Storm's Saddle on Ice

Prologue Silas

Prologue

Thirteen years ago

I was steps away from the Saddle Room when I heard Dad’s unmistakable voice—low and controlled, the way it got when he was angry but wasn’t about to show it.

Hasn’t shown much of any emotion since Mom died.

Then Mr. Dalton’s voice cuts in. His was raw and sharp, almost spiteful. Not one I’ve heard before.

My instinct was to not interrupt. It was probably just business. But I’d been waiting for Dad back at the house for the past hour, since he was driving me to my travel game.

“This isn’t about you, it’s that damn kid,” I heard Mr. Dalton snap.

My chest pulls tight, because I now know this is about me.

“That damn kid is my son,” Dad growls back, and I can feel the simmer in his throat. And that’s all I needed to hear.

I don’t bother knocking and push the door open, hockey bag slung over my shoulder, the smell of dust and sweat clinging to me from the jog over here.

“Oh hey, Mr. Dalton.” I nod respectfully, even if it is a little clipped. Then glance at Dad, his tight jaw, confirming the thick tension in the room. “I can ask Dallas to drive me?” My question comes flat because I don’t intend on leaving—not when there’s a man here attacking a grieving widower.

Dad exhales as he checks his watch. “No. No. I’ll get you over there. And if we miss it, I’ll drive you down to Aspen myself.” Dad turns back to the other man, the edge returning to his voice. “Mr. Dalton was just leaving. Maybe even for good.”

For good? What the hell had I walked in on?

Does that mean Storm isn’t coming back either?

Mr. Dalton and his daughter were only ever here in the summers. He and Dad became instant friends when his family visited the ranch years ago—and after moving to town, he began working here during our busiest season. And brought his firecracker of a kid with pigtails along with him.

Whatever this is about—they need to fix it. Because I need Storm this summer.

We’re not kids anymore . . . and pranks are definitely off the table this year. No one’s in the mood for jokes. But in her odd little way, she makes me feel like I belong here.

Storm’s dad sweeps his eyes over me like I’m a stray. His face tight. “Headin’ out?”

“Uh—yeah,” I answered. “Got an end of season game over at—”

“Hockey—yes. Listen,” he sticks his hands in his pockets, gaze dropping briefly before coming back hard. “I don’t care what you do with your time—who you run with or what kind of man they’re raising you to be.”

“Tom,” Dad warns.

“But don’t bring my daughter along for the ride.”

It’s the gut punch I was waiting for. “Storm?” My grip tightens on the strap of my bag. “Did I—”

“You took her out on the lake,” he snaps, as if I’m playing stupid. Then slower, heavier, “Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

Guilt washes over me and I glance at Dad.

He knows the boys and I play hockey on the frozen lake here in town.

I brought Storm along to meet my friends, and she wanted to get on the ice.

It wasn’t like I forced her. Nor was she the only girl there that night.

Sure it was risky, but so was half the shit Storm and I did right here on the ranch.

When Mom was still here. Laughing with us instead of worrying.

She’d shoot out the occasional warning but there was always a smirk behind it.

Not getting any of that from these two.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tom, nothing happened.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re raising a kid who’s already got one foot out the door.

Anyone with eyes can see that. Storm’s a small-town girl.

She’s rooted here. You start putting ideas in her head she doesn’t need .

. .” His eyes flick to my bag. The skates.

The future packed inside it. He looks back at me.

“You’ve got your path. Best let her find hers. ”

His tone makes my chest tighten. I hardly ever see her.

Storm goes to a private school just outside of town—where her dad teaches.

But now that she’s at high school age, she’s transferring to Blue River High School—where I’m heading into sophomore year.

And unfortunately for Storm—her dad’s transferring with her.

Mr. Dalton’s making it sound like I dragged Storm into fires or protests instead of around town with kids our age.

And I’m certainly not putting any skates on that girl ever again.

That girl can balance herself on a horse racing through the woods any day, but on ice?

She’ll look more like a confused windmill.

“Mr. Dalton,” I huff a short laugh. “I don’t think Storm’s future includes hockey.”

“No. But it doesn’t include much as long as she’s chasing you and your troublemaking friends. You don’t think I see you around the school, drifting through the halls, lingering in the gym, collecting detentions like souvenirs. Storm won’t be doing any of that.”

“I don’t understand,” I practically stutter.

“You’re not good for her,” he says flatly. Not loud. Not cruel. Final. “She’s fourteen, got a bright future ahead, stable, calm, safe.” He scans me once more like I’m anything but that. “Imagine the damage you could do to my only child in the next three years.”

I stare at him. A hollowness opening in my chest.

Mr. Dalton walks out like he doesn’t plan to ever look back.

Not good for her.

Not good enough.

Words that have been simmering beneath the surface for the past year. And not only from Mr. Dalton.

From the silence Mom left behind.

From the chores list that kept shrinking each week, the ease with which Dad adapted to my hockey lifestyle instead. Practically pushing me out the door when practice was starting.

I can read a damn room.

Dad’s face is even as he rubs his forehead and sets his hat back on. “Storm’s not coming back this summer. Tom isn’t either. Think it’s best we all keep our distance.”

“Dad—”

“I know you meant well—bringing Storm into your crowd. But . . . it’s not worth the fight. Just . . . keep your distance.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

His gaze drops to my bag. “Son, you’ve got other things going on. We all know you’re not a lifer here. What do you think is going to happen with Storm if you two stay . . . friends?”

“We are just friends, Dad.”

“For now, yes. But you’re young. And the kind of relationship you and Storm developed could . . . well it could leave her . . .”

“What?”

“Mr. Dalton’s concerned about his daughter in a way you won’t understand at fifteen.”

I shake my head. I understand plenty. And it’s just another nail in the coffin.

“Come on. Let’s get you to that bus.” He grabs his jacket and puts an arm around me as we head out. “Don’t worry, something tells me you won’t have any trouble finding friends like Storm in your life.”