9. Storm
“Oh no,” I groan as I look at the name on the screen at seven a.m. Sunday morning. It’s my day off and my boss is calling—which could only mean one thing.
I sit up and swipe to answer. “Hey, Dallas.”
“I’ll pay you double.”
I release a heavy breath. “Dallas,” I whine. “It’s my only day off. I need to spend time with my kid.”
He releases one too and I know he’s considering other options. It’s been just over a year since Dallas discovered he had a daughter and he’s spent every moment he can catching up on missed time with her, so he gets it.
“What is it?” I ask, resigned.
“Well, you know Willow and I are renewing vows next week.”
Willow, who isn’t Ellie’s mother—but showed up on his doorstep just the same last fall—was quite the godsend when Dallas found himself in a custody battle. The woman sure had spunk—offered to stay and help him fight—even if it meant entering into a fake marriage to make his case.
Certainly had us all fooled. Then again, impossible not to believe it when those two clearly fell hard for each other.
And now they’re redoing it all, this time under no uncertain terms.
“Same vows, no staging,” I confirm.
“Yeah, well, we’re going to be using more horses for this one,” he mutters like this wasn’t his idea. “Rose has been lookin’ at pictures online and convinced us to include a few at the ceremony, maybe a couple of guest carriages and . . .” he sighs. “A flower pony and a ring-bearer pony.”
I smile, remembering how adorable Ellie was the first time, when she walked Pickles down the aisle with a basket of flowers. Then frown. “But you sold Pickles over the summer. Who’d you have in mind?”
“Cupid and Winter? Prep ’em for next week.”
It only takes me a second to consider the two ponies Dallas named and what I’d have to do to get them ready. My joints hurt just thinking about it. “Dallas, I don’t know if Winter’s a good choice—don’t think I’ve ever seen her walk a straight line.”
“You’ve worked miracles before. And it’s not like they’re walking alone. Ellie and Max will walk them down.”
“Max?”
“Yeah,” he breathes uncomfortably. “Willow and I were going to ask you together, but, well . . . we’d be honored to have Max in the wedding party.
Walk Cupid down as the ring bearer. If you don’t mind, of course.
You’ve always been like family around here and we all adore your boy.
” My heart leaps, and when I don’t answer, he adds with a light chuckle, “Would certainly look great for pictures.”
Despite the huge honor, I run a hand down my face. So much for keeping Max a secret from Silas.
“That’s sweet, Dallas. Thank you. He’ll be so happy. And yes, I’ll come in today, but not for the full day.”
“I owe you. Oh and don’t worry about Max, Ginger’s out today but Dad’s around so he’ll watch him for you.”
“Dallas, I can’t ask Mr. Thorne to watch my kid—”
“You’re not. I did. And he’s happy to. Also, he hates it when you call him Mr. Thorne, you know.”
“So he’s said,” I grumble.
“See you in an hour? I’ll have coffee and bacon for you.”
“You should have led with that.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tell Cupid, the chestnut pony, as I clip the lead rope to his halter and guide him to the pen first. “It’s just a wedding, not a contest.” I adjust the small pillow and rearrange the key chains I placed over them as practice.
“Dallas sure’s got a lot of faith in you not to drop those rings into the dirt. ”
Slowly, I walk him around the pen and then across a few times, until he stops drifting toward the fence. Once I get him to a straight even pace, I make a mental note to get Max over here later—since he’ll be the one walking him.
Pride and a bit of paranoia swell inside me, nearly steering me off course.
By some miracle, at Dallas and Willow’s last wedding—the fake one—I was able to get one of my old friends at Callahan Ranch to watch him. Avoiding any run-ins with Silas. There’s no avoiding this one.
I hook Cupid’s rope over the fence while I fetch Winter, a white pony with a bright coat. She’s six years old and only a year into training. But she’s energetic, a little mischievous, and I’m pretty sure she knows just how cute she is with her big, wide eyes.
I’m not sure how much time passes when I start to feel the ache in my shoulders. It couldn’t have been more than two hours since I’d been out here with them.
Removing my right glove, I press my fingers into the back of my neck, applying enough pressure to hold me until the afternoon. Or at least until I can stand under a hot shower later. I’m feeling optimistic about having enough hot water running this evening.
I roll it once, easing out the knot, then get back to work.
“Don’t they give you a day off around here?” Silas’s voice comes from just behind the gate and I flip my head back, feeling the pull of tight muscles along my neck.
I straighten and tug Winter’s attention—and mine— away from the newcomer. “Eyes forward, girl. Keep moving.”
“Storm,” he calls in a low, breathy growl. And my body responds with a shiver. I hate that I react at all, much less know that when I turn to look at him—all broad-shouldered and hard lines—it’ll do more damage to my self-respect.
I place my hand over Winter as a way to settle both her and myself before turning to him. His face is unfairly handsome in that subdued masculine way that makes it impossible to look away.
“Take a break.” It’s almost an order and my instincts are to tell him to fuck off. Remind him he doesn’t run this ranch and certainly doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
But then there’s that face again. Those eyes, barely blinking as he urges me to come closer.
And lord help me, I want to.
Winter shifts impatiently, tugging me, and I’ve just about had it with her.
“Tell you what,” I call, taking back control—from both the man and the pony. “You get Winter here to walk a straight line and I’ll take a break.”
His eyes flick to the young mare. “And we’ll pick up where we left off yesterday?”
I perk a brow. Thought for sure he’d tell me to stop playing around and summon me again. “If you can get her to walk from here to the other end—yes.”
He flicks the latch and steps inside the pen.
I notice how white his sneakers are. Can smell the clean soap and aftershave. Even the sling doesn’t dull the masculinity he carries.
My breath stalls when he steps into my space, unrushed and unapologetic. Corner of his lip quirking like he knows exactly what it does to me when the air between us tightens. He stretches his good hand, eyes never leaving mine.
I blink and hold Winter’s rope up for him. His fingers graze mine and the spark is immediate. Sending an unwelcome jolt straight up my arm.
I jerk my hand away and step back next to Cupid, who doesn’t seem fazed by the newcomer and is probably wondering how many carrots he’ll get for keeping those key chains on his back.
I stroke him absently as I watch Silas, who took the lead rope like it was familiar enough not to embarrass himself. Then leads her to the start of the line.
Should I feel bad that he has the disadvantage of using only his left arm? Probably. But considering what he wants from me—I’m not exactly rooting for him.
Winter clocks his uncertainty immediately and it makes me smile.
Yeah, he’s not fooling me either.
She drifts sideways, nose tipping toward the fence.
Silas adjusts his grip, murmuring low encouragement and I’m not sure if it’s to the mare or himself.
I giggle silently and he glances over, brows furrowed.
The pony stops outright this time, ears flicking back, stomping in place stubbornly.
Jaw tightening, Silas exhales through his nose. But he doesn’t look at me again. The last time he did, Winter noticed—and apparently didn’t like it.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Straight.” Once he’s got her attention again, he pauses, shortens the rope, and steps closer.
He watches her for a moment—as if deciding what she wants—then slowly pivots to guide her instead of drag.
His steps become even and deliberate, matching Winter’s, as if letting her set her own pace.
The pony veers again and he corrects without pause. She stops and he does too. I know he’s not a lefty and I can see the stiffness in his shoulder. But he doesn’t quit.
My stomach fizzes for a moment until I remember who he is. Silas isn’t doing this just to talk to me. He’s always up for a good challenge. A game. A win.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually, Winter finally resigns and walks at his side in a somewhat straight line.
He stops at the end, barely loosening his grip on the rope and breathing hard. When he finally looks up, there’s a flash of something on his face that isn’t triumph exactly.
It’s relief.
Like an obstacle he had to overcome to get to what he wants.
And what he wants—at least right now—is to talk to me. The girl he left behind long before he even left town.
I walk over, my throat thick, my body tingling with the urge to go back on my promise, because I don’t trust myself not to break.
I avoid his eyes and focus, more than necessary, on tying Winter’s rope to the fence, my shoulder brushing his forearm as I do because he refuses to give me space.
“Ten minutes,” I mutter, then turn and step outside the gate.