scent of leather, sweat, and his spicy cologne—the kind of smell that makes you think of long days in the saddle and racy nights at home. It’s maddening how effortlessly masculine he is.
Matty leans toward me and murmurs, “Be nice.”
I shoot her a glare. “Define nice.”
She grins. “Not starting a fight on day one.”
I sigh, resting my chin in my hand. “We’ll see.”
Daddy claims Bryce before us girls have finished clearing the table. He helps him carry feed buckets into the barn, and I watch them from the window.
Broad back, easy stride.
Grandma joins me by the sink, rinsing dishes. “He’s a proud one,” she says.
“Yep.”
She glances at me. “And you’re a stubborn one.”
I laugh under my breath. “Guilty as charged.”
“Then maybe you’ll understand him better than you think.”
I observe him in the distance, sunlight catching on his belt buckle, his easy laugh carrying faintly back through the open window.
Maybe.
But understanding him doesn’t mean liking him.
And if Bryce Raintree thinks he’s gonna stroll into my arena and charm his way through this training, he’s got another thing coming.
Because I might not have eight-second rides under my belt, but I know how to handle something wild. How to tame the unruly.
And I’m not about to let this cocky cowboy throw me off.