Riding the Storm (The Wildhaven #2)

Chapter One

The breeze smells like fresh-cut grass and horse sweat.

The kind of mix only someone raised on a Wyoming ranch could appreciate.

I lean against the rail of the round pen, watching Soda Pop—a light-brown yearling with a blaze that looks like spilled milk trickling down his nose—circle slowly around the arena.

The young girl on his back, Ella Michaels, has her forehead wrinkled in concentration, every muscle in her little body tense, like she’s steering a bucking bronco instead of a gentle gelding barely moving above a jog.

“That’s it,” I call out. “Hands low. Keep your heels down, not up. Keeping them down helps you stay balanced.”

Ella tries—bless her—but she’s nervous. Soda Pop flicks an ear back toward her, patient as ever. He’s got the calm, old-soul temperament I look for in riding-lesson horses. He’s patient, steady, and forgiving. I handpicked him last year at an auction over in Powell, and he was worth every penny.

Ella’s mom, Marlena, watches from the rail, chewing at her lip.

She’s one of those moms who hovers like a helicopter, ready to swoop in if her kid coughs too loudly.

I’ve learned to ignore that. Ranch kids grow up tough, but the ones from town are often coddled, and it takes time for them to spread their wings and for their parents to let them.

“You’re doing good, El,” I say, raising my voice over Soda’s hoof beats. “Now give him a little squeeze with your legs, just enough to ask him to trot.”

Ella glances at me with a worried look. “What if he goes too fast?”

I smile. “Then you pull back gently and tell him who’s boss. He’ll listen.” Her eyes travel from me to her mother, and I call her attention back to me. “You’ve got this. He trusts you.”

She bites her lip, nods, and squeezes. Soda Pop flicks his tail, then moves into a lazy trot, and Ella’s eyes go wide before she looks at me and grins.

“Good job! Keep breathing!” I shout.

Her posture’s perfect for about five strides before she starts to bounce like popcorn in a hot skillet. I climb the rail, ready to catch her if need be, but Soda Pop slows on his own, dropping back to a walk.

Smart boy.

“I lost it,” Ella pants in frustration.

“Nope. You learned something,” I say, walking to fall in step beside them. “That’s half the battle. Riding is partly about controlling yourself and partly about listening to your horse’s cues.”

“What’s the other half of the battle?”

“Learning how to fall and not break your pride.”

She giggles. “Did you ever fall, Miss Charli?”

“More times than I can count.” I grin. “First time, I was about your age. Landed face-first in a puddle of mud. My daddy said I looked like a squirming piglet, trying to learn how to swim.”

Ella’s laughter rings across the arena. Soda Pop stops and lowers his head, licking his lips in expectation of the apple slices I have in my hip pouch—a reward for a job well done.

I help her dismount, and when her boots hit the dirt, she throws her arms around his neck as I unzip my pouch. He nuzzles her shoulder in return, and then she takes a slice from me and offers it to him.

“Good boy, Soda,” she whispers. “You did real good.”

“That’s the trick right there,” I tell her. “You love on them when they try their best, and it lets them know you appreciate ’em. Same as people.”

When Marlena calls her name, Ella skips off. Watching her beam as her mom praises her efforts gives me a strange mix of pride and ache. I’ve taught a lot of kids over the years, but something about Ella reminds me of myself before life got complicated—before I learned that life could be cruel.

I rub Soda Pop’s nose. “You did a good job today, buddy.”

He snorts softly, and I swear he understands.

Marlena leads Ella to their SUV, and I wave to them as I guide Soda Pop back to the barn.

The afternoon sun is beginning to slip low over the Tetons, turning the peaks a deep violet against a bright blue sky.

The view never gets old, even after twenty-six years.

It’s the kind of beauty that reminds you it’s a great big, wild world.

Shelby’s voice carries from the next stall over. “Charli, you see what Dad brought home?”

I glance down the aisle and spot my younger sister brushing down her horse, Jupiter Rising. “If it’s another stray dog, Grandma’s gonna have a cow.”

“It’s better.” She smirks, brushing her hair over her shoulder and swiping at her forehead. “A new tractor.”

“Better for who?”

“For all of us,” she says. “Now we don’t have to listen to Matty cursing that old Massey Ferguson every time it breaks down on her.”

“Careful what you say. Grandpa Earl loves that old tractor more than he loves most people.”

“Except Grandma,” Shelby quips.

“Barely,” I mutter, which earns a snort of laughter.

We’ve had this rhythm since forever—work, tease, repeat. It’s what keeps the long days from feeling too long.

Wildhaven Storm Ranch covers a good chunk of land at the base of the Tetons—eleven thousand acres of pastures, paddocks, and Storm family pride.

Our oldest sister, Maitland “Matty” Storm, runs the show here at Wildhaven Storm Ranch.

She stepped in to help our father, Albert, when our mother passed away thirteen years ago.

He semi-retired a few years ago and handed her the reins.

Now she’s the ranch manager, which means she carries the weight of the books, the barns, and all of us ragtag employees.

I handle the training program—horses and riders.

Shelby takes care of the competition circuit side—jumpers, barrel racers, trick riders.

Between us and Dad; our cousin Cabe; his parents, Boone and Irene; and the rest of the crew of wranglers and ranch hands, we manage to keep the place humming, even though, sometimes, it feels like we’re held together by duct tape and copious amounts of caffeine.

I brush Soda Pop down and then turn him loose in his paddock and watch him roll in the dirt like a dog. “Real nice,” I call. “I got you all clean and handsome, and now you’re a mess again.”

“Just like you after a night of tequila,” Shelby quips.

I glare at her. “One time.”

She snorts. “Three.”

She’s not wrong. Most tequila nights end with us falling all over ourselves, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Grandma Evelyn stands on the front porch, bellowing that supper is ready at seven o’clock sharp, just as she has every day for as long as I can remember.

“Keeps the family tradition alive,” she says.

I think she just enjoys throwing her authority around and herding us all like cattle.

By the time we head to the main ranch house, the sun’s dipped below the horizon, and the scent of her fried chicken drifts from the kitchen.

My boots hit the porch steps, and I pause to wipe the dust off before stepping inside the mudroom—Grandma’s rule: no tracking dirt or mud onto her freshly mopped floors.

Inside, the warmth and noise envelop me like an embrace.

Dad’s at the head of the table, spooning mashed potatoes from a large porcelain bowl, while Grandpa Earl tells a story we’ve probably heard a hundred times already.

Matty sits beside him with her loaded plate.

Her blonde hair in a long braid. Across from her, our cousin Cabe leans back in his chair, long legs sprawled, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He grins when Shelby and I walk in.

“ ’Bout time you two showed up,” he says. “Grandma wouldn’t let us start without you. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving, asshat,” I say, plopping into my chair.

Grandma swats my arm with a dishrag as she passes. “Watch your mouth, Charli Storm.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter.

She’s the only person on earth who still calls me by my full name, just like Mom used to when I misbehaved.

Shelby hands me a biscuit, whispering, “Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble.”

Dad says the blessing, and then we all dig in. The dining room fills with the sounds of forks and knives clanking against plates, people talking over one another, and laughter. The chaos is comforting. This table, the people at this table—they’re my everything. Even when they drive me crazy.

Dad clears his throat halfway through dinner. “Anyone heard from Harleigh?”

“Yeah,” Matty says. “She’s been staying up late, stressing over finals. Said she’ll be home in three weeks.”

Harleigh is the youngest sister of the Storm family. She’s a sophomore at the University of Wyoming, studying business and hospitality management. She dreams of turning Wildhaven Storm into a vacation spot someday—a place with guest cabins, fun ranch activities, and even a rustic spa retreat.

But she’ll have to do it over Matty’s dead body.

“Good,” Grandma says, setting down her spoon. “This house feels half empty without her.”

Cabe chuckles. “You mean quieter and more peaceful.”

Shelby snickers into her glass of tea. “You think this is peaceful?”

Cabe shrugs and continues to shovel food into his mouth.

The conversation drifts to the usual—fences needing mending, the lot of incoming horses, and how the weather might ruin our training schedule again.

I half listen, mostly thinking about tomorrow’s lessons.

I’ve got a couple of new riders coming, and one’s a seventy-six-year-old lady who decided to take up horseback riding as a hobby. Should be entertaining.

Matty sighs. “We’ve got three new boarders coming on Friday, and Caison’s sending over a stallion for training.”

I freeze mid-bite. “From Ironhorse?”

“Yeah,” she says casually.

“Why doesn’t Giles take care of it?” I ask.

“Seems they need a little reinforcement until their new training facility is up and running. Why?”

Caison Galloway is Matty’s new man and the manager of Ironhorse.

It’s a thirty-thousand-acre cattle ranch that borders us to the west—well, now thirty-one thousand acres.

Dad and Matty sold a thousand acres of our land to them last year.

They made the tough decision to sell to save Wildhaven Storm, which had been struggling financially.

Matty had fought as hard as she could to keep us afloat, but her back was against the wall.

Caison gave us a more than fair price for the acreage, and the proceeds from the sale have gone a long way toward improving things around here.

Still, it pisses me off that Holland Ludlow, owner of Ironhorse and Caison’s boss, decided to jump into the horse business all of a sudden.

Granted, it’s high-dollar thoroughbred racehorses.

Not to mention, they stole our head trainer, Giles Godwin, right out from under us—which felt pretty underhanded to me.

But in the end, I got a promotion, and Matty ended up with a smokin’ hot boyfriend.

I shrug, stabbing at a chicken thigh, the mere thought of an Ironhorse stallion here at Wildhaven Storm frustrating me. “Just wondering.”

“Everything okay?” Matty asks, studying me.

“Fine,” I say too fast. “Just want to make sure you negotiated a good rate if I’m gonna train a horse for our competition.”

She narrows her eyes but lets it go. “Always do. Besides, it’s Case’s new horse. He handpicked him last week, and he said that there’s no one he’d rather have train him than you.”

That knocks some of the wind out of my sails. She knows I’m a Caison fan, and my tone softens. “Oh, you could have just said that. I’ll make sure he’s in excellent condition for him.”

After dinner, we all scatter—Dad and Grandpa to the den for a ball game, Cabe off to finish his evening chores, and us girls and Grandma to our usual cleanup routine. Grandma washes, I rinse, and Shelby dries while Matty puts everything away.

Afterward, I head back outside with a flashlight and walk the line of paddocks, just to say good night to the horses. It’s a habit. I like seeing them all bedded down, tails swishing.

The stars are out in full—tiny, bright, endless. It’s the kind of Wyoming night that makes you feel small in the best way.

I lean on the fence by the training arena, breathing in the cool night air. A coyote howls somewhere in the distance, and one of the geldings answers with a low snort.

Tomorrow, I’ll start early—muck stalls, ride the green colts, then begin work with a new student.

Same routine, different day. But as I stand here, watching the moon settle over the ranch, I get this twinge of unease, like something is brewing I can’t quite explain.

Like change is coming, and I’d better brace for it.

Either way, I know one thing for sure: storms don’t scare me. I was born to ride them.