4. Silas
It’s been ten days since surgery and my official moving into Dallas’s old room at the main house.
He and Willow live farther up the ranch, where the views open wide to the river, mountains, and sunsets.
It’s quieter too. Still got its rustic chic going on, but a heck of a lot more modern than Wilder’s home.
Dallas only built the place last year—started it for his fiancée, Millie, who died in an accidental fire on the ranch—and finished it for Ellie .
. . the daughter he never even knew he had.
If I had the patience to deal with my oldest brother’s overprotective streak, I would’ve stayed there during recovery. But Wilder’s easier in that sense. Less invested in hovering. He’s more of a brother than a “big brother.”
The cabin fever is real. I barely leave the back porch unless it’s for a quick walk down the quieter side of the ranch.
Between the pain meds, the sling, and everyone treating me like I’ll break if I move too fast, I’ve narrowed my world to ice packs and game replays.
Needing air and a chance to keep my legs moving, I push off the couch and end up doing what I always do out here—wander the fields like a lost tourist.
I probably know more than they think I do. But why ruin their fun?
The sling pulls at my neck when I try to stretch toward the warm sun.
A constant reminder that I’m decorative more than useful these days.
I’ve had one session of physical therapy—shortly after the stitches came out—and all I’ve learned is how to breathe through the soreness.
Which feels laughably small compared to slamming against the boards multiple times a night and the occasional blow to the face when things get heated on the ice.
I move toward the stables. I had a horse here.
Tucker. Don’t see him much anymore. Couldn’t tell you the last time I rode him.
But I try to drop by whenever I’m here to say hello.
Though truthfully most days I don’t bother.
Can only imagine what this horse thinks of me.
Oh great, I got the one who can barely saddle me, much less ride me around with the big boys.
We each had a horse. Dad insisted we needed one to call our own.
Dallas picked Trouble. Wilder has Tuscan.
And I got Tucker. We did eventually stop naming our horses with the first letter of our last name.
It was something my parents thought was a nice touch years ago.
Till Dad finally said it was silly. Either that, or he ran out of names. My money’s on the latter.
Tucker was the youngest at the time, seemed all right enough—easy temperament, beautiful chestnut color. And didn’t huff at me when I walked by.
The pasture is empty, so I make my way in.
The horses all shift in their stalls as I step inside.
The smell of hay, leather, and something sharp hits my senses all too powerfully.
I recognize Tuscan instantly—Wilder’s horse.
Seen him around the house and land enough with my brother barely making a round without him.
Trouble wouldn’t be here. She’s up in a private barn by Dallas’s house.
She’s darker. Larger even, compared to these adult stallions.
It takes me a minute to find my horse—if I can even call him mine anymore. But I spot him four stalls in. Well, I spot the rusty silver name plate on the door. But I’d have recognized him. I think.
Tucker lifts his nose as I stop in front of him. Eyes meet mine for a beat. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they lift just enough for him to know it’s no one to get excited over, before dropping again.
Yeah, good to see you too, buddy.
I rub the back of my neck and draw closer awkwardly. “Hey, you,” I murmur, reaching with my left hand to run my fingers down his hair.
Startling me, Tucker tosses his head, hooves scraping, body jerking the halter rope.
I put my hands up on instinct and immediately regret it when my bicep pulls. I groan, startling my horse even more.
“Whoa, get back,” a voice snaps from behind me. Sharp. Steady.
And familiar.
Before I can react, she moves in front of me, blonde braid swinging behind her.
Storm.
She keeps her eyes on the horse. “Easy Tuck,” she commands firmly, but strokes gently, her left hand gripping his rope.
I step to the side, watching her and giving her space to do her thing.
Storm side-eyes me like I’m a nuisance. “You trying to get kicked or just naturally reckless?” She tosses a glance at my sling.
“What can I say, still livin’ on the edge.”
Her eyes flick to mine and there’s a warning there if not a scowl. After sending her don’t go there message, loud and clear, she dusts her sleeves once she’s calmed the horse.
“Well, if you don’t mind doing it someplace else then.”
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Storm Dalton doesn’t like me. Not anymore.
And even less of one to know why.
We used to be friends. Her parents moved to Blue River Springs after falling in love with the town during one of their visits to the ranch.
Tom Dalton and Dad became close friends.
Tom was a teacher at the local high school and spent summers on the ranch with Storm.
I imagine he worked here during the busy summer season—could never tell and never cared to ask.
All I wanted to know when Mr. Dalton came back to the ranch was if Storm was with him. She and I could get lost morning to night around these fields. Building forts with hay, climbing fences, playing pranks on the cowboys. Never a dull day when Storm was here.
I lived for our summers together.
Until I walked in on a fight between Mr. Dalton and Dad, and heard enough to solidify what I think I always knew—I didn’t belong anywhere near her.
It was barely a year after Mom’s death. I’d fallen deeper into hockey and just being anywhere but on the ranch.
But like Mom, Storm made these fields easier to walk through.
And even after spending most of that year avoiding it, I found myself looking forward to reconnecting—and not just with Storm.
Storm scans the other stalls before facing me again and for the briefest of seconds, we’re at a standoff.
And I finally get a full look at her. Dust-covered faded jeans that hug her hips but are loose below the knee.
Work gloves clipped to her belt, blonde hair in a single braid now hung around her right shoulder.
Sharp eyes I can’t seem to read anymore.
“Thanks for your help,” I say before she can get mean again, which I’m not going to lie, hasn’t been easy to digest during our few encounters here at the ranch since I found out she worked here.
I’ve known Storm since I was ten. Never thought of her as unattractive, but somehow completely missed how beautiful she is until the day I saw her again.
It was last year on Dallas’s driveway. She was bringing Trouble by to the new barn Dallas built for her outside his house.
At first I thought it was the shock of seeing her again.
And maybe it was that, combined with steady hazel eyes, full lips, high cheekbones.
A quiet strength in her posture. It’s not arrogance.
It’s more of a guarded self-assuredness.
A challenge for someone to try and knock her down.
Why would anyone ever try?
I sure as hell wouldn’t dare. Not when she looked like she belonged here. And probably doesn’t think I do.
And she’d be right. Most of my trips home revolve around family dinners, sleeping off jetlag, and disappearing again. I didn’t exactly make it a point to come over to this side of the ranch—where I knew I’d find her—with enough time for small talk before I left town again.
And if I’m honest, she might’ve had something to do with my cabin fever these last few days. Somehow I sensed this hostility from across the rolling fields.
My gratitude seems to redirect whatever she was about to say, since her brows furrow briefly. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble for letting my boss’s little brother get beaten up by his own horse.” A smirk plays on her lips.
I close the distance between us to the point where Storm leans back to keep her eyes on mine. My six-foot-four height dominating the air between us. I don’t touch her. I don’t say anything. For a moment, I remember what it’s like to fill a room with my presence. And a familiar thrill returns.
I have no idea what my intention is—but it’s not to swallow her shadow with mine. It’s certainly not to intimidate her.
If anything, it’s to correct her. I may be the youngest of the Thorne brothers, but I am in no way little.
I’ve taken on a pack of hockey players when games get rough and held my own without so much as a sprain.
I could handle a horse. Maybe not a pack, but I could certainly handle mine.
Or did she forget we were trained by the same woman?
Hockey made me a man the way I couldn’t become one here. And I’ll be damned if I let a girl I thought I knew shrink me back into something small.
Storm keeps her chin tilted, even as her cheeks turn pink.
Now it’s my turn to smirk.
“Then I guess I’d better get out of here before I hurt myself.”
She swallows, dropping her eyes to my chest and releasing a breath. I can tell she’s struggling with something to say, so I spare her.
My eyes dip to the tip of her chin where a giant bee sting once lived for over a week because this girl always had her nose buried in sunflowers.
“See you around, Bumble Bee.”
I step around her and make my exit, leaving her alone in the stables, where I clearly had no business being.