Storm Warning (Rawlings Ranch #2)

Prologue

Six-years-old: The Day I Found My Dream

I watch the heels of my mom’s boots dig into the earth in front of us, holding my dad’s hand as we glide past folks from town, as well as many people I’ve never seen before. The smell of manure fills the air, a scent that has become the norm growing up on a cattle ranch.

Everyone is dressed head to toe in their cowboy-best: sharp clean hats on most of their heads and jeans starched, just how Dad likes. Kids of all ages run around the outside of the arena and into the bleachers that surround it, laughter and joy spilling from nearly everyone we pass.

I glance toward today’s contestants, each of their faces cast with a looming determination. A look that Dad says comes with the territory of being the best, not from being scared, though I still can’t tell the difference.

We stop as we make it to the side of the arena, looking for a place to sit, when mom spots one of her friends in the stands.

My little brother, Duke, peeks over Ma’s shoulder as we head Miss Mandry’s direction in a single-file line, inching our way up the stairs until we reach the bleacher she occupies and sit beside her.

Once we settle into our spot, I watch the rider approaching the bull chute.

His dark wash jeans are covered by a set of worn in, chestnut leather chaps with fringe that sways as he walks.The number fifty-two is pinned to the back of his matching leather vest. Lifting up his large arm, he adjusts the black felt cowboy hat on his head while he passes a group of women who stand near the gate.

A sly smile of confidence resides on his lips as he says something to a tall redhead.

Her cheeks flush just the way Ma’s do when she gets mad at me.

The only difference being the redhead’s comes paired with a smile and Ma’s usually come with added chores.

“And now, our toughest bull yet, Rough Resolve. The very one y’all came to see.

His rider? None other than Roy Slayton. We are in for a treat today, folks,” The announcer yells into the microphone once he notices the cowboy’s arrival.

The crowd erupts in praise, the entire room filled with an excitement I haven’t quite seen here before.

He climbs into the pen that holds his biggest enemy, the bull, gives a nod to its tender, and the gate creaks open.

Silence covers the arena the second they make their way out onto their stage, almost as if we all hold our breath waiting for the final score.

My heart pitter-patters in my chest, beating as hard as the bull’s hooves against the ground.

One. Two.

The seconds fly by and I find myself on pins and needles, watching the cowboy ride the beast like it’s easy.

Three. Four.

I count the seconds in my head, knowing the whole point is for him to stay put until he hears the buzzer, or at least as long as he can while he tries.

The bull moves back and forth around the dirt, defying gravity with each buck.

Balance and nearly impossible control—the rider’s only hope to score high enough to win today’s prize.

Goosebumps cover my skin as I hold my breath, watching every move the cowboy makes.

A mesmerizing dance I never even knew existed.

Five. six.

The cowboy’s hand remains in the air the entire time, never losing his composure or the ride he needs to complete. The twists and turns never shake him from his goal, nor his seat. I nearly fall from my own as I lean in to watch the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

Seven. Eight.

The buzzer sounds and I close my eyes, blinking for what feels like the first time in forever. Praise roars all around me, even Dad screaming, “Go get ‘em, Slayton!”

Getting up from my spot, I run toward the gate like many other kids my age.

We all zone in as the rider makes a quick escape from one of the most well known bulls of all time.

I watch as he walks past us, a bold smile back on his mouth and his arm looped around the redhead’s waist. He stops in front of me, pulling the hat from his head and placing it on mine.

“There you go, buddy.” Everything about him screams confidence. From the smooth timbre of his voice to the sparkle in his hazel eyes.

I’m so excited, I don’t even know what to say. The best bull rider I’ve ever seen, my hero, just gave me his Stetson.

The hat atop my head droops to the side, but I do my best to straighten it as he releases a soft chuckle.

"You’ll grow into it, kid," he says, as if he believes it to be true. But this hat is something more. Almost like it has a magic all its own, and when I grow into it, I might one day be just as good as him. Shoot, maybe even better.

I stare up at him in awe, amazed at his ability to do it all. A day I’ll never forget and a dream I plan to make my reality.

I want to be just like him, and I’m going to be.

KAYLEE - December 14, 1994

Twelve-years-old: The Day He Left Us

Please don’t go. Or, just get it over with.

The thoughts echo like shouts in my mind over and over as Dad shuffles through the drawers of his dresser while I’m helpless to watch.

His expression appears unbothered, polar opposite to that of the sobs I hear from mom only rooms away.

Funny she’s got any emotion at all, given she’s been disconnected for years.

“Why are you leaving? When do you plan on coming back? Why is Mom upset?” Questions spill from my lips, however, they seem to fall on deaf ears.

I know something isn’t right, but what makes this time any different?

He always leaves. Maybe it’s the harsh tension in his shoulders, or the cold, unreadable set of his features, but something feels different this time around.

Like after today, nothing will be the same.

He doesn’t glance my way, doesn’t take a second to acknowledge me, and yet I yearn—no, crave his attention.

But let’s face it, I don’t even know what it would be like to have it.

It’s not like he’s ever shown me an ounce of love or affection.

Never taken the time to show he cares. I question if I should rest a hand on his arm to force him to look at me while he stuffs his things into a duffle bag, shuffling across the shag carpet with his boots on, ready to leave the moment he’s done.

He must not have heard me...right?

I take a step toward him, but he shifts away just as quickly.

Unlike other times he’s left, he’s reaching for all of his belts, those of which are adorned with fancy buckles to display his talent.

A talent I know my mother doesn’t appreciate and one I’ve rarely gotten to see.

The one he’s always used as the reason for his absence, like he isn’t absent when he’s here too.

Suddenly it feels like the weight of the world is on my chest. I can’t breathe.

I don’t even understand why I’m so affected by whatever is happening, but him packing everything he owns is nothing like before.

This is permanent. I feel like I’m suffocating, and yet my lungs fill with air just the way they are meant to.

The world feels like it’s crumbling, but there is nothing here for him to break that isn’t already broken.

The sound of a zipper permeates the air, and my gaze drifts upward, only to be met with Dad’s arm bumping into mine.

For a split second, he makes eye contact with me.

The only thing we both share, his eyes are like a mirror reflection of my own, and yet there is a vacancy behind his.

No love. No light. Just emptiness. Anger boils up in me at his blank, emotionless expression, and I consider pushing him to gain any type of reaction.

I search for sadness, worry, anything. Yet I receive no more than a lifeless glance and eyes I know only seem to have light when they are planted on top of a bull.

He continues past me without saying a single word.

It’s like he sees right through me, like I’m invisible, or, at least, my worth to him is.

My body feels heavy, like I’m strapped to the very position I stand.

My heart aches as I fight the treacherous desire to follow him or beg him to stay.

Why has he always chosen everything else above me? Why have I never been good enough?

Each question I have, yet another reminder to why I don’t follow.

The metal track squeaks as he closes the sliding door shut behind him, and a second later the rumble of his truck sounds from our driveway.

The world around me shatters. My mother’s sobs have subsided. All I feel is the pain in my knees as they crash to the floor and tears as they trickle down my face.

The unfamiliar gravity of his leaving weighs me down, like I know this memory is one that I’ll never escape. He never told me he loved me, but this time there wasn’t even a goodbye.

I wipe the sadness from my cheeks because he doesn’t deserve to have this affect on me. Tears are for sadness. Tears are for loss. Tears are for the ones we love. And I can’t mourn something I never had to begin with.