The last of the Storm girls, Shelby, appears behind her. “That didn’t sound good.”
“It didn’t feel too good either,” Royce answers.
Shelby rolls her eyes.
Then Grandma Evelyn sweeps into the room, wiping her hands on an apron. “Thank the Lord, my rodeo boys are home.”
Her hug is gentler than Momma’s but somehow hits harder.
Maybe because, for a while after Aunt Miriam died, Evelyn Storm was the one who held all of us together.
Not technically our grandmother by blood, but it’s never mattered to her. Not once.
Dad is Miriam Trust-Storm’s older brother. We moved to Wildhaven Storm to help Uncle Albert who had four girls to raise and a ranch threatening to swallow him whole after her unexpected passing.
As did his parents, Earl and Evelyn Storm.
She squeezes my cheek. “You’re getting thin.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“He literally won fifty thousand dollars this week,” Harleigh says. “I think the man’s in pretty good shape, Grandma.”
“Exactly,” I agree.
Grandma’s eyes meet mine again. “Money isn’t nutrients. We’ll have to fatten you up this summer.”
I laugh.
The dining room fills quickly after that.
Caison, Matty’s husband, arrives and takes a seat beside her at the far end of the table. Momma and Dad are seated nextto Grandpa Earl and Grandma Evelyn. Harleigh and Shelby are across from them, along with Bryce and Charli. Uncle Albert is at the head of the table.
Royce and I take our places at the folding table next to the bay window that looks out over the ranch. Then the door opens, and our baby brother, Cabe, walks inside. He removes his cowboy hat and hangs it on a hook by the door, and he apologizes for being late before making his way over to us.
Cabe is Wildhaven Storm’s foreman, and he probably works harder than anyone else on this ranch.
Once he’s seated, Earl says grace, and we all dig in. The room erupts into a roar of conversation.
It’s perfect.
I sink back into my chair as plates are passed between the tables and elbows collide over biscuits.
Uncle Albert raises his sweet tea. “To Bryce. World champion once again.”
We all lift our glasses.
Bryce dips his head modestly, though the smug bastard’s grin ruins the effect.
“To Bryce,” we echo.
“For God’s sake, retire already,” I add.
Laughter erupts around the table.
Bryce points his fork at me. “You just wait your turn.”
